Part 13

"_Adieu, mon enfant--à plus tard!_" and Suzanne seized the door knob. She turned in the door and threw a quick, piercing look at her handiwork. "If you take my advice, you'll never put on that dreadful shirt-waist again, _très chère_," she said lightly. "You'll spoil all this splendor, if you do. Give it away--or, no, don't! you'd corrupt the taste of the poor--burn it up, and the others with it, and get a black suit and a black silk waist and wear a big white tie, if you like. And a white tam--one of those pussy ones. Wear one color--_c'est plus distingué_--and if you want a big black hat with plumes, I'll make it for you. _Et maintenant, regarde-toi dans la glace!_"

With this invocation they left her, and Biscuits, learning that Suzanne had exhausted her energy and proposed to inform her freshman that she was ill and unable to attend the reception, became possessed by the idea that she was responsible for this particular illustration of the artistic temperament, and went without her dinner to hunt up a substitute. She wasted no time in argument with Suzanne, who lay luxuriously on her couch pillows with her hands under her head, and planned costumes for Evangeline Potts all the evening, but tramped angrily over the campus till quarter of seven to find an unattached sophomore, forgetting that Evangeline's flowers were yet to be purchased. Coming up with them in her hand, a little later, she was forced to stop and explain to the substitute the intricacies of Suzanne's programme, breaking off abruptly to beat her breast like the wedding guest, for she heard the loud bassoon and fled to her room, tearing her evening dress hopelessly and completing her toilette on the stairs. The substitute suffered from a violent headache as the result of her unexpected exertions, and the little freshman cried herself to sleep, for she had dreamed for nights of going with Suzanne, whom she admired to stupefaction.

But of all this Evangeline Potts knew little, and, it may be, cared less. She was one of the successes of the evening, and her few remarks were quoted diligently. She could have danced dozens of extras, had so many been possible, and Biscuits was considered to have displayed more than her ordinary cleverness in procuring a creature so picturesque and distinguished.

This did not surprise her, nor did she particularly resent being pointed out by more than one freshman as "the sophomore that took that stunning Miss Potts"; but her amazement was undisguised, the next morning but one, at the sight of Evangeline walking out from chapel with a prominent junior, the glamor of the evening gone, it is true, her face somewhat heavy and undeniably freckled, but nevertheless an Evangeline transformed. From her fluffy white cap to the hem of her dignified black skirt she was the realization of Suzanne's parting suggestions, and the distinct intention of her costume had its full effect. She was far more impressive than the jolly little short-skirted junior, whose curly yellow hair paled beside the dark richness of Evangeline's massive coils, and Biscuits, remembering that she had called her "a perfect stick," marvelled inwardly.

She went to call on her a little later, but Evangeline was not in; and feeling that her duty was done, Miss Kitts gave no further thought to what she considered an essentially uninteresting person, but devoted herself to a study of the campus house into which she had moved only that year.

She saw Evangeline very rarely after that, except at the dances and plays, where her white shoulders framed in auburn velvet appeared very regularly. Once, happening to sit beside her, she began a conversation, but she could not remember afterward that Miss Potts said anything but, "Yes, indeed," or, "Yes, I think so, too." Her surprise was therefore great when, on hearing the result of the sophomore elections the next fall, and audibly commenting on the oddity of Miss Evangeline Potts in the position of sophomore president, she was indignantly assured by a loyal member of that class that the vote was almost unanimous and that she was one of the ablest girls in the class.

Even this she did not consider long, for the sophomore presidency is the least important of the four; but when among the first five sophomores to be triumphantly ushered into Phi Kappa Psi she was asked to consider the name of Evangeline Potts, she remonstrated.

"But she's not clever! She's not half so bright as lots we haven't got!" she objected. "Why do we want her?"

"She's no prod, of course, but she's a prominent girl and class president," was the answer, "and she's really very strong, I think--they say she does fair work, and everybody but you wants her. Do you really disapprove of her?"

"Oh, no!" said Biscuits, and watched Miss Potts with interest. She received her congratulations quietly, with a manner that made one wonder if they had been quite in good taste, and acted altogether as if she had fully expected to enter the society with Ursula Wyckoff and Dodo Bent. The senior class president took her out of chapel at the head of the file, with a bunch of violets as big as her two fists pinned to her belt, and Biscuits was asked to a supper in her honor in the campus house she had recently entered.

One of the other guests was the little freshman Biscuits had first asked to the sophomore reception, herself a sophomore now, and one of Phi Kappa's first five.

"Was your class surprised at the elections?" asked Biscuits, glancing half unconsciously at Evangeline. The sophomore smiled gently, with a hardly perceptible recognition of Biscuits' look.

"Oh, no," she replied; "we expected them--except, perhaps, one or two." Her polite little blush showed her traditional surprise at her own success, and the junior gave the equally traditional deprecating smile.

"Who's the other?" she inquired bluntly. The sophomore was taken off her guard and glanced again at Evangeline.

"Why, some of us didn't exactly see--we think Alison Greer's terribly bright--we didn't expect--and yet, I don't know! After all, I think perhaps we weren't so awfully surprised!"

"Now, I wonder if you really weren't, or if you're lying?" thought Biscuits, and then, remembering suddenly, "but that's just the way _we_ all talked last year about Evelyn Lyon!"

That summer Evangeline spent in France with Suzanne, who informed Biscuits before they sailed that though she couldn't find out anything about Miss Potts' parents, she had learned of the existence of a well-to-do uncle in New Hampshire who intended leaving quite a little money to his uncommunicative niece--he had given her the money to go abroad.

"She planned it all out, and asked to go with me, and I couldn't well refuse," said Suzanne, "though Brother will be wild with rage--he hates women who are not clever: _il est un peu exigéant, mon frère_."

By senior year Biscuits had very nearly lost track of Suzanne, who left the campus and spent most of her time sketching. Brother had shown some pen-and-ink portraits of hers to a great critic, who had declared that Brother had by no means exhausted the family genius, and Suzanne, heavily bribed, had returned to her last year of durance. The day of the Junior Prom Biscuits received a very French little note inviting her to "_une première vue_," and with the full expectation of a pen-and-ink collection, she confronted Evangeline, glorious in white satin and gold passementerie, with an amber chain and a great amber comb in her hair.

"_Vous rappelez-vous cette première fois, hein?_" Suzanne asked, with a grin. "_Ça date de loin, n'est-ce pas?_" Adding cheerfully, "_L'oncle est mort et nous avons une jolie dot!_"

Biscuits was not surprised to learn that Ursula Wyckoff had moved heaven and earth to get her cousin from Columbia for Evangeline's escort; she had heard how Nan Gillatt actually took her own brother to the Glee Club concert because Evangeline preferred the youth selected by Nan for herself, and she remembered how _she_ had hunted from shop to shop for the velvet that matched that auburn hair. It was not that Evangeline insisted: she did not beg favors. But her habit of receiving a proposition in silence filled one with an irresistible desire to better one's offer, and even the improvement seemed poor in the calm scrutiny of those red-brown eyes.

"What I can't see is, who pushes her!" mused Biscuits.

"Who? who?" repeated Suzanne. "_Par exemple!_ Why, she herself, of course! Who else?"

"But how?" Biscuits persisted. "Now Evelyn made up to everybody so--she earned her way, heaven knows! And Kate Ackley was a sort of legacy--her sister's reputation started her and she was rushed so freshman year that you couldn't blame her for failing to realize what a fool she really is. And the Underhills' coming in with the crowd they did, explains them. But nobody rushes Evangeline particularly--"

"_C'est bien dommage!_" Suzanne interrupted with mock sympathy. "_Seule au monde!_ Don't be an idiot, Biscuits, we _all_ rush her, and we shall--till she begins to see what a bluff she's making! The beauty of Evangeline is, that she fools herself--_mais parfaitement_! She really thinks she's somebody--_voilà tout!_"

"I suppose that's it," assented Biscuits, thoughtfully.

"Ursula," Suzanne remarked oracularly, "is so anxious to please that sometimes she doesn't, and even Susan the Great has her little plans--_mais oui!_ But Mlle. Potts doesn't care a _sou_. It's all one to her, _vous savez_, she agrees with all; and what's the result? _Tout le monde l'admire! C'est toujours comme ça!_"

For some reason or other her large and shapely figure was the most prominent feature of Biscuits' Commencement. She was a junior usher, of course, and in aisles or under lanterns, at Phi Kappa Farewell or Glee Club promenade, her calm, heavy face and deliberate movements attracted Biscuits' eye.

The mob had not appealed to Miss Kitts as a desirable method of dramatic début, and she was, consequently, one of the few seniors in the audience on the night of her class dramatics. Between the acts she wandered down to the door, and caught a bit of conversation among a group of ushers.

"And all Ursula's friends were in the middle aisle, and she begged Evangeline to change, but she wouldn't. Ursula could have had a seat then, with Dick Fosdick's people, and she was frightfully tired, but Evangeline wouldn't."

"Pooh! did you expect she would?"

"Oh, no! She's terribly selfish, of course, but you'd think, considering how nice Ursula's been to her--"

"Oh, my dear! As if _that_ made any difference to Evange--sh, here she is!--What stunning violets, Evangeline! That's your Prom dress, isn't it? It's terribly sweet!"

Evangeline smiled and sank into the seat a little freshman promptly and adoringly vacated for her, and Biscuits went back to her place.

Suzanne stopped in America that summer, and with the promise of five subsequent years in Paris, prolonged her stay till the following June. She went so far as to come up to Northampton to her class reunion, assuring her friends that she had forgotten a few opprobrious epithets in her final anathema and had returned to deliver them in person.

As they stood in the crowd on Ivy Day, watching the snowy procession, the cameras suddenly snapped rapidly all about them and an excited voice murmured: "There she is! Isn't she grand? My dear, she had eleven invitations for the junior entertainment! Martha Sutton took her--" Evangeline Potts walked slowly by.

"And you ought to have seen her Commencement flowers! She had a bathtub full--literally! She wouldn't take 'em out and the tub couldn't be used--"

"She's president of Phi Kapp, I hear," said Biscuits.

"Oh, yes," replied Suzanne, "and on the dramatics committee, you know. She has lots of friends."

"I wonder why," said Biscuits, absently.

"_'Sais pas!_ They're clever girls, too. She knows the pick of the class--but then, she always did, you know."

"I suppose she'll marry money," mused Biscuits, the student of human nature.

"_Du tout!_" Suzanne returned, "she won't care about that. It's clever people she wants--she always went with the clever ones: _elle aime les gens d'esprit_. She's got money enough; she'll marry some clever man who knows the best people and will make her one of them--_vous l'verrez!_"

And the prophecy was fulfilled, for Evangeline very shortly married Walter Endicott, the well-known artist, whose portrait of her in white and gold attracted so much attention at a very recent _Salon_.

THE NINTH STORY

_AT COMMENCEMENT_

IX

AT COMMENCEMENT

I

DRAMATICS

_It is the Saturday night performance of the senior play. The curtain is about to rise. The aisles and back of the house are packed with people struggling for seats; alumnæ and under-class girls who have admission tickets only, are preparing to sit on all the steps; the junior ushers are hopelessly trying to keep back the press. It is to be supposed that the orchestra is playing, judging from the motion of arms and instruments. The lights are suddenly lowered and the curtain rises. The struggle for seats at the back, the expostulations of the ushers, and the comments of the alumnæ and students, who have seen the play twice before and consequently do not feel the need of close attention, completely drown the first words of the scene._

_Back of house. Large and fussy mother, looking daggers at the sophomores squatting beside her, giggling at the useless efforts of a small worried usher to prevent a determined woman, escorted by her apologetic husband, from prancing down into the orchestra circle; and unimportant senior._

_Mother._ What? What? Who is this, Emma? Where are we?

_Emma._ That's Viola, Mother. She's just been shipwrecked, you know.

_Mother._ Oh, she's the heroine. She's the best actor, then?

_Emma._ Dear me, no. Malvolio's 'way by the best. And then Sir Toby and Maria--they're awfully good--you'll see them pretty soon now. I don't care for Viola much. She tries to imitate Ada Rehan--

_Curtain drops on First Scene._

¶ _Orchestra Circle. Handsome, portly father, exceptionally well set up, his wife, and head of department._

_Father, with enthusiasm._ By Jove! Is that a girl, really? You don't say so! Well, well! Sir Toby, eh? Well, well! And who's the little girl? Maria? Did you ever see anything much prettier than she is, Alice?

_His Wife._ She's very charming, certainly.

_Head of Department._ She's about the best of them. A very clever girl. But you ought to see Malvolio! I don't care for Sir Andrew--

_Father._ Alice, look at him! Did you ever see anything so odd? Now I call that clever--I must say I call that clever! To think that's a girl--well, well! See him shiver, Alice! Capital, capital! Do they do this themselves--costumes and acting and ideas and all?

_Head of Department._ They make the costumes, I believe, most of them. Then they have a trainer at the last. It's amazing to me, but as a matter of fact their men's parts are as a rule, considering the proportionate difficulty, you know, much better than their women's. Comedy parts, at that. I've never seen but one woman's part really well done.

_Father._ Really? Now why do you suppose, sir, that is so?

_Head of Department._ I can't say. But they're very artificial women, as a rule. Overtrained, perhaps.

¶ _A group of last year's graduates and two ushers on the platform of the fire-escape upstairs._

_First Graduate._ I suppose you're nearly dead, poor child?

_First Usher._ Heavens! I never slaved so in my life! Did you see Ethel Williams' mother _insist_ on going down into her seat? I don't see how people can be so rude.

_First Graduate._ Going better, to-night, isn't it?

_First Usher._ Goodness, yes! I think it's fine. Don't you? Isn't Dick _simply fine_! There she is! (_A burst of applause as Malvolio and Olivia enter._)

_Second Usher._ Do you know, they say that Kate Ackley thinks it's half for her!

_Second Graduate._ Not really?

_Second Usher._ Yes, really. She is stunning, there's no doubt.

_Second Graduate._ Oh, yes, she's stunning. Is that her own dress?

_Second Usher._ Yes. Her aunt gave it to her. It's liberty satin. But she's a stick, just the same. Do you like Viola?

_Second Graduate, parrying._ She looks very well. I was rather surprised she got it, though.

_Second Usher._ You know Mr. Clark wanted her for Sir Andrew, and she wouldn't. He was very angry, and so was the class. They don't care for Ethel at all. But it was Viola or nothing. She's seen it four times and she thinks she knows it all, they say. I _do_ think she does some parts very well indeed.

_First Usher._ Oh, Miss Underhill, isn't Viola grand? Don't you think she's fine?

_Second Graduate, sweetly._ Yes, indeed. She looks so cunning in that short skirt!

_Curtain falls on First Act._

¶ _Two fathers standing at back._

_First Father, smiling affably._ A great sight, I assure you, sir! All these young girls, and parents, and friends--a proud moment for them! And how well they do! That one that takes the part of Malvolio, now, that Miss Fosdick--pretty smart girl, now, isn't she?

_Second Father._ That's my daughter, sir.

_First Father._ Well, well! I expect you're pretty pleased. You ought to be.

_Second Father, confidentially._ I tell you, sir, I never believed she had it in her, never! Her mother and I were perfectly dumfounded--perfectly. I don't know where she got it from; certainly not from me. And her mother couldn't take part in tableaux, even, she got so nervous.

_First Father._ Just so, just so! Now, I want to tell you something, Mr.--Mr. Fosdick. These colleges for women are a great thing, sir, a great thing! You take my daughter. When she came up here, she was as shy and bashful and helpless as a girl that's an only child could possibly be. Couldn't trust herself an inch alone. Never went away from home alone in her life. Look at her now! She's head of this whole committee: you may have noticed their names on the back of the programme. Costumes, scenery, music, lights, stage properties, scene shifting--all in her hands, as you might say! I slipped up to the stage door, and I begged the young woman there to let me step in and see her a moment. Girls do it all, you know! She was on policeman duty there. But she let me in and I just peeked at Mary, bossing the whole job, as you might say! It was "put this here" and "put that there" and taking hold of the end and dragging it herself, and answering this one's questions and giving that one orders--I tell you, I couldn't believe it! Short skirt and shirt-waist, note-book in her hand--Lord! I wished I had her up at the office with me!

_Second Father._ Then you're Miss Mollie Vanderveer's father?

_First Father._ Yes, sir, James L. Vanderveer.

_Second Father._ Pleased to meet you. 'Lida often speaks of her. She said to her mother and me to-night just as she went down to "be made up," as they call it, that Mollie was a brick and no mistake. It seems she's doing two girls' work to-night.

_First Father._ Yes, one of the committee is sick. After all, it's a pretty hard strain, it seems to me. Mary's pretty strong, but she said to me yesterday that if there had been another performance--

_Curtain rises on Second Act._

¶ _Lobby. College physician and junior usher._

_Physician._ Will you just step over to the drug store across the street and get me some brandy--quickly, please?

_Usher._ Oh, certainly, Dr. Leach!

_Physician._ Here, child, stop! Put on a cloak--are you crazy?

_Usher._ But I'm quite warm, Dr. Leach!

_Physician._ Put on a cloak! With your neck and arms bare! It's damp as a well outside. (_Usher runs out._)

_A ubiquitous member of the faculty suddenly appears._ What's the matter? Anybody sick?

_Physician._ Oh, no! Not much. Miss Jackson was resting in her dressing-room and somebody leaned over the sill and spoke to her--you know she's on the ground floor. She's quite nervous, and she got a little hysterical--slight chill. My brandy was all out, so I--Oh, thank you! (_Usher disappears breathless._)

_Ubiquitous Member of Faculty, gloomily._ I've always said there should be understudies--always. What will they do without their Viola? It's a ridiculous risk--

_Physician, hastily._ But Miss Jackson is all right, or will be as soon as I get--yes, I'm coming! Oh, nonsense!--She's all right: there's no need for an understudy, I assure you!--No, keep them all out! No, she has enough flowers in there now! Yes, keep people away from the window!

¶ _Curtain rises on Third Scene._

_Group of ushers collapsed on stairs leading to gallery._

_Nan._ (_White organdie over rose pink silk; rose ribbons._) Oh, girls, I'm nearly dead!

_Ursula._ (_Black net over electric blue satin; silver belt and high silver comb; black gloves._) There's one good thing, we're downstairs to-night. Last night I got so dizzy hopping up and down those steps--

_Leonora._ (_Yellow liberty silk cut very low; gold fillet; somewhat striking Greek effect._) Oh, what do you think I just did? I was so tired I stumbled just behind the orchestra circle (after I'd shooed that funny woman out of three seats) and I fell almost flat! And the nicest man helped me up and made me take his seat, and who do you think it was? It was Mr. Fosdick. He went and stood back, and I sat a long time then. Wasn't he ducky?

_Sally._ (_White dimity with green ribbons; a yard or more of red-gold hair; babyish face._) Where's your own seat, dear?

_Esther._ (_Pale blue silk with long rope of mock pearls._) Oh, Piggy's given it to her little friend, as usual! It's a great thing to have--(_The door swings open, and the actors' voices are heard_: "There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!" _Another usher comes out._)

_Nan._ How'd the song go? Better?

_Usher._ Oh, grand! They made her do the second verse again. Miss Selbourne says that she's the best all 'round clown they've ever had.

_Sally._ Oh, does she? I heard her tell Dr. Lyman that the plays deteriorated every year--(_Enter another usher._)

_Second Usher._ Girls, you _must_ be quiet! That woman at the back says she can't hear a word--

¶ _Curtain rises on Fourth Scene; applause, as audience takes in stage setting. Row of enthusiastic alumnæ in upper box._

_First Alumna._ (_Happy mother of three; head of sewing circle; leader of the most advanced set in her college days; president of the Anti-Engagement League, junior year._) Oh, girls, did you ever see anything so lovely? How _do_ they manage it? We never imagined anything like it, I'm perfectly willing to admit. Aren't those lords and ladies fine? Why, look at them--there must be forty or fifty! And aren't the costumes beautiful? How handsome Orsino is!

_Second Alumna._ (_Rising journalist; very well dressed; knows all the people of note in the audience; affects a society manner; was known as the Gloomy Genius in her college days, and never talked with any one who didn't read Browning._) Quite professional, really! How that Miss Jackson reminds one of Rehan! I wonder if Daly sends the trainer? That little Maria, now--she's quite unusual. Lovely figure, hasn't she? Elizabeth Quentin Twitchell. Dr. Twitchell of Cambridge, I wonder? Do they set that stage alone?

_Third Alumna._ (_Blonde and gushing; sister in the cast._) You know, that Miss Twitchell was the best Viola, too, they say. Peggy tells me Mr. Clark says he wished she could play them both. She's very popular with the class. But Miss Jackson does everything. Writes, acts, plays basket-ball, beautiful class work--Oh, isn't that sweet! (_Clown and chorus of ladies with mandolins and guitars sing to wild applause._)