Part 6

“Why, how perfectly delightful!” cried Ruth, and “What a surprise!” said Julia; and the room which a few minutes before had seemed large and comparatively quiet now appeared small, crowded, and bustling. The four girls who knew one another best were chattering, and the four other girls, Pamela, Clarissa, and the two friends of the latter, tried not to show too much interest in the trio that had just entered. Mrs. Blair continued to survey the scene through her lorgnette until she had seated herself in an easy-chair.

“Why, it’s even prettier than when I was here before,” cried Brenda in her rather high-pitched voice. “You have two new chairs and a new etching and several cups,—at least there are certainly two new ones.”

“I dare say,” responded Julia; “you must remember that you have been here only once this year.”

“It is really a very pleasant room,” added Mrs. Blair, looking about her; “not nearly as unconventional as I had supposed.” Mrs. Blair had hesitated a little before the last word. “Feared” was what she would have said had she not corrected herself in time.

“Ever since you’ve been at Radcliffe,” said Edith, “mamma has been awfully afraid that you would turn into something unconventional. That’s one reason we brought her out here to-day. We wished her to see that even in a college room you could still be yourself.”

“Now Edith,” cried Mrs. Blair, “I knew that Julia could not change, but of course I can’t quite get used to a girl’s having rooms just like a Harvard student.”

“Well now, Mrs. Blair, you can see that ours are not just like theirs. I only wish that they were. There’s no such luck in sight as yet for Radcliffe students as a fine dormitory for our own use like Claverly or Hastings—or even Holworthy. We can’t have suites of rooms and private bath-rooms, and all the fine things that Philip and his friends have.”

“No,” added Ruth, “we haven’t any proctor, even, to keep watch over us.”

“That’s one of the things that would trouble me a little. _Whom_ do you have for chaperons?”

Clarissa could no longer keep silent.

“An American girl”—she spoke with emphasis—“is her own best chaperon. I’ve travelled hundreds of miles alone myself. I’ve even gone to lectures alone—at night—and no one ever was rude to me. Indeed, I’d like to see any one try to be! He wouldn’t try it a second time.”

Julia and Ruth looked slightly uncomfortable during this outburst. Brenda and Edith began to giggle, and the others discreetly kept their eyes cast down.

Mrs. Blair unconsciously raised her lorgnette again.

“Why, certainly,” she said, “a young girl need not look for rudeness. I was merely thinking that she would be better with her own family.”

“Oh, but if she can’t have her own family, isn’t it the next best thing for some other person’s family to offer her a home?”

“But I do not like the idea,” said Mrs. Blair, “of your living outside of dormitories.”

“But the great charm of our life here is its independence,” said Julia politely. “You know, too, that our boarding-places must be approved by the Dean; and if we are very hard to manage, we can be reported by our landladies.”

“But do they ever do it?”

“Well, I have heard that no Radcliffe girl has ever had to be reprimanded severely. For my own part, I feel bound to behave even better here than I would at home.” In her eagerness to do her college justice, Ruth forgot that she was taking Clarissa’s side of the argument.

“Besides,” added Julia, “many Radcliffe girls live at home in Boston, or Cambridge, or the suburbs, coming to the college only for lectures, so that we ought not to be under more restrictions than they.”

“I did not mean to start so serious a discussion,” said Mrs. Blair. “I’m glad to see your piano here, Julia; music is so womanly an accomplishment;” and Mrs. Blair sipped her tea with satisfaction. “You make a good cup of tea, too.”

“Then you can report that we are fairly feminine?”

“Yes, indeed, Julia. But come, girls, we promised to look in on Philip toward five o’clock.”

While Brenda and Edith were saying their last words Pamela in her corner sat unnoticed with the Tanagra figure in her lap. Clarissa, meanwhile, talked to Mrs. Blair with surprising ease.

Mrs. Blair was accustomed to deference even from her special friends, and it seemed strange to have this young person meet her on impersonal grounds, and talk to her merely as any girl might to any woman. Mrs. Blair looked at Clarissa intently, without the lorgnette. She had always heard that there was something queer about college girls. Here was one of the species close at hand, and those other girls in the corner, who had had so little to say to her. They were all rather badly dressed, at least one could see that their gowns were not tailor-made. Julia, of course, was not an ordinary college girl. She was Mr. Barlow’s niece who had chosen to go to college, and it did seem a pity that she had to know all kinds of people. These were the thoughts flitting through Mrs. Blair’s mind as she stood there waiting for Brenda and Edith. As they stood there the handle of her umbrella became entangled in her lorgnette chain. “Permit me,” said Clarissa, trying to help her. But after a little effort a sudden jerk sent the umbrella against the brass fender, and a bit of the delicate ivory carving was broken.

“Now, it’s of no consequence,” protested Mrs. Blair, as Clarissa apologized for her carelessness. Then with a farewell that was as cordial for Clarissa as for the others, Mrs. Blair, with her furs and rustling skirts and polished manner, had departed, and the room seemed large and quiet again.

“After all,” sighed Clarissa, “there is something in a society manner, for I suppose that’s what you’d call Mrs. Blair’s pleasant way of saying things that she doesn’t exactly mean. Though I must have seemed a clumsy creature, she almost made me believe that I’d done right in breaking that bit of ivory. It’s the first time I’ve seen a grande dame at close range, and it’s refreshing—for a change. Dear me!” and Clarissa turned to Pamela, “nursing a doll? I hadn’t noticed before just what you were doing.”

Pamela reddened under this chaffing, for at Clarissa’s words Miss Burlap, of Kansas, and Miss Creighton, of Maine, turned their eyes toward her.

“It’s a Tanagra figure,” said Pamela; “it belongs to Miss Bourne.”

“Oh, I’m just as wise as I was before. It looks like some kind of a heathen idol, and you gaze at it as if you adored it.”

“Come, Miss Herter,” said Julia, hastening to the relief of Pamela. “Even Freshmen in Cambridge are expected to know something about Greek Art. You’d better get a catalogue of the Boston Art Museum, and the next time you go there you can study the Tanagra figures.”

“Well,” replied Clarissa, “I’ll take your advice. But now I must be off. ‘Answers to Correspondents’ always declare that it’s rude to outstay an earlier caller, but Mrs. Blair and your cousin so fascinated me that I forgot my manners.”

So Clarissa and her friends went away, but Pamela, at Julia’s request, stayed a little longer. Two or three other pleasant Radcliffe girls dropped in, and she enjoyed their bright, informal conversation. She found afterwards that to meet any one at Miss Bourne’s was sure to open a pleasanter acquaintance than any casual introduction.

The memory of this Monday afternoon cheered her as she set the table that evening, and waited on Miss Batson, and washed the dishes. Fate, indeed, had been particularly kind to her, for Miss Batson, who was apt to be absent-minded, had herself bought sugar that afternoon, forgetting entirely that she had asked Pamela to get it.

X DISCUSSIONS AND DISCUSSIONS

The Easter vacation had come and passed, and Pamela was pleased to find herself again attending lectures. She had been a little lonely, for almost all of her classmates had been away somewhere “for fun or for clothes,” as Polly Porson put it. Polly and Clarissa had gone together to New York, where the former had an aunt, and their talk now turned on Art exhibitions, Waldorf musicales, and things of that kind. Julia, yielding to her aunt’s entreaties, had fixed her mind more or less attentively on clothes. Lois had had to put her own time and strength into remodelling and shaping the lighter summer clothes. Whereas in Julia’s case her greatest sacrifice of time came in the unescapable “fittings” which she had to undergo at the dressmaker’s. Pamela had had neither fun nor new clothes to console her in the vacation. She had been unable to afford the trip to Vermont, and indeed she did not intend to return home for the summer holidays, unless she should fail to find some employment in vacation that would help her pay her expenses during the next college year. Her one luxury through the recess had been frequent trips to Boston. She had wandered to her heart’s content through the Art shops, and she had spent many hours in the Art Museum. She had saved car-fare by walking one way to Boston, and this exercise in itself had probably been an advantage to her, as in winter she had had little time for long walks. The fresh spring air as she walked along blew many cobwebs from her brain. For Pamela was not of a hopeful temperament, and she could not help wondering where she should get her income for the coming year. Her aunt’s letters were not altogether cheerful. Between the lines she could read that continued disapproval of her ambition for a college degree. “If you had gone to the Normal School,” read one of the letters, “you’d be almost ready now to take a school. Perhaps you might have had a chance at the Academy. They say that Miss Smith is going to be married.”

“They’ll feel better if I tell them that I’m likely to get a scholarship at the end of another year. Oh, I do hope that I shall take second-year honors! That will make the scholarship almost certain. If I could earn fifty dollars above my expenses this summer, and if Miss Batson will give me the same chance next year, why, I can certainly hold on until I get a scholarship. Ah, me!”

The sigh was perhaps not to be wondered at, for Pamela saw clearly the uphill road that lay before her. Sometimes she could not help contrasting herself with Julia and Clarissa, and the others before whom life seemed to spread out so delightfully. She listened with interest to all that these lighter-hearted girls had to tell of their vacation experiences, and she bent with redoubled energy to her work. May was at hand, and nobody can be utterly down-hearted in May, with the trees bursting into bloom, and the air growing softer and sweeter, and the bright spring sun touching everything with gold, making even literary Cambridge a pleasant place for the hundreds of students who cross the Yard to the halls of Harvard, or walk through Garden Street to Fay House. Yet despite spring sunshine, Pamela shrank into herself, and even Julia could not drag her out of her routine.

“It isn’t right,” Clarissa remonstrated, “to think so much of Xenophon, Plato, and Euripides. They may have been very able men, but to think of them alone will make you one-sided.”

“If you had studied Greek you’d be less frivolous,” remarked Julia, as Clarissa picked up a slip of paper with printed questions that fluttered from one of Pamela’s books. Clarissa read aloud from the paper:

“‘IX. Write on the results, to logic and ethics, of the work of Socrates, and the impression which it made on his contemporaries as illustrated in “The Clouds.”’ Is it strange,” she commented, “that Pamela is half in the clouds and here? ‘Write an account of the life and professional activity of Lysias.’ It would be more seasonable to write an account of the professional activity of the catcher on the Harvard nine. Throw aside this foolish paper, Pamela! Why, the heading says, ‘Divide your time equally between Lysias and Plato.’ Your aunt in Vermont ought to know about this.”

“Don’t crumple it,” cried Pamela, flushing under this badinage. “I save all my examination papers; that was a mid-year.”

“To make a scrap-book?” queried Polly, who had joined the group. “Excuse my smiles, but it seems so comical to care tenderly for examination papers. Why, I tear mine up, and throw my blue-books into the fire. Lecture notes are more entertaining. Clarissa’s, for example! Clarissa, if your notes in History 100 should be published, they would contribute greatly to the gaiety of nations. You must not let them fall into the hands of the profane.”

The lecturer in History 100 had a rather original method in dealing with his subject. His style was colloquial, and when in his opinion the occasion demanded it, he used expressions that bordered pretty closely on slang. Nevertheless, he had a fine command of his subject, and that he was a valued member of the Faculty was shown by his standing near the head of his department. That he shattered some of the idols that his students had worshipped did not lessen the value of his teaching. After expressing his own views fully (and sometimes jocosely), he would always refer them to numerous books, by reading which they could inform themselves on the other side of the subject. Although open, perhaps, to some criticism from an academic point of view, Professor Z (for so he was nicknamed from one of his most popular courses) was a stimulating instructor, and his Radcliffe students set a high value on what they learned from him.

Nevertheless, Polly and even the sedate Pamela were almost convulsed with laughter as Clarissa read from her note-book what she claimed to be one of Professor Z’s lectures. “Stage directions,” as Clarissa called them, had been used very freely. “Here he frowned.” “At this point he stroked his moustache and looked inexpressibly bored.” “At quarter-past three he told us that he thought that Cromwell did not deserve any further attention, at least from him, and that we’d all be happier for a little respite from Puritanism. Whereupon he left us—fifteen minutes to the better.”

“How would you like Professor Z to see your note-book?” asked Polly mischievously.

“Why, I shouldn’t care. I never do behind any one’s back what I could not just as well do before his face. The worst, I suppose, that he could give me would be a ‘D;’ but I think, on the whole, that he would be rather amused that I had had sufficient interest to take notes at once so literal and so copious.”

“Yes, but don’t let that book fall into the hands of outsiders. They might feel that we were not under sufficiently serious influences. You New Englanders are so serious.”

“Julia’s the only New Englander here. You mustn’t be too severe,” said Polly.

“No, indeed,” rejoined Clarissa; “but speaking of Jane—”

“Who spoke of Jane?”

“Well, _if_ we were speaking of Jane, it seems to me that we should all say that she looks tired—too much work and no play. She’s something like you, Pamela, only more so, though she has the excuse of being a Senior. But speaking of Seniors (we really _were_ speaking of Seniors this time), there’s Jane herself. Come, Jane,” and Polly raised her voice slightly, that Jane, who was passing the door, might hear her.

It was after half-past four, and Polly, Pamela, and the others were sitting in one of the vacant recitation rooms.

“Come, Jane,” said Polly, “we wish you to tell us why you have abjured society of late. There have been several teas lately where you were especially expected, which were remarkably desolate on account of your absence.”

At this Jane looked uncomfortable. Was Polly making fun of her?

Julia’s more serious tones reassured her.

“Yes, tell us, Jane. Ruth and I had the special honor the other evening of pouring chocolate at Professor Judson’s; his wife is some kind of a cousin of Uncle Robert’s. But why weren’t you there? You belong to the Philosophical Club.”

“Yes,” added Polly. “You _would_ have enjoyed meeting some of your fellow sufferers from Harvard; there were several sedate youths among them, Jane, exactly your style. The paper was most improving; every social gathering in Cambridge has to be opened with a paper. Why weren’t you there?”

“Clothes,” replied Jane laconically, smoothing the folds of her black student gown.

“Oh, I suppose that you do not care to go where you cannot wear that becoming cap and gown.

“Oh, Jane! oh, Jane! oh, Jane! oh, Jane! Never did I think that you were so vain.”

Jane’s discomfort increased under Polly’s fusillade.

“I might be more comfortable in my cap and gown,” she retorted, “but they would be as unsuitable as my brown merino in some places, and that is the only best gown that I own.”

“I’m sure that it’s, it’s—”

“No,” said Jane gravely, as Julia stumbled; “no, it is neither beautiful nor becoming. But it has been very useful to me this winter. I wear it at our college functions with few qualms. It is only when I am invited outside that I am disinclined to wear it.”

“Isn’t that rather foolish? In these days woman can be perfectly independent about her clothes.” And Clarissa gave her curly head the toss of independent “Young America.”

“No one can live entirely to herself, even in the matter of clothes,” Jane explained. “If a hostess goes to the trouble and expense of providing a pleasant evening for her friends, her guests should wear festival attire. You are ‘asserting a false mood.’ Isn’t that what Shaftesbury would say?” And she turned to Polly, who of all present alone happened to be in her Philosophy class.

“Yes,” said Clarissa, “I agree with you there. I never could understand why people in the East wear ugly clothes at times when they ought to be in their best bib and tucker. When I am invited anywhere—which isn’t often—I always try to wear something bright and cheerful.”

“The poster girl!” murmured Polly under her breath.

“I’d rather be called a poster girl than a mummy,” said Clarissa, “though you, Jane, in your brown merino would be more welcome at some functions than others I could name in purple and fine linen.”

“And I will wear my brown dress and never look too fine,” hummed Polly. “You remember that Jennie Wren married Cock Robin, who seems to have been a fairy prince among the birds. Every one knows that you are sure of a _summa cum_, Jane Townall, so that you ought to be able to wear what you like at any time.”

“I can’t speak for Jane,” interposed Julia, “but I am sure that in accepting invitations we ought to think of what the hostess would like. Don’t frown, Clarissa.”

“Oh, of course you are more in society than we are.”

“Nonsense, that isn’t fair,” replied Julia. “But college girls ought to place themselves above the criticisms of those who do not look below the surface.”

“One shouldn’t think too much of appearances. Who cares for narrow-minded people? We must take the world as we find it.”

“I suppose so,” sighed Clarissa. “If I had worn a conventional Boston costume, perhaps Mrs. Blair would not have gazed at me the other day as if I were some newly discovered species. Next year I’ll appear out in—”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” cried Polly, “but let us do the proper thing by putting the matter to the vote.”

“Resolved, that no Radcliffe student shall accept an invitation to a festivity in Cambridge, or the adjoining suburb Boston, unless arrayed in a becoming light gown.”

“Low-necked?” questioned Clarissa.

“Cream-white?” asked Jane with unwonted levity.

“Color and style to suit the complexion of the wearer,” replied Polly. “Only no more dingy street gowns and hats at evening receptions.”

Though there wasn’t a dissenting voice, all knew that they were in earnest to only a limited extent. Yet the discussion showed that dress was a subject demanding some attention from even the busiest college girl. It could not be dismissed with a word. “If a hostess fears that I shall mortify her she needn’t invite me.” A busy girl naturally cannot give much time to shopping and dressmakers. Often she has little money to give to either. Yet by exercising care and taste, the girl with a small purse can often work wonders. The world of college undergraduates long since decided that there is no real connection between genius and dowdy dress, and that the wearer of a well-fitting gown need not lack mental ability.

There was some point to this discussion because invitations to affairs outside of the immediate college now came occasionally to even the quietest of the Freshmen. One or two of their professors invited them to receptions. Some of the girls living at home in Cambridge or Boston entertained more or less. In addition there were various college affairs to which the outside world was invited, and those students who acted as hostesses or ushers were especially conspicuous.

Simplicity was the keynote of most of the entertainments offered outside of Radcliffe, as well as in the college itself. This was disappointing sometimes to the occasional girl, conscious of her father’s wealth, who had come to Cambridge expecting this wealth to count for as much in her college life as it had counted at her own home. Yet no girl at Radcliffe was ever so dull as not to discover speedily that plain living really set the standard in Cambridge, and that any departure from simplicity was really regarded as blamable rather than praiseworthy.

XI EFFORTS TO HELP

Julia, one spring afternoon, waiting in Edith’s library for Edith to return from down town, was in the midst of a conversation with Philip. His woe-begone face might have made her laugh had she not fortunately realized that one cannot long retain her influence over the person she has laughed at.

“If she hadn’t written me herself,” Philip was saying, “I couldn’t have believed it. It seems he’s a member of Parliament, too. Well, I may be something myself sometime. She might have waited. I can’t fix my mind on anything now, and I fancy mother and Edith will be disappointed when I can’t get my degree.”

“What have they to do with it?” cried Julia. “I’m sure that they have always encouraged you.”

“Why, if they hadn’t disapproved of Adelaide Cain, she might not have been so heartless, and then I should be in better spirits now.”

“You can’t imagine,” said Julia, “that Adelaide Cain threw you over just because your mother disapproved of her? She hasn’t the reputation of being so conscientious.”

“How hard girls are to one another!” exclaimed Philip in his most cynical tone.

“Nonsense! nonsense!” and Julia laughed. “I’m positive that in three months you will rejoice that Miss Cain preferred some one else. But did you mean what you just said about your degree?”

“Well, my degree is certainly awfully shaky. There was a scrape I was in in my Freshman year. They kept me on probation, and they do not seem to think that I have lived it down. Then I have two exams. to make up, one I lost when I was sick and another I failed on, and some of my work this year is a little uncertain. I’ve a good mind to cut it all now and quit.”

“What! leave everything, without taking your degree? No, indeed, Philip, you mustn’t do it!”

“Well, I’ve only a few weeks, and—and—well, I suppose that I might as well make a full confession. I have a lot of debt hanging over me, and I cannot tell my father.”

“Oh, Philip!” Julia threw a great deal of feeling into her tone. This last trouble seemed much more serious than either of the other things of which Philip had spoken. She felt that it was to his advantage that Miss Cain had set him aside, and she knew that if he applied himself he could make up his deficiencies in his studies. But a matter of money—she hardly knew how to advise him.

“It’s three thousand dollars.”