CHAPTER VII

Sally graduated from her school in the following June. Of all the persons immediately concerned in that affair, even including Sally herself, I am inclined to believe that Mr. Hazen was the most acutely interested. He was not excited over it. A man of his age does not easily get excited, even if he is of an excitable disposition, which Mr. Hazen was not; but there is reason to think that he had all the hopes and fears which Sally ought to have had, but of which she gave no sign. She had confidence in herself and had no doubts to speak of. At any rate, she did not speak of any, but took the whole thing as a matter of course and one to be gone through with in its due season. For that matter, nobody suspected Mr. Hazen of harboring fears, although it was taken for granted that he had hopes. He gave no outward sign of perturbation, and his fondness for Sally was no secret.

There was never, at that school, any long period without its little diversions. Jane Spencer, to be sure, was in the graduating class and his behavior had been most exemplary for some months; but there was no such inhibition on the behavior of Ollie Pilcher and the Carlings. The Carlings appeared one morning with grotesquely high collars, at the sight of which a titter ran about the schoolroom. The Carlings preserved an admirable gravity. Mr. MacDalie looked up, eyed the twins with marked displeasure, but said nothing, and the titter gradually faded out. The Carlings were aggrieved and felt that they had been guilty of a failure. So they had, in a measure, and Sally could not help feeling sorry for them. She reflected that Jane would never have done anything of that kind. Jane would never have made a failure of anything that he undertook, either. Jane would not have done what Ollie Pilcher did, later, although that effort of Ollie's was a conspicuous success, after its kind.

It was the fashion, among certain of the boys, to have their hair clipped when the warm weather came on. Everett Morton had never had it done, nor had Dick Torrington, nor did Jane Spencer. They were not in the clipped-hair caste. But Ollie Pilcher was; and it was no surprise to the other boys when, a week before school closed, Ollie came with clipped hair showing below his cap. He was just in time, and he went at once and in haste to the schoolroom, removing his cap as he entered the door. The bell in Mr. MacDalie's hand rang as he took his seat.

Mr. MacDalie was not looking at Ollie, as it happened, but those behind Ollie could not help seeing him. A ripple of laughter started; it grew as more of those present caught sight of him. Mr. MacDalie saw him. He chuckled wildly and the laughter swelled into a roar. Rising from the top of Ollie's head of clipped hair was a diminutive braided lock about three inches long, tied with a bow of narrow red ribbon. And Ollie did not even smile while Mr. MacDalie was wiping his eyes before him. His self-control was most admirable.

The laughter finally subsided, for the time being, sufficiently to permit King Ahasuerus and Queen Esther and Mordecai and Haman to hold their audience spellbound for five minutes. That same audience had been held spellbound by that same story throughout the whole of the year just past and through other years; for Mr. MacDalie, for some reason known only to himself and which Sally had tried in vain to guess, had confined his reading so completely to the Book of Esther that his hearers knew the book pretty nearly by heart.

Although an unnatural solemnity prevailed through the reading, the laughter would break out afresh at intervals during the morning. Mr. MacDalie himself resolutely avoided looking in Ollie's direction as long as he remembered. But he would forget, becoming absorbed in his teaching, and his eye would light upon Ollie; and forthwith he would fall to chuckling wildly and to wiping his eyes, and be unable to continue for some minutes. He said nothing to Ollie, however, although that youngster expected a severe reprimand, at least. It is not unlikely that that was the very reason why he did not get it. The next day the braided lock was gone.

These were mere frivolities, perhaps unworthy of being recorded; and there may seem to be an undue prominence given to mental comparisons with Jane. But just at this time there was a good deal of Jane in everything, and whatever was done by anybody naturally suggested to Sally a comparison with what Jane would do. Sally was not without her share of romance, which was, perhaps, more in evidence at this age than at any other. She was just past sixteen, and she happened to be devoted, at this period, to her English history. She is to be excused for her flights of imagination, in which she saw Jane's ancestry traced back, without a break, to the beginning of the fourteenth century; and if the two Spencers of that time were not very creditable ancestors, why, history sometimes distorts things, and if Edward II had chanced to prevail over his wife and son, its verdict might have been different. Jane was not responsible for his ancestors anyway.

Everybody was present at the graduation exercises; everybody, that is, of consequence in Whitby who was not prevented from being present by illness. I allude more especially to the older generation, to the generation of parents. All the mothers, not only of the members of the graduating class, but of any members of any class and even of prospective members, were there because they liked to be; the fathers were there because they thought they ought to be. And there were many besides, of a different generation, who were there for one reason or another. Mr. Hazen was one of these and Everett Morton was another.

It was easy to account for Mr. Hazen's presence, but not so easy to account for Everett's, except that he was not doing much of anything and thought the exercises might prove to be a diversion. Everett spent his time, for the most part, in the pursuit of diversion. He was through college. That does not mean that he had graduated, but, as he said, it meant that he had left it in his sophomore year, upon the breaking-out of the Spanish War, to volunteer; and after a hollow and bloodless campaign in Porto Rico, he had returned, well smeared with glory. Fortunately--or unfortunately, as you look at it--he had escaped the camps. He did not think it worth while to go back to college, and between ourselves, the faculty agreed with him completely. It was the only instance of such agreement in the history of their connection. Then he had got a place in a broker's office which he held for a year and a half, but he had found it not to his liking and he had given it up. Then came a long interval when his only occupation seemed to be the pursuit of diversion. This was in the interval. No doubt he managed to capture, occasionally, the elusive diversion which he pursued so persistently, and no doubt, too, it was of much the kind that is usual in such cases; but, one would think, he found the pursuit of it an occupation more strenuous than that of the broker's office.

Dick could not come, for he was to have a graduation of his own in a short time; in fact, it was hardly more than a few days. But he sent Sally a little note, regretting that he could not be present and wishing her luck; and further and more important, he asked if she and her mother or Miss Patty or all of them would not come up to Cambridge for his Class Day.

Sally had got Dick's note just as they were starting. She handed it to her mother, her gray eyes soft with pleasure--as they had got into the habit of being, these last few years.

"See, mother, dear," she said, "what Dick has asked. Do you suppose we can go, mother, or would it be too much for you? I should like to go."

Mrs. Ladue smiled fondly at her daughter. "Of course you would, darling. I'll see what Patty says, but I guess you can go. Perhaps, if Patty doesn't want to, I can get Doctor Beatty to let me. I believe I should like it myself. Now, don't let the prospect make you forget your part."

"No danger," replied Sally reassuringly. "Now I must run."

Sally had the valedictory, or whatever it is to which the first scholar in the class is entitled. I am not versed in such matters, not having been concerned, at my graduation, with the duties or the privileges of the first scholar of the class. But Sally had kept her place at the head of a dwindling class with no difficulty and Mr. MacDalie expected great things of her. She acquitted herself as well as was expected, which is saying a good deal; and after the exercises were over, she went out with Jane Spencer, leaving her mother and Uncle John and Mr. MacDalie talking together. Patty was talking with Doctor Beatty, who had come in late.

Patty glanced up at Doctor Beatty with a smile. "Does that remind you of anything?" she asked gently, nodding in Sally's direction.

It is to be feared that the doctor was not paying attention. "What?" He brought his chair and his gaze down together. He had been tilting back in the chair and looking at the ceiling. "What? Sally? Her foot, perhaps,--but that's all right years ago and it isn't likely that you meant that. No, Patty, I give it up. What's the answer?"

Miss Patty was disappointed. Perhaps she ought to have got used to being disappointed by Meriwether Beatty, by this time, but she hadn't. She sighed a little.

"No, I didn't mean her foot. I meant her wandering off with Eugene Spencer. He's the handsomest boy in the class. Doesn't it remind you of--of our own graduation and our wandering away--so?"

The doctor roared. "That was a good many years ago, Patty." It was unkind of him to remind her of that. "You couldn't expect me to remember the circumstances. I believe I am losing my memory; from old age, Patty, old age." That was more unkind still, for Patty was but a few months younger than he, and he knew it and she knew that he knew it. "So we wandered away, did we?"

Sally did not hear this conversation, for she was already halfway downstairs with Jane. Neither of them had spoken.

"Jane," she said suddenly.

A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. "Sally," he mildly protested, "I wish you wouldn't call me Jane--if you don't mind."

"Why," returned Sally in surprise, "don't you like it? I supposed you did. Of course I won't call you by a name you don't like. I'm very sorry. Eugene, then?"

"If you will. It's rather better than Jane, but it's bad enough."

Sally laughed. "You're hard to please. How would it do for me to call you Hugh--or Earl Spencer. Or, no. I'd have to call you your Grace." She stopped and made him a curtsy; Jane was not to be outdone and, although taken somewhat off his guard, he made her a bow with as much grace as even Piers Gaveston could have put into it.

"Your Highness does me too much honor," he replied solemnly; and they both laughed from sheer high spirits. "No, Sally, you're wrong," he added. "The old gentleman was no relative of mine. But I believe I interrupted you. What were you going to say--right first off, you know, when I asked you not to call me Jane?"

"I was going to tell you that Dick Torrington has asked me to go up for his Class Day."

"Dick Torrington!" exclaimed Jane, mystified. "Why, Sally, he's ever so much older than you."

"Now, Jane, what has--I beg your pardon,--Eugene, but it's hard to remember. But, Eugene, what has the difference in age to do with it? It has never seemed to make any difference to Dick. You know that he's as kind as he can be and probably he just thought that I would enjoy it."

They had passed through the crowded corridor--crowded because, in one of the rooms on that floor, there was in preparation what the papers would call a modest collation--and they were out in the yard. Jane stopped short and looked at Sally with a puzzled expression.

"I wonder, Sally," he said slowly, "if you know--but you evidently don't," he added. He seemed relieved at the result of his inspection. "Of course you'll go, but I can't help wishing you wouldn't."

"Why?" she asked. "I mean to go if I can. Why would you rather I wouldn't?"

He hesitated for some moments. "I don't know that I can tell you. Perhaps you'll understand sometime. Hello! What do you suppose they've got?"

Ollie Pilcher and the Carlings passed rapidly across their line of vision.

"Furtive sort of manner," continued Jane hurriedly. "I'll bet they're hiding something. Let's see what it is. What do you say, Sally?"

Sally nodded and they ran, coming upon the three suddenly. The Carlings started guiltily and seemed about to say something; but although they had opened their mouths, no speech issued.

"Sing it, you twins. What have you got? Come, pony up. We spotted you. Or perhaps you want the free-lunch committee to swoop down on you."

If Sally had not been there the result might have been different. No doubt Jane had made allowance for the moral effect of her presence. The Carlings, severally, were still her slaves; or they would have been if she had let them. They grinned sheepishly and Horry drew something from under his jacket. It was done up in paper, but there was no mistaking it.

Jane reached forth an authoritative hand. Ollie remonstrated. "I say, Jane,--"

"Filcher," remarked Jane, "for filcher you are, although you may have persuaded these poor innocent boys to do the actual filching--Filcher, you'd better suspend further remarks. Otherwise I shall feel obliged to divide this pie into quarters instead of fifths. Quarters are much easier. It is a pie, I feel sure; a squash pie, I do not doubt. Is it quarters or fifths, Filcher?"

As Jane was in possession of the pie, Ollie thought it the part of discretion to compromise. A clump of lilacs hid them from the schoolhouse, and Jane divided the pie, which proved to be filled with raisins, into five parts with his knife.

"I wish to congratulate you, Horry, upon your excellent care of this pie in transit." He passed the plate to Horry as he spoke. "No, this is your piece, Horry. That piece is destined for me. In view of the unavoidable inequality of the pieces, we will give Filcher the plate."

Sally was chuckling as she ate her piece of pie, which she held in her hand.

"Th--th--this w--w--weath--ther's t--t--terrible h--h--hard on p--p--pies," observed Horry thoughtfully, after a long silence.

"It w--w--wouldn't k--k--keep," said Harry, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

"It wouldn't," Jane agreed.

Ollie was scraping the plate. "Can't get any more out of that plate," he sighed at last; and he scaled the tin plate into an inaccessible place between the lilacs and the fence.

They moved away slowly. "I wonder," Jane remarked, reflectively, "who sent that pie."

Sally chuckled again. "Cousin Patty sent it," she said.