Part 9

The autumn calendar was marked by several events of special significance to the Sophomores. Not the least of these was the class election, in which Julia and Ruth took more part than in that of the preceding year. There happened to be in their class about twenty girls from a large preparatory school,—a public High School,—and these girls had been a power at the Freshman elections. Indeed, so certain was their ticket to be elected that the rest of the class had put up few candidates. By this second autumn, however, the situation had changed somewhat. Girls like Julia and Ruth, who had entered with none of the advantages of a backing of comrades, were now pretty well known. The Freshman Class President proved unpopular, and had shown so little special ability that not even her personal friends favored her re-election. Several were anxious to have Clarissa a candidate, and the friends of Annabel Harmon intended to put her up. Somewhat to Julia’s surprise she found Ruth favoring Annabel. The latter had been a Special, until late in the year she had become a Freshman. Annabel was a pleasing girl, able to talk eloquently on any subject,—so eloquently that those who looked beneath the surface sometimes doubted her knowledge of the things she talked the most about. Julia, reproaching herself for unfairness, disliked having Ruth so intimate with Annabel.

Julia championed Clarissa as a candidate, because she saw that the Western girl was a born leader, and because she admired her frank, open nature.

“I object to Clarissa,” Ruth had said, “because she makes so many foolish jokes. She doesn’t seem to me to represent the class properly. Now, Annabel is always dignified, and college girls are so criticised that one who is conspicuous ought to be conventional.”

Julia perceived that Ruth was already under Annabel’s influence. She was a year or two older than the average Freshman. This was not due to lack of ability, but to her having decided rather late on a college course. She had entered at the beginning of February—just after the mid-years in the winter before Ruth and Julia entered Radcliffe. She was rather proud of having become a regular Sophomore: and indeed for a girl of Annabel’s rather indolent disposition, this was something to be proud of. Only a girl of her egotism would have aspired so early in her career to become Class President. Julia felt almost positive that Annabel could not succeed, but Annabel herself knew better. She had begun to work for the office the preceding year. What had been the meaning of the little luncheons that she had given from time to time, to which she had bidden not only her intimates, but those girls most likely to be of use to her? As she was not a Freshman then, they may not have suspected her motives; but the little luncheons, and the lending of valuable books, and the flattering letters written at just the right time, and, above all, a manner which said to each one to whom she was talking, “You really are the cleverest girl in the class, and I wish that other people had the good sense to find it out,”—all these things had done their work; and when the ballots were counted, Miss Harmon was President, and Clarissa Herter had no office. Ruth had been the only candidate for Secretary, and the office of Vice-President had gone to a Latin School girl. It couldn’t be said that there was much feeling over the election, or anything approaching dissension. Yet two or three who, like Julia, were dissatisfied felt that Annabel did not deserve so marked an honor. The sharper-sighted had seen too much of her wire pulling. Nevertheless, a little later when the Sophomores had their class luncheon, even those who did not especially like her had to admit that Annabel made a charming presiding officer, and as toast mistress (though the toasts were drunk only in cold water) she was, as the newspapers might have said, “particularly felicitous.”

Soon after the class luncheon the Sophomores gave the Freshmen a dance in the Auditorium. Although girls danced with girls and no masculine person was present (except the youth who assisted in moving the furniture), all said that they had enjoyed it as much as if it had been a co-educational affair (this was Clarissa’s general term for the occasional affairs in which Harvard and Radcliffe students mingled). Even Pamela was seen in some of the square dances, with a pretty little Freshman. The principles of the little Freshman as well as her ignorance of waltzing prevented her dancing anything but the lancers and Portland fancy. So while the others were whirling in the waltz, or leaping through some of the more modern dances, Pamela and the Freshman, in Clarissa’s words, “carried on a desperate flirtation.”

Prosperity had agreed with Pamela; she looked stronger, and her cheeks had more color than formerly. Although she still lived at Miss Batson’s, and although the loud colors of the furniture and the loud manners of the boarders still grated on her nerves, she found the work that she had to do less burdensome than in her Freshman year. The money earned by her summer of tutoring sufficed to pay more than half the tuition fee of her Sophomore year; and to keep her young pupil up to the mark, she had been engaged to go to him twice a week during the school year. Thus all her tuition fees were more than provided for. Although she had not secured the scholarship on account of the number of competitors, an allowance had been made her by the Students’ Aid Society. She could thus see that she could make both ends meet for the year, and as to the future, she felt sure that she could provide for that when the time came. Pamela, though always independent and persevering, since coming to Cambridge had acquired a hopefulness formerly unknown. To this extent, if in no other way, she had felt the broadening influence of Radcliffe,—or shall we say of the great University under whose shadow lies the woman’s college?

At the Open Idler, Pamela wore a pretty pale pink gown of soft veiling, simply made, but extremely becoming. Julia found it hard to get Pamela to accept this simple gift. She had thought at first of a subterfuge, of pretending that the gown had been made for her, and that because of the dressmaker’s mistake she had had to discard it. But on second thought she decided that frankness was the best. When she found that Pamela had decided not to go to the Idler because she had no suitable gown, she brought forward the one that she had had made.

“How pretty it is! What an exquisite color, and so simple!”

“Yes,” Julia had responded, “and it is for you! I had it made because I knew that you couldn’t possibly attend to anything so frivolous, with all that you have to do this year. If you do not wear it, it shall hang in my closet until the moths eat it. Come try it on!”

So almost before she realized what she was doing, Pamela had arrayed herself in the pretty, soft, clinging gown, and as she looked in the long mirror she hardly recognized herself. “If I could pay for it,” she murmured, “if you would let me.”

“Why, yes,” responded Julia, “certainly, in five years or twenty years, whenever you can do it as well as not, I shall be happy to let you pay for it. Of course I would rather make it a present. But if you prefer, I will accept payment for it any time after five years—not before. That will be so much clear gain for me. For if you should not take the gown it would hang in my closet until the moths had made way with it.”

“Oh, Julia, what nonsense!” And then Pamela, though seldom voluble, expressed her gratitude very warmly. Hoping to pay for it in the future, she was very glad to accept the gown; and Julia, observing Pamela so perfectly at ease,—such wonders will good clothes work,—felt more than repaid for her forethought.

This Open Idler of their Sophomore year happened to be the first one for Julia and Ruth. They had not sent many cards of invitation, but a few of their friends came out from Boston, and pushed their way through crowds of gaily gowned girls to the large room where the Sophomores received their friends. Among these were Nora and her mother.

“I’m not sure, Julia, that it is safe to bring Nora here. Already she has begun to talk about coming to college, and what I have seen here to-night makes college life seem too attractive.”

“But why ‘too attractive’?”

“Ah, Julia, I am one of those old-fashioned persons who cannot quite see the wisdom of a college education for girls. Of course I would not wish Nora to consider her education finished simply because she has left school. Indeed, I have had her continue several of her studies; but she owes something to society, and college cuts a girl off so from social life.”

“But we have social life here—and masculine society, too,” she concluded with a smile.

“Yes, indeed,” responded Mrs. Gostar, glancing around the room, in which Harvard students were almost as numerous as Radcliffe girls. Standing in corners, seated on divans, walking toward the refreshment tables, were youths and maidens enjoying one another’s society to the same extent as if in a crowded ball-room. The walls were bright with orange and white festoons,—the class colors. A touch of crimson twined across the end of the room where the year of the class was inscribed showed the connection with Harvard. Rugs on the floor, tall palms in the corners, great vases of primroses, and bands of yellow ribbon on the refreshment tables, had transformed the plain recitation room into a bower of beauty. Each class had a room to itself, similarly decorated, and there was one for the Specials. Downstairs the officers of the Idler, the Dean of the college, and the Secretary received the guests, who were introduced individually by ushers. There was a table with refreshments in the parlor; there were refreshments and an orchestra in the Auditorium; there were, as Polly said, “tête-à-têtes unlimited” in the Library and in the recitation rooms; and any one whose knowledge of Radcliffe was obtained first through an “Open Idler” would have pronounced it the most frivolous of institutions.

Tom Hearst, now in the Law School, and one or two other friends of Philip’s accepted the invitations sent them by Ruth and Julia. The latter would have liked to ask some questions about Philip, for not a word had come to her directly since that Class Day evening. He was in her thoughts constantly, but she would not say a word.

XIV IN DISGUISE

“Learned Sophomores! full of information, ‘Yes, we know it all,’ your manner seems to say. Learned Sophomores! In each generation, Sophomores will be Sophomores in the same old way.”

Thus under her breath Clarissa, from her seat in the Auditorium, hummed a strain from a Radcliffe song. Girls were gathering in the room to witness an Idler play.

“Sometime,” said Clarissa, “I’ll be a Senior, and have a front seat. But if you can’t have the first, the fifth row isn’t so very bad.”

While waiting for the play to begin, the girls in Clarissa’s neighborhood chatted gaily. The play had attracted many of the Alumnæ, because it was the work of a Radcliffe girl who had been out of college a year or two. They waited a little impatiently, for the Auditorium was really overcrowded, with girls sitting on the steps and leaning on the ledges of the windows leading into the conversation room.

“Oh, I do wish that they would begin!”

“Why can’t girls ever do anything on time? It is _so_ uncomfortable sitting in this stuffy room!”

These and other murmurs came from various parts of the Auditorium. It was certainly much past the hour, and yet the curtain did not rise. At last the President came forward. “I must ask your indulgence,” she said, as she stood in front of the curtain. “Something has gone wrong with the curtain, we cannot raise it; but while we are waiting for a carpenter, Miss Harmon has kindly consented to read.” At this there was much applause, for Annabel had a well-trained voice, and sufficient self-confidence to make whatever she did very effective. Accordingly, she came forward attired in a white muslin gown, pale blue sash, and a leghorn hat lined with blue. She was to wear the costume in the play, and no one could deny that it was most becoming. Annabel read in a plaintive tone. She read old ballads and modern love songs, two of each, and the audience applauded most heartily. Then she tried a bolder flight, a dramatic monologue, and still her hearers were enthusiastic. She bowed her thanks, smiled, and then a movement of the curtain was seen. Annabel stood there unconscious of anything but the audience before her. There was a vigorous clapping of hands from a distant corner.

“Why, that sounds like a man, doesn’t it?” said a girl behind Julia, leaning over toward her. Just then a huge bunch of carnations fell at Annabel’s feet with a heavy thud, as if thrown by some one used to handling missiles. Again Annabel smiled and courtesied, and again the audience applauded, with one pair of hands sounding louder than the rest.

Clarissa looked at her watch, and closed the cover with a snap.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have the play begin; we didn’t come to a reading.”

The Idler President again appeared in front of the curtain and said something to Annabel. The latter, smiling pleasantly, opened a book. The curtain rose behind her, with the stage set for the play; but she began to read again, slowly and with great expression, while in the background the heads of various girls were seen peering from behind the scenes, evidently impatient for Annabel to stop.

Some of the audience, with a sense of the ridiculous, began to laugh, but Annabel was unconscious of everything but the applause. She stood as if waiting an encore.

“Is it a wonder,” whispered Julia to Clarissa, “that she got the Class Presidency? I believe that she hypnotizes people.”

“Ah, she reads like—like—a bird,” said Clarissa magnanimously.

“You couldn’t honestly say ‘like an angel,’” said Julia, and Clarissa shook her head.

How long this unpremeditated performance might have continued no one can say. Before Annabel could recite again the President came forward, announcing firmly that the play was to begin. On Annabel’s face as she withdrew there was a decidedly aggrieved expression. Nevertheless, when she appeared in the play she looked as cheerful as her wont, and said her lines in a melodious voice. Ruth was a middle-aged Englishwoman, with a becoming lace cap. The girl who played a man’s part wore high boots and a long drab coat, the skirts of which came below the tops of her boots.

The setting was good, the dialogue bright, and the audience at last dispersed with the feeling that the whole performance had been a great success.

“Who was that tall girl who passed us?” asked Julia, when the play was over.

“I am sure I do not know, at least I did not notice her.”

“I always feel,” Julia continued, “as if all the Alumnæ are acquainted. But I can see that it would be hard for them all to know one another. The girl that I speak of was tall and rather awkward, and she pushed her way through the crowd without speaking to a soul.”

“Oh, she may have been a friend of some one in the play. Each was allowed to invite a guest from outside. Somebody told me that Annabel Harmon thought that they might have been permitted to ask men.”

“Yes, because she thought that she would look particularly fetching. For a sensible girl, she is certainly almost as vain as they make them.”

“What is the objection to men spectators? The costumes are harmless enough, compared with what they were in my day,” said the graduate.

“Only that it’s against the rule,” replied a Junior. “But in _your_ day the girls who played men’s parts used to wear real clothes, didn’t they?”

“Yes, _real_ clothes,” and all laughed at the undergraduate’s slip.

“Yes, men’s real clothes,” the graduate added, “borrowed usually from some brother or cousin at the University. Really, some girls made up wonderfully like Harvard men.”

“I should like to have seen them. I hate our present stage dress for men; it is neither ancient nor modern.”

“Yet it’s very _proper_!” interposed Clarissa sarcastically. She had just joined the group.

“But why was manly attire given up? Since only girls saw the plays, it couldn’t have done any great harm.”

“Oh, it was a man who spoiled it all, you know; they deserve their reputation of marplots. I can’t vouch for the story, but they say that a Senior who came once to an Open Idler thought it necessary to express his gratification to some one in authority.”

“No one could find fault with that.”

“No, but he was awkward. ‘I’m delighted to be here,’ he said, ‘for I’ve often hoped to visit Radcliffe. My clothes have been here many times at the Idler dramatics, but this is the first opportunity that I have had for coming myself.’”

“What a stupid creature!”

“Well, it seems he had a sister in Radcliffe who was in the habit of borrowing his clothes. He had a rather small and neat figure, and a large wardrobe, so that he could be drawn upon for almost any kind of dress. The rule, however, was made immediately after this speech of his that men’s costumes were not to be worn at our performances, and great was the lamentation.”

“It isn’t as bad as it used to be,” said another; “we can wear a kind of man’s dress now, provided that the coat has a skirt effect. It isn’t exactly an up-to-date costume, but it is fairly picturesque.”

“And to think,” interposed Clarissa, in a tragic tone, “that at the Pudding plays, or indeed at the Cercle Française, or anything else at Harvard, the boys can put on ballet costumes or any dress that a woman might or mightn’t wear.”

“There’s no equality of rights, even in so frivolous a thing as theatricals,” cried one of the girls in mock sorrow. “Why, Polly, why are you so late? You’ve missed some fun.”

“I’m sorry, but I had to go to the City this afternoon. I suppose the play _was_ fun. But I’ve just seen something quite as funny,” and Polly began to smile at the remembrance.

“Oh, tell us, Polly, for if there is anything funny to be seen, you are sure to see it.”

“Well, I met a girl at the head of Garden Street smoking a big meerschaum pipe.”

“That isn’t funny, it’s pathetic!”

“She must have been ashamed, for when she saw me she tried to put the pipe in her pocket.”

“How ridiculous!”

“Then she couldn’t find the pocket, and so she started to put the pipe back in her mouth. It was clear that either she wasn’t used to pipes—or to dresses.”

“Why, Polly!”

“So I asked Frank Everton, who was with me—no, he hadn’t been in town with me, I only met him in the Square—I asked him to follow her into the college grounds. She crossed the street at a trot when she saw us coming, and it seemed to me that she was making for Weld Hall.”

All the girls in the group were now thoroughly interested.

“Consequently I stood at the corner of Appian Way until Frank came back with his report, and—”

Here Polly paused to note the effect of her words.

“Well, well, what was it?” asked the impatient listeners.

“Well, it was Loring Bradshaw. Frank followed him to his room, where he tore off his skirts. He had forgotten that he was masquerading as a woman when he lit his pipe. You see it was in the pocket of the waistcoat which he wore beneath his cape. I had recognized him almost immediately; you know he has a funny little scar under his eye, and then that manly stride! Even in Cambridge you wouldn’t see a girl with a gait like that.”

“But why was he parading in woman’s clothes? Was it a college bet?”

“Oh, I haven’t heard the whole story yet. Frank came back in a hurry because he had left me standing there.”

“What kind of a hat did he wear?” asked Julia with interest. “Was it large and drooping, with yellow roses?”

“The very hat. But I never knew you to take so much interest in a mere hat!”

“And was the cape a black one, with a chenille collar?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then he was here at the play. I wondered who she was. But why in the world did he do it?”

One afternoon soon after this, as Polly and Ruth loitered in the hall they noticed a young man entering the Secretary’s office.

“He’ll find no one there,” said Polly, “for I’ve just been in myself.”

Stepping out of the office door, the visitor happened to see Annabel Harmon crossing his path, and he stopped her, apparently to ask a question.

“I wonder who he is,” said Polly. “Annabel will think herself in luck if he asks her to show him the building. She loves to act as guide, philosopher, and friend to strangers.”

Apparently some such duty had fallen on Annabel, for she and the stranger ascended the stairs toward the Library.

“There,” cried Polly, “I don’t mind Annabel’s being the chief usher at all our social functions, and presenting herself everywhere as the typical Radcliffe girl. But the rest of us know something about the building and its contents—including the students. Why didn’t that youth ask us to show him over the building? In the Secretary’s absence, Annabel will be able to say whatever comes into her head.”

“Aren’t you a little unfair?”

“Perhaps, but I’ll run upstairs. Annabel might not give us a perfectly impartial account. Won’t you come?”

“No, thank you,” replied Ruth, “I was on the point of going home.” So Ruth went home, and Polly mischievously hastened up to the Library. She found Annabel and the stranger looking apparently for some book.

“Oh, Polly,” cried Annabel, “_couldn’t_ you find the Librarian? Mr. Radcliffe, excuse me. Mr. Radcliffe, let me introduce you to Miss Porson.” Polly started at the name, while acknowledging the introduction, and Annabel continued: “Mr. Radcliffe is deeply interested in our college on account of the name. You see he is descended from the same family as our foundress, and he thinks that it would be most interesting to establish some memorial of the family here. Didn’t I understand you to say that you thought of giving a collection of books, or something of that kind?”

Mr. Radcliffe modestly bowed his assent, for Polly broke in before he had time to reply in words. “I shouldn’t exactly call Anne Radcliffe our foundress.”

“Oh, well,” and Annabel’s smile was sweeter than ever, “the college certainly took its name from her, and it seems so interesting to have one of her descendants here.”

“Not exactly a descendant,” interposed Mr. Radcliffe, “but—”

“Oh, one of the family—it’s almost the same thing in these days when every one is so interested in genealogy.”

Although Annabel was always fluent, Polly looked at her in surprise, for she was soon launched on a long account of the origin, rise, and present condition of Radcliffe. Mr. Radcliffe listened attentively, apparently with no inclination to say more than “Yes,” “No,” “Indeed,” “Only fancy,” and the other little things that keep conversation from becoming entirely a monologue. Polly had moved to one side, and from time to time she gave the two a curious glance. Was it imagination, or did she really see a smile on the young man’s face?

Presently as they strolled into the hall, Polly heard Annabel say, “I am really sorry, Mr. Radcliffe, that we have no books relating to your family. To-morrow, however, when the Librarian is here she may find something. Her assistant is rather new to the work.”

“Oh, I can assure you,” the young man responded effusively, “I have been more than repaid for coming. To see the interior of this building is indeed an experience, and under such auspices!” Annabel accepted the compliment with a becoming blush. “She always can blush to order,” one of her critics had been known to say.

Mr. Radcliffe’s next remark was inaudible to Polly, but Annabel’s, “Why, certainly, I will see what I can do,” rang out quite distinctly. Leaving the young man alone for a moment, Annabel went into one of the smaller rooms leading off the hall. In a few minutes she returned.