Part 8

“I dare say that she is more comfortable at this very minute than we are. Only imagine how refreshing an ocean breeze would be blowing over our heads.”

“Oh, Julia, how terribly matter of fact you are!”

Julia’s feelings, however, were deeper than her jesting words implied. In the group below, as she recognized one after another of Philip’s friends, she realized how much he was losing. There is only one Class Day for each undergraduate; and although he may make up scholastic deficiencies, and get his degree with some other class, if he loses his Class Day, something has gone that can never be made up to him.

So although Julia listened to the Oration with its review of the Class history and its promises for the future, although she gazed with admiration at the fluent Poet whose lofty lines were delivered in a rather feeble voice, although she laughed at the witticisms and local hits of the Ivy Oration (without always seeing the force of the joke), her thoughts sometimes were wandering far away. Indeed, it is to be feared that the last part of the Oration was lost upon her, for when the Class rose in a body to sing the Class Ode to the air of “Fair Harvard,” she was surprised to find that the first part of the Class Day programme was ended. Of course, like many others, Nora and Brenda and Julia and Ruth lingered to scan the scattering throng for familiar faces. Naturally, too, Tom and Will and other Seniors whom they knew came up to shake hands with them, and receive their congratulations on having reached this point in their career; and naturally, too, these same young men escorted Mrs. Barlow and her charges first to the “Pudding” spread (where nothing resembling pudding was to be had, except, perhaps, the ice called frozen pudding), and then from the “Pudding” to one or two private spreads, and then—why, then before they knew it it was four o’clock, and every one was wondering if it wasn’t almost time to go to the Tree. Where had the day gone?

“Ah, here you are!” exclaimed a cheerful voice, as Nora and Julia stood on the lawn of Wadsworth House, a little tired, a little the worse for wear, holding their empty plates, and wondering how they had managed to lose sight of Mrs. Barlow and Brenda and Ruth.

“Oh, papa!” cried Nora, for the cheerful voice belonged to Dr. Gostar. “Oh, papa, I didn’t know that you were coming out. How delightful! Are you going to the Tree? But there, I suppose that you haven’t a ticket; they’re so very hard to get.”

“Ticket!” and there was genuine merriment in Dr. Gostar’s laugh. “Why, you are forgetting who I am. I’m a graduate, and Class Day belongs partly to the graduates. At least, the Tree part of it does.”

“Oh, then we’ll see you there. What fun!”

“You’ll hear me certainly. Really, I ought to be saving myself now for the cheering. But I met Mrs. Barlow just outside; she had to go with Brenda and Ruth to Matthews for a little while. Elmer Robson was with them; there was something in his room that he was anxious to show Brenda. Mrs. Barlow felt that she could go when I promised to take you under my wing. We are to meet in Stoughton, where Will Hardon has a room looking out on the Tree.”

“But I thought that his rooms were in Holworthy?”

“So they are. But he thought that it would be pleasant for his guests to have a room to rest in before going to the Tree and near it. By the way, we have no time to spare,” looking at his watch. “If you are ready, young ladies, I shall be happy to escort you, although I’m rather surprised that you haven’t some younger cavalier.”

“Well, papa, we have had, but you see the Seniors have all gone off now to dress for the Tree, and even Toby, after he had gone with us to one or two spreads, seemed to grow restless. I suppose he thinks there’d be more fun with some of his classmates. There are a few undergraduates hanging about on the outskirts of things.”

“I hope that he hasn’t neglected you.”

“Oh, no, indeed”—Julia was the speaker—“oh, no indeed, he has been remarkably entertaining. He pointed out all kinds of amusing college personages, and cleared the way for us through several crowds, and saw that our plates were heaped with ices, and altogether has been very helpful.”

“He really has, papa,” added Nora. “You see the Seniors can pay little attention to any single person, they have so many to look after. It’s the greatest fun to see them trying to be equally attentive to half a dozen persons at once when all the time they’re dying to talk to some one person by herself. Even Will Hardon, who seldom is disturbed, was half beside himself. He hadn’t had a chance for a word with Ruth, and wherever he was to-day there were three tall, thin cousins of his from New York who wished to know about everything and to see everything, and who hardly left his side for a moment. I think that Ruth was disappointed, too.”

“Why, Nora!” and Julia shook her head in disapproval. But Dr. Gostar was too much absorbed in the scenes in the Yard to notice this speech of Nora’s.

“Why, papa, you seem to see a great many people you know.”

“I certainly do, daughter; that is one of the charms of Class Day. Presently I may run upon some old classmate whom I have not seen for twenty-five years. He is here escorting his daughters; and although my head is gray, and his may be bald, we shall rush into each other’s arms and—”

“Why, who is he, papa?” cried Nora, without realizing that she was interrupting.

“Oh, I haven’t the least idea; the particular man does not matter. It will be some one with whom I can renew my youth. Why, if it wasn’t for Class Day some of us old fellows would forget that we had ever been young.”

“Why, papa, nobody considers you old. I heard Mrs. Everlie the other day call you a perfect boy.”

“I certainly feel like one to-day, escorting two fair damsels through the College Yard.”

“Oh, listen! listen!” cried Julia, as the sound of gruff huzzas came to them.

“They have begun to cheer the buildings; you know that that is the ceremony,—a pause before each old building, and a loud cheer for it,—the Seniors’ farewell to Harvard.”

They had now almost reached Stoughton, pushing their way through the crowd. On the steps of University Hall and other buildings, rows of people were seated, who evidently were mere sight-seers, without any real connection with the Class. There were small boys and girls among them, and men and women in holiday dress, evidently sight-seers from the City. In the throng hurrying across the Yard there were now a good many undergraduates, and anxious chaperons trying to collect their charges, and pretty girls in delicate dresses hurrying toward the Tree enclosure.

From the door of Stoughton Dr. Gostar and his party hastened upstairs to the upper room which had been secured for them. It was a large, square, old-fashioned room, furnished rather more simply than those occupied by Philip and Will in Holworthy, and it was far plainer than the elegant apartments of Tom Hearst in Claverly.

As the others had not yet arrived, Julia and Nora tiptoed around, looking at the curious gray and blue steins on the mantle-piece, the fencing foils and masks on the wall, the two or three old colored prints of stage coach and sporting scenes.

“Hm, hm,” cried Nora, “whoever he is, the classics do not occupy all his time. Just look at those membership certificates; he seems to belong to every athletic society in the college. And his books, where are his books?”

“Why, here,” cried Julia, “on this shelf behind the door. There are a whole dozen of them;” and Nora, stepping forward, read off their titles, which proved, by the way, to be the titles almost entirely of college text-books.

“But, my dear, you mustn’t expect them all to be book worms; it takes every kind of individual to make up a college, just as in the outside world,” remonstrated Dr. Gostar in answer to Nora’s gibes at the non-literary taste of the owner of this room.

Before more could be said, Mrs. Barlow and Ruth and Brenda appeared, attended by Toby and another undergraduate, who was introduced as the owner of the room. The latter was a mild-mannered, young-looking Junior, not at all the athletic individual—at least in appearance—whom the girls had pictured from the trophies and other adornments of the room.

“There, Mrs. Barlow, I hand my charges over to you,” and Dr. Gostar hurried off to join the Alumni around the Tree. In a few minutes Mrs. Barlow and the others followed, leaving the room in Stoughton to some other guests of Will’s, who were to watch the Tree exercises from the windows.

Already the throng in the Yard was crowding toward the Tree enclosure, and the ticket holders had hard work to thread their way among curious by-standers. Within the enclosure the sun beat down hotly, except in one corner where the brick walls of the neighboring buildings cast a shade. Following the boys, Mrs. Barlow and the girls scrambled up over the rough wooden benches,—“just like circus seats,” said Nora,—and at last, a little out of breath, and with many apologies to those whom they disturbed in their progress, they reached their own places.

Now, although Brenda and her friends did not then realize it, these Tree exercises were to have a peculiar interest from being almost the last under the walls of Stoughton. The space was too limited for the thousands who felt that they had a right to be spectators, and already plans were making for a change of place and a somewhat different performance.

As the Alumni came in, taking position some distance from the Tree, the girls caught sight of Dr. Gostar and two or three sedate Bostonians of his age seating themselves on the grass, and looking as cheerful and merry as the youngest undergraduate there. The Alumni had marched within the enclosure with a band of music at the head, and then had followed the Freshmen, with the Sophomores second and the Juniors last. Each formed a separate circle around the Tree, and when the signal was given all rose and cheered lustily for every college official from the President to John the Orangeman. The Chief Marshal, a tall, handsome fellow, led the cheering, and at last at a given signal the students in each circle, joining hands, whirled at a mad rate around the Tree. When they had sung the Class Ode, the Marshal threw his hat against the Tree, and then the wild scramble for the flowers began. It was difficult for those who knew them best to recognize their especial Seniors in the shocking bad clothes and old hats that they wore. But many a mother, when she discovered her boy, was sure that he must come away with broken limbs, if he escaped alive from the wild scrimmage. They pommeled one another, formed themselves into human ladders, flung one another off from the sides of the Tree. Yet strange to say, no one received serious injury, and the few who reached the glowing wreath were loudly cheered, even by those who thought the whole affair rather brutal. Those who stripped the wreath from the Tree flung the fragments down among their classmates, and in the end nearly every one had a flower or two as a memento. As Tom and Will pressed through the crowd with fairly large bouquets—at least they could be seen by Brenda and her friends—the girls wondered if any of the trophies should pass to them. While they stood for a moment waiting a chance to pass down to the Yard, Mrs. Barlow pointed out one distinguished person after another among the spectators at the Tree, including the British Minister, the Secretary of the Navy, the Governor of New York, and innumerable literary and professional men of note. Many of them undoubtedly were there as relatives of Seniors, and some probably found it a distinction to be the father of a boy who was the idol of his class for this thing or that,—athletics and social graces sometimes ranking ahead of scholarship.

When Will and Tom reached Mrs. Barlow’s group their flowers were rather impartially distributed among the four, and the boys hurried on to array themselves in proper Senior garb. They all met again at the Beck spread, and from that they went to one or two smaller teas, sitting in windows that overlooked the quadrangle until the Yard had been illuminated.

“Fairyland only faintly describes it,” said Julia, looking at the wonderful labyrinth of lanterns and colored lights shining above the crowds in gay attire threading the paths, or seated on the grass.

Julia was loath to leave the scene even for a glimpse of the dancers in Memorial and the Gymnasium. When an opportunity therefore came for her to go back to the rooms in Holworthy under Toby’s protection, she was glad enough to go. She was a little tired now, and did not sit in the window, and when Toby seemed restless, she advised him to go back to Memorial, as she would be perfectly comfortable in the easy-chair that he had drawn up for her. She added that she would not be at all lonely.

Hardly had Toby left her when a familiar voice fell on her ear.

“Toby told me that you were in here, Julia, but where are you?”

Julia rose from the easy-chair, the deep back of which hid her from view.

“Why, Philip! How in the world do you happen to be here? I thought—”

“No, I haven’t actually left this part of the world. I’ve been down to the shore for a day or two getting my things together. I’m off to-night by the midnight train. But I couldn’t resist a glance at Class Day. Besides,” a trifle less defiantly, “I thought that I might see you, Julia.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Julia, “we’re all here, Ruth and Brenda and Nora; they’ll be coming back from Memorial after a while.”

“Oh, I’ll be out of the way before that. I made Toby swear not to say a word about me. No, I didn’t expect really to see any one, though I hoped that I might run across you.”

“I’m awfully sorry that things have gone badly with you, but next year—”

“No, I’m not coming back next year, nor am I going to cry about spilled milk. What’s the good? Nobody really cares what becomes of a fellow. Of course a family is mortified when he doesn’t get his degree, and I’ve had it heavy enough from my father for the money he’s had to put up for me. But you are a sensible girl, Julia, and I’ve wanted to tell you that in many ways you’ve done me a lot of good. Sometime, perhaps, I may show you that I’ve profited by some of your advice.”

“I’ve never given you any real advice.”

“Indeed you have. Of course I’ve had it from other people, too. But you’ve said some things that really have made an impression. But there, what’s the use of talking? Sometime you’ll see that I’m not as black as I’m painted. So now I must be off, for I’ve some things to attend to in the Square, and I don’t want the others to find me here. There’d be such a beastly lot of explaining,” and so with a sudden farewell, Philip hurried out of the room. Julia, looking from the window, followed him for a moment until he was lost in the crowd. At this moment the Glee Club, stationed on the green, sang “Fair Harvard,” and Julia wondered if the pathetic music struck Philip’s ears with the sadness with which it fell on hers.

Not long after this Mrs. Barlow and the girls appeared. The latter were by no means ready to go home, tired though they were after their long day. But Mrs. Barlow was firm; and in spite of the protests of Tom and Will and one or two others, they left the Yard before half-past ten.

XIII VARIOUS AMBITIONS

The summer passed quickly away, as vacations have a fashion of doing, even when one is young, and Julia and Ruth and Polly and Clarissa and Lois and all the other college friends met again in October, well and happy. Polly had been at Atlantic City, Clarissa had joined her family at the White Mountains, Pamela had been on the South Shore with her pupil, Nora had spent the summer in Maine. Lois alone of this group of friends had had practically no change of scene; she had stayed in Newton all summer, and yet she returned to college looking as bright as any of the others. Julia’s summer does not form properly a part of her Radcliffe days, and yet it is only fair to say that Julia’s summer had been somewhat different from what might have been prophesied in June. The first weeks had been spent in attendance on her Aunt Anna, who had fallen ill with a slow fever in the early spring. When she was better the doctor had ordered a complete change of air, with the result that Mr. and Mrs. Barlow and the two girls had made a tour of the British Provinces. Coming back to college from so many points of the compass, the Sophomores all had naturally much to tell. They registered themselves promptly on the first Thursday of the term; they chose their electives and changed their minds as often as the authorities would permit. They studied the notices on the bulletin board and the schedule of recitations, and advised one another in tones much more confident than a year ago. They did their part at the Freshman reception to make the incoming class feel perfectly at home, and they began to develop a class spirit. Now “class spirit” is something which had only just begun to develop at Radcliffe, and indeed at this time some of the upper class girls, absorbed in their work, were disinclined to believe that it had an existence. Different things were contributing to this class feeling. One was the increasing interest in athletics. Each class had its basket ball team and its own athletes, or gymnasts as perhaps we ought to say, in whose triumphs it took a genuine pride. Clarissa had come to the front as one of the best athletes of her class, and the Sophomores with her help expected to lead in the spring meet. Julia, too, found herself suddenly conspicuous from a very simple thing, or at least it seemed simple to her. She had always had some talent for musical composition, and had studied Composition before entering Radcliffe. But the course in Harmony under the distinguished head of the Music Department had been a revelation to her, and she had begun to venture on little flights of her own. One of her songs, a setting of William Watson’s, “Tell me not now,” Polly had picked up as it lay in manuscript on her desk. Now Polly had a sweet, bird-like voice, and she rushed to the piano and trilled off:

“Tell me not now, if love for love Thou canst return, Now while around us and above Day’s flambeaux burn. Not in clear noon, with speech as clear, Thy heart avow, For every gossip wind to hear; Tell me not now.”

Julia herself, as she listened, found her own music more interesting than she had imagined it. Polly, when she had finished, turned around with an amused expression:

“Well, well, I am perfectly surprised that you are so sentimental, Julia Bourne.”

“Oh, nonsense!” responded Julia, “but you sing it like an angel.”

“Yes,” said Polly, “this time I’ll accept the compliment without protest, for with your leave (or without it) I’m going to sing this at the next Idler. I’ve been asked to sing something, and I’ll take care to let every one know that you are the composer of this sentimental ode. You! the stern person who used to frown on me last spring when I wanted to go to Riverside on canoe expeditions that meant a _solitude à deux_. Ah, Julia, this song shows that you are human like the rest of us;” and Polly held high above her head the manuscript that Julia tried to seize.

Thus Julia made her first appearance before her fellow-students as a composer, for Polly sang “Tell me not now” with great effect that Friday afternoon; and Julia, who hitherto had had comparatively few acquaintances outside of her special set, now found herself an object of interest to the whole club.

“The next thing,” said Ruth, with genuine pride in Julia’s triumph, “the next thing we’ll have you composing an operetta.”

“Nonsense!” cried Julia. “An operetta! I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not? Three or four operettas have been composed and given by Radcliffe girls with great success. Why, I came out with my mother the year ‘A Copper Complication’ was given, and I never saw anything more entertaining in my life. What one girl can accomplish another can, I mean if she has the same kind of talent. Why, there have been several Radcliffe operettas—‘Princess Perfection,’ ‘A Copper Complication.’”

The urgings of Polly and Ruth, however, might not have led Julia to take up the work had not the Emmanuel Society needed funds. It had committed itself to assist in maintaining a reading-room at the North End for working girls, and its expenses had been heavier than the first estimates. In no way could money be so readily raised as through an operetta, and as Julia was especially interested in this Society, she at last consented to see what she could do.

“For any one with talent like yours it isn’t so very hard,” said Polly persuasively. “Ruth and I will help you with the book, and then you must have some good soprano solos—for me—and some manly contralto solos, probably for Clarissa, if we can only get her to take them; and then there must be a soubrette song or two—we’ll find the soubrette, and there must be a man’s funny part, like Charles River, the ‘winter man’ in ‘A Copper Complication,’” and Polly spun round the room, singing:

“Now since men are always busy in this lovely summer time, I get my little innings when I can, As I wanted to offset a bit the summer girl’s éclat, I call myself a winter man. I drive out, I dine out at functions divine, At parties I dance with the belle of the ball. It is in the winter I have my good time.”

“Oh, no indeed!” interrupted Ruth. “Julia’s opera will have no frivolous Charles River. Her hero, I’m sure, will be a most serious person with high purpose.”

“And a low voice, that is, low for an alto,” cried the irrepressible Polly.

“There,” said Julia, smiling, “as my part is to be so small, I need not have hesitated about undertaking it. You are arranging for the words and the speakers, and the music is only—”

“Now, Julia, of _course_ the _music’s_ the thing, the chief thing, but there’s a certain type of song that’s taking, and we have to think what will best suit our prima donnas, when once we have secured them. You have no idea how shy they are. I shouldn’t care to be the business manager of this affair,” and Polly flung herself on the couch, while the others laughed at her affected melancholy.

Yet in spite of this badinage, the girls of Julia’s group, as well as some others with special literary or dramatic talent, began to work for the success of the operetta. The music was left entirely to Julia; but the libretto, or “book” as they all preferred to call it, was to be a composite production. The sentimental lyrics were nearly all assigned to Ruth; the comic words for the most part grew. Girls are more considerate than boys. Their jokes are seldom “grinds” on the professors, and they are even fairly tender toward the various branches of a college curriculum. The gibes, therefore, of Radcliffe plays were more apt to be directed toward local faults, such as muddy sidewalks and dusty streets.

Yet after all, the operetta was entirely secondary to regular college work. Hardly a girl in Julia’s class sought the name of “grind,” and few deserved it. The absence of the dormitory system, the very fact that many Radcliffe students reside with their parents while attending college, makes for a normal life in which home interests and society have their place as well as study. This is as it should be, and is not to be criticised unless a girl assumes too many social duties in addition to her college obligations.