Part 19

A Class Poem can never be very original, but Estelle Ambler offered one that was extremely smooth and pleasing, and to the point. Polly followed it with a Prophecy, in which she imagined all kinds of things likely to happen to the rest of the class. “Prophecies contrary to fact,” many of them might have been called, for Polly foretold the early marriage of several of those girls who were the least devoted to society and the most devoted to study, while for Annabel and Ruth and Clarissa she prophesied many long years of toil as teachers or professors in school or college. Business careers were foretold for the unpractical, and those girls gifted with a sense of humor had a chance, in Polly’s gentle satire, to see themselves as others had seen them; and they all smiled at her concluding words, which she said embodied the sentiments of most of those inclined to give advice to college girls that the main advantage of a college education for a woman is that it fits her, or ought to fit her, “to take up the duties and responsibilities of a household, that by bringing her accurately trained mind to bear upon the practical details of life, and exercising the acquired acumen of her mind, she can make homes happier than they ever were before, and—” The final words were lost in the applause that greeted this familiar commonplace; and Polly, acknowledging a wreath of roses laid at her feet, bowed gracefully as she descended from the Auditorium stage.

There was a hum of expectation as Clarissa followed Polly on the stage, carrying a large, stiff-looking roll. Unfolding it, she announced that she had been made Class Attorney, and that to her had been intrusted the making of the Class Will, which she would now read.

The things that she bequeathed were chiefly the common property of the class, such as “the superior smile when some underclass girl asks a question that cannot be answered;” to the incoming Freshman class the “privilege of profiting by the advice which their Senior advisers will give upon every occasion;” and last, though not least, in the minds of some, “the privilege of collecting on the slightest provocation sums of money, great or small, in exchange for tickets to entertainments, or without such consideration, to support divers good causes in Boston and Cambridge, especially those connected with settlement and college work; and the less ready money any girl is supposed to have, the more urgent shall be the appeals.”

To the Sophomores among other things were given the right of assuming “the nonchalant title of Junior,” and “the faculty and right of saying to Seniors who are loath to depart this college life, ‘Oh, well, we have a whole year more,’ in a way that makes a year sound an eternity.”

The Senior rights in various college officials and in certain college properties were likewise bequeathed, and the mock solemnity of the whole thing brought the programme to a close with a chorus of laughter. Then after the class had sung Julia’s Class Song, there was an informal half-hour of choruses and solos, and then a great hurrying homeward, that each girl might have an hour of rest before the grand climax of the day.

For some of the class, however, there could be no rest, as many, besides those on the committees, were anxious to do their part in helping. But beautiful though the decorations of Fay House were, they paled into insignificance before the outdoor glories, for clever brains and skilful hands had made the most of the opportunities afforded by the limited area of the grounds. There were lines of lanterns between the trees, and a wonderful pagoda that seemed to be constructed of lanterns; there were tables on the lawns, laden with refreshments, and each Senior shook hands with dozens of persons and answered scores of questions, and had little opportunity to talk with the person she most wished to talk with, and walked ten miles more or less showing each of her special guests the points of interest in and around the college buildings. Each Senior, too, looked her very best in her simple white gown, and the crowds of Harvard students who were in attendance testified that socially at least Radcliffe was in no way unpopular with the older college. So weary were the Seniors as the evening advanced that they had little strength left to dance in the new Gymnasium. But the undergraduates and their other guests made up for their own lack in this respect.

Pamela had invited Miss Batson and all the young ladies who boarded with her, and probably no guests enjoyed the day more than they. Besides her own family and some of her younger Newton friends, Lois invited Miss Ambrose, and those who were in the secret of Miss Ambrose’s aspirations could see that through her interest in Lois her own youth had been renewed. There was a rumor that she and Lois were to go to Europe that summer, and whether that was true or not, any one seeing them together could perceive that the feeling between them was stronger than that of mere friendliness. Clarissa’s father and mother had come on from Kansas, and several of her friends and relatives from the West. Annabel’s father, a New York politician, was so pleased that his daughter had retained the Presidency of the class that he was anxious to do all kinds of pleasant things for her constituents, and had finally arranged a mammoth pop concert party for Saturday evening. Julia, like the other Boston girls, had many guests, but the Bostonians were better able to entertain themselves than those who came from a distance.

Julia, for example, felt little responsibility for her uncle and aunt. They had many friends on the grounds, as had Nora and Edith and the rest of their party. She caught glimpses of Brenda constantly flitting about in her firefly fashion, with Arthur Weston in attendance. It was an open secret that Brenda’s engagement to Arthur was to come out before Commencement, and those who knew them the best had already offered the young people their congratulations. Many of the class, too, knew that Ruth and Will Hardon were also on the verge of having their engagement announced, and an observer might have thought that there was something more than good comradeship in the devotion with which Philip followed Julia from place to place. Julia had used not only the invitations to which she was entitled as a member of the class, but she had been able to secure many in addition from girls who did not need all their own allotment. She was able, therefore, to invite not only her former classmates at Miss Crawdon’s, but the teachers, too. Miss South was there in the light mourning that she wore for Madame Dulaunay. Those who knew her were wondering what she would do with the great house that her grandmother had left her, which it would be hard to keep up on a comparatively small income.

Of all those whom Julia had known best at Miss Crawdon’s school, Belle alone was missing. By this it need not be understood that any one really missed her, for Belle, since she had been sent to New York to boarding-school, had really dropped out of the little set in which she had once been a leading member. In vacations some of her new friends visited her or she visited them, and she laughed at the ways of her Boston contemporaries as “far behind the time.” She and Brenda always kept up a correspondence, and her letters, though wholly about herself, were always entertaining. She had already left Boston to stay with friends at Mount Desert.

“But why Radcliffe College?” asked one of Polly’s guests, her cousin from New York.

“Yes, where did you get that name?” asked another cousin, walking with her.

“Why, from Lady Anne Moulson, of course,” responded Polly, not at all unwilling to tell the story. “From Lady Anne Moulson, who was once Anne Radcliffe, and who founded the first scholarship at Harvard. The fact was unearthed just as the poor little nameless Annex was ready to appear out as a regular institution, and so she was christened Radcliffe College. Some did not care for the name, and would have preferred Longfellow College or something else local, but on the whole it seemed the best that could have been chosen.”

“I trust that Lady Moulson deserved the posthumous fame that has come to her, for certainly your college will give her name undying glory,” said one of the cousins gallantly in true Southern fashion, though he modified his praise slightly lest Polly should think that he wholly approved of a college education for girls.

To show herself impartial, Julia carried Tom Hearst’s flowers as well as Philip’s on Class Day. But it was Philip with whom she walked about the grounds after her duties as hostess were over, and Philip with whom she promised to go to Memorial Hall on the evening of Harvard Class Day, and Philip who was to be her escort at the Yale game the succeeding Saturday. Yet though they had many little conversations, and although what they said was largely personal, it must be admitted that there was not a word of sentiment in it all,—of sentiment, at least, as it is understood in its more romantic sense. They did talk, however, a great deal about their plans for the immediate future. Philip had decided to regard his father’s wishes, by taking his two years in the Law School, hoping that his previous reading and some special effort would take him through in less than three years. Julia confided to him certain ideas that she and Miss South hoped to carry out in the form of a training school for girls of the Angelina type. Philip’s face clouded when she told him that she should sail for Europe in July, with her uncle and aunt and Brenda and Miss South.

“But you’ll be back in the autumn?” urged Philip.

“Oh, possibly.”

“But I’m depending on you for advice and that kind of thing.”

“Edith is a better adviser than I.”

“Ah, but Edith isn’t a college graduate.”

“Nor am I yet,” and Julia would give Philip no further satisfaction. Instead she wandered off, with a hasty good-bye to Philip, explaining only that as one of the hostesses of the day, she must look after her other guests.

Philip, following her, soon found himself in a group of which the central figure was Pamela. The two had not met since the spring following the sugar episode, and altogether had seen each other but two or three times. Yet now the recognition was mutual, and both had instantly the same thought, that each had greatly improved during the intervening three years. He lingered to talk to Pamela, and he had no chance to talk to Julia until later in the evening.

Although Philip felt dissatisfied, Julia had really given him more time than most Seniors had given to any one person on that busy, busy Class Day. Yet he kept his eye on her, and whenever he could induce her to leave her other guests, he would get her to walk with him over the building or through the grounds, on the pretext that there were many things that he wished to have explained about Radcliffe ways. Together Julia and Philip watched the gay throng of dancers in the Auditorium, and in an interval when the latter laughed at the crowded condition of the floor, Julia repeated the rumor that the next Senior class would dance in the great Gymnasium, as those in authority had already given their consent to this plan.

“That will be the proper thing, because—”

“Hush!” cried Julia, “the Glee Club is going to sing;” and as she spoke, to the air of “Fair Harvard” floated the words:

“Now a song for our Radcliffe, so young and so fair, With the light of the dawn in her eyes, With the garlands of May in her beautiful hair, Blest child of the true and the wise.”

As the song finished, Mrs. Barlow approached Julia, to remind her that the hour was late, and that the two carriages were already waiting,—one to take the Barlow party back to Boston, and one to convey Julia and Ruth to Mrs. Colton’s.

As Julia and Ruth drove homeward, the former gave a sigh of relief.

“Aren’t you glad it’s over?” asked Ruth.

“Partly glad and partly sorry,” responded her friend. “It has been tiring, of course, but then so pleasant.”

“Yes, and to-morrow when we are rested, we shall be sorry that Class Day is past.”

“I am sorry now,” returned Julia, “for it marks the beginning of the end.”

XXVIII COMMENCEMENT—AND THE END

As Julia sat in church on Baccalaureate Sunday she felt sadder than on any occasion since the class had begun to take its farewell of Cambridge and of college life, for now they were together for the last time before Commencement as the Senior class in cap and gown.

The last day was near at hand, and after that final assembling in Sanders Theatre, it was unlikely that these threescore girls would ever be all together again in the same place. Impressive though the sermon was, more than once Julia had to recall her thoughts from wandering in a review of the past four years. Had she herself made the best use of her time? Was there not some girl among the Seniors to whom she might have been more helpful than she had been—in ways intangible if not material? Had she herself drawn all the inspiration she might have drawn from her classmates? She had learned much from her intimates, but had she been sufficiently appreciative of some of the others or responsive to them? Thoughts like these so mingled themselves with her impressions of the sermon that she left the church in a state of abstraction.

Questions such as Julia had asked herself can never receive a definite answer. The wisest of us makes many mistakes, and the most foolish would be plunged in constant despair if she had to call herself to account at every step. To do her best is the most that can be asked of any girl, and if only she tries to learn from her errors, whatever her past faults, she can turn hopefully to the future.

Julia, fortunately, had comparatively little occasion for self-reproach; for if she had made the very most of her opportunities at Radcliffe—if she had left nothing undone that should have been done—she would have been the only one of her kind. Thoughts like these of Julia’s presented themselves to nearly every girl in the class—from Pamela the over-conscientious to careless Polly. Even the self-sufficient Annabel talked in a less self-satisfied manner, as she walked homeward from church accompanied by two or three of her best friends.

The three days intervening between Class Day and Baccalaureate Sunday had been very full. Friday had been Harvard Class Day, and there wasn’t a girl in the class who did not know at least one Harvard Senior. It was the first Class Day for Julia since the year of Philip’s failure, and the things that she did seemed a repetition of the happenings of that other year. There was but one marked change: the Tree exercises had been given up, and a less strenuous performance went on around the John Harvard statue on the delta. Confetti took the place of flowers, and the whole affair was carried on in the most gentlemanly way. Yet Julia, like many others, thought with regret of the old struggle around the Tree—regret that it was to be no more. Philip, although he realized better than any one else that this was not his real Class Day, yet managed to get a great deal of fun out of it. Tom Hearst and some of his former classmates, now about to be graduated from the Law School, gave a small tea in the early evening, and it proved a reunion of the group of young people who had been together so much at Rockley and in Boston. Brenda’s engagement had come out that very day, and she and Arthur Weston received the congratulations showered on them in a fashion that amused every one. They were surprised that their friends were not surprised.

“I am sure that I have always complained of the way Arthur teased me,” pouted Brenda, “and I never _really_ made up my mind until—”

“When?” shouted Tom Hearst, noting with delight that Brenda was embarrassed. But Brenda refused to answer.

Ruth and Will Hardon had an equally large share of congratulations, and they would have been astonished had their friends not taken their engagement as a matter of course.

On Saturday the same group of young people went to the Yale-Harvard game on Soldier’s Field, and after they had returned home from Annabel’s concert party, Ruth and Julia were tired enough.

Kaleidoscopic visions of the past week’s festivities mingled with Julia’s more serious thoughts that Baccalaureate Sunday, as she scratched off the dates on her calendar that showed only two days remaining of college life.

But at last the eventful Tuesday had come—the Commencement that was to end the undergraduate days of the class. They had breakfasted that morning with the Dean, and had met many of their instructors at the informal reception that followed. Commencement was at half-past four o’clock, and promptly at that hour, while the orchestra in the gallery was playing, a long procession filed into Sanders Theatre. The amphitheatre was already filled with guests who had been ushered to their seats by Harvard Seniors. At the head of the procession walked the President of Harvard, and on his arm leaned the President of Radcliffe—stately and benign. Close behind were the Dean, the Secretary, the members of the Governing Board of Radcliffe and the Overseers of Harvard, with whose approval the degrees were granted.

All these took their seats on the platform, and at the left sat the Radcliffe Glee Club. The Seniors in cap and gown at the end of the procession marched to places on the floor of the theatre directly under the stage. It was hard for them to maintain their dignity without turning around, when they knew that in the balconies were so many of those with whom they would have liked to exchange a glance and a nod.

After the prayer, and the singing of “Integer Vitæ” by the Glee Club, the President of Radcliffe congratulated the class on their four years’ work, and on the special honors that had come to some of them. She told of the improving prospects of the college, and mentioned several gifts that had been made during the year. The most important news was the statement that one generous donor had given the whole sum needed to build a handsome dormitory,—the first Radcliffe dormitory,—and at this news there was loud applause.

The address that followed by the President of Harvard—a dignified and scholarly address—showed deep sympathy with the aims of college girls, many of whom had gained their degrees at the cost of certain things that most young girls might think more attractive. He called attention to the fact that the experiment of the higher education of women had lasted now for two generations, with satisfactory results. He added that the degrees about to be granted had been properly won, for they represent as hard a training as the more vigorous young men receive, and he concluded with a hope that some at least of the women graduates might show themselves possessed of the creative faculty, and add something to the world’s stock of knowledge.

“Aren’t the Seniors to take any part? Isn’t there a valedictory or something of that kind?” asked Edith of her neighbor Nora, as a little pause followed the President’s address.

“Oh, no, that isn’t the way. I suppose it’s the only college in the country where the class has no preparation for Commencement.”

“It’s much the best way,” said Mr. Blair, overhearing what the girls said. “A great deal of needless effort is wasted on useless speeches for Commencement. It’s as fatiguing to the audience as to the Seniors themselves. This way, it seems to me, is much best. It is so simple and dignified.”

“Yes, but some people are disappointed at not seeing the class celebrities,” responded Edith. “Of course we know something about Clarissa and Lois and Pamela and the others who have distinguished themselves.”

“Not to mention Julia,” interposed Nora.

“Yes, naturally; well, we know all these girls by sight, but there must be many here who have never seen them, and who would be very glad to know who’s who.”

“Well, they are all there; and if we listen, we may be able to fit the right name to the right girl.”

Of all in that great audience, perhaps no one was more disappointed than Angelina at the simplicity of the programme. Julia had had a card of invitation sent her, and she had come in a wonderful yellow hat covered with large pink flowers, and a gown of the brightest pink gingham. She had fully expected that Julia would be the centre of interest, and she was really grieved that one who had been so kind to her had not been given an opportunity at least to sing or play something from the operetta. Besides, she had a personal disappointment in the fact that she could not present to Julia the immense bouquet that she had brought with her from Shiloh. She had had the whole scene planned. In the midst of a burst of applause she would advance toward the stage, and, with a curtsy that she had been practising, fling the bouquet at Julia’s feet, at the close of her performance, whatever it was. But now Julia was no more conspicuous than the others of the class. She had neither sung nor made an oration, and Angelina herself had had no opportunity for a dramatic appearance before the audience. Her curtsy had been practised in vain; and Angelina, as she grasped the flowers, looked decidedly woe-begone.

But at last the Seniors were passing in single file toward the platform to receive their degrees, and each girl as her name was called received the crimson-tied parchment from the hands of the President. Before the Seniors several Alumnæ received their M.A. But the receiving of the degrees in the presence of that great audience was not unalloyed bliss. Even Lois and Pamela with _summa cum_, and Clarissa and Julia and others with their _magnas_, and Polly and Ruth with _cum laude_, felt a thrill of sadness as they passed down the steps in front of the dignified statue of Josiah Quincy.

Their undergraduate days were over!

That evening as Alumnæ they were cordially welcomed to an Alumnæ dinner by the older graduates, and if they felt uncomfortably warm wearing their long black gowns over their white dresses, there were compensations; for there was a satisfaction when Clarissa responded to one of the toasts to hear her speech called the wittiest ever made by a graduate, for Clarissa belonged to the whole class. Then, too, some of Polly’s songs were so enthusiastically received that it was a delight to remember that two others of the class, Julia the composer of the music and Ruth who had written the words, shared the credit with the gay singer.

At dusk the gay crowd wandered out on the lawn, where the Glee Club sang, and old friends gathered in little groups to talk over the happenings of the past year.

“In a year _we_ shall be old graduates,” said Ruth with a sigh; “already I begin to feel the change. It seems as if everything _has_ been, as if—”

“Nonsense,” interposed Julia, “everything is to be. Our undergraduate days are past, and yet I doubt that any of us would really care to live them over again. We can be thankful for what we have learned here, but after all, the sooner we can take our places in the world, the better. College life at the best is selfish—”

“There—there, Julia, don’t preach! Look at Fay House. It is almost picturesque.”

As they stood at the gate, the two girls turned and gazed at the old building, whose outlines in the dusk showed dimly through the screen of elms. Lights shone from some of its upper windows, and it looked like a stately palace.

This was undoubtedly the thought in Julia’s mind as she cried, turning away, “Good-bye, Palace of Learning,” while Ruth added, “Good-bye, great Class of 189—.”

Truly, it _had_ been a great class, but its undergraduate days were over.

HELEN LEAH REED’S “BRENDA” BOOKS

BRENDA, HER SCHOOL AND HER CLUB