COMMENCEMENT
June. The month when all the trees in the city parks are waving soft
green arms and whispering secrets about how beautiful it must be now,
away out in the real country.
Jacquette was thinking of Brookdale, as she walked slowly home after
school; wondering if the birds were singing there, this year, just as
they always had before, every year since she could remember.
Suddenly she quickened her steps. Someone was coming behind her, and
of all things she did not want Bobs to think she was loitering for the
sake of having him walk with her! She turned a corner and set off at a
brisk pace.
“Oh, Jack! Couldn’t you go a little faster?” a voice called.
“Couldn’t you come a little slower?” she laughed, turning and waiting
until he came up, breathless.
“I’ve raced five blocks while you were going one,” he declared, as they
fell into step together. “Had to go over to Ned Woodward’s first, and I
was afraid you’d get away. I have a lecture to give you.”
“Proceed, honourable highness! Don’t you see how meek I look?”
“No, I don’t. I see how pale and tired you look. You’re not the same
girl that came here from Brookdale last fall.”
“A few still like me, though!” put in Jacquette, with a mimic pout.
“A few, indeed! Yes; and my lecture’s no sign I don’t.”
“Please, sir, where is the lecture?”
“Look here, Jack, I’m in earnest. You’re four years younger than I am,
and I’ve been studying your case--you needn’t laugh--and I’ve made up
my mind that you take your sorority too hard, for one thing. You girls
all do. You put it ahead of everything else, and it wears you out. Now,
I’d like to see you make up your mind that next year you’ll spend more
time in gym, and less on sorority business. Why don’t you go in for
basket-ball?”
“Dr. Bobs Drake!” Jacquette mocked, but she liked the lecture, for all
that. “Look at Louise Markham! She’s a sorority girl, and a splendid
student and a picture of radiant health, at the end of her high-school
course. Now, where’s your argument?”
“Jack,” he answered, “I don’t know what the sorority cause is going
to do, next year, when Louise goes off to college. Have you ever
noticed how she’s the one girl that’s always pointed at, to prove that
sororities aren’t harmful? She’s a stunning argument, but I don’t know
another girl anywhere who can carry all the school work and all the
social business she can, and not get fagged. You know very well that,
with most of them, the school work has to go under. Isn’t that so?
Honest, now.”
“What about fraternities?” Jacquette evaded. “You’re a pretty one to
preach, with your pin right there in sight!”
“Oh, boys are different. We have a lot of fun, but we don’t get tragic
over it and have hysterics and nervous prostration the way the girls
do. Do you suppose my fraternity ever kept me from eating three square
meals a day? I don’t believe it has interfered with my studies much,
either, for that matter.”
“If that isn’t just like a boy!” Jacquette retorted. “Fraternities are
all right for them, but sororities are bad for girls! You ask any of
the teachers at Marston, and I’ll wager they’ll tell you there isn’t
much choice between frats and sororities! Anyway, Bobs Drake,” she
added, shifting base with feminine agility, “so far as school work is
concerned, my sorority hasn’t interfered with mine one bit more than
football has with yours.”
“You can’t tell me anything about that,” he admitted. “And I’ve played
my last football, too.”
“You’ve played--your last----?”
“That’s right. I’m going to college on a new basis. The curriculum
requires enough athletics to keep a fellow in trim, and that’s all I’m
going to have, after this. It’s no use pretending that a fellow can do
his best work on his studies when he’s so tired that it’s all he can do
to sit up. I’m face to face with the business of being a man, Jack.”
Jacquette walked a little way, dumb with astonishment.
Bobs Drake forswearing football! She was almost afraid of him! But at
last she turned.
“Robin Sidney Drake!” she said, “You make me so proud of you, I don’t
know how to express it!”
To say that Bobs looked pleased, tells nothing. His whole face beamed.
“My! _You_ make _me_ as happy as a big sun-flower!” he answered,
fervently.
They were almost home, now.
“Robin Sidney Drake,” he repeated, presently. “That’s the way you’ll
have to address the envelopes when I’m at college, next year.”
“What envelopes, sir?”
“Well, I was thinking of mailing you some catalogues, and I hoped you
might acknowledge them.”
They both laughed, the laughter of light-hearted comrades.
“Won’t you come in?” Jacquette asked, holding out her hand for the
books he had been carrying.
“Can’t do it. Have to work on my class prophecy. You got me into
trouble last November, when you made me write that sonnet, young lady.
I’m doing this prophecy in rhyme, and it’s turning my hair grey.”
“I’m wild to hear it! You and Quis will be the only ones to represent
the class, Friday night, won’t you? What are you going to prophesy for
Quis, Bobs?”
“Oh, there was only one thing to do for him. I’ve made him a diplomat,
with a strong prospect of becoming Secretary of State.”
“Good! And Louise?”
“I had a time deciding about Louise. She’s so versatile, she might turn
out to be anything. At first I couldn’t think of one talent that was
more conspicuous than the rest, but I struck it at last. I’m not going
to tell, though. I want to keep it for a surprise. Say, Jack,”--Bobs
had started, but he turned on his heel and came back--“there’s one
thing that bothers me. Quis has never felt right toward me, yet. I
don’t believe anybody else at Marston has anything against me, but he
never looks me in the eye if he can help it. And I care. I want to quit
friends.”
“It’s too bad, Bobs,” she sympathised. “Why can’t he let bygones
be bygones? I think you had as much to forgive as he, after that
‘Fool-killer’ performance. But don’t worry. You’ve done all you could.
Good luck to the prophecy!”
The Assembly room at Marston High School was far from being large
enough for the audience which always attended the graduating
exercises, and the custom was to rent a neighbouring hall for the June
celebration. It was Friday evening, eight o’clock, and every seat in
the hall was filled. On the stage, framed by garlands of green stuff
and roses, sat the principal, the faculty, the graduating class, and
the boys’ and girls’ glee club. Through the open window the soft June
breeze crept in, gently stirring fluffy locks and filmy ruffles.
In the front seats, as usual, there was a picturesque row of Sigma Pi
girls, but their ranks were thinned, that night. Five of them were on
the platform, saying farewell to Marston High. Louise Markham was one
of the five, and, from her seat with the class, she smiled straight
down into the adoring eyes of Jacquette Willard who was almost hidden
behind the mammoth bunch of pink roses she had brought for Louise,
while Aunt Sula, sitting with her white-haired father, watched the
loving looks exchanged between the two girls, and thought regretfully
how much Jacquette would miss Louise’s companionship in the year that
was coming.
Then the piano sounded, and the glee club stood up to sing.
Everything moved like clockwork. Mr. Branch’s remarks were in an
unusually happy vein; the glee club outdid itself; Marquis’s address as
class president was a gem--“worthy of a college graduate,” his hearers
declared--and, last of all, came Robin Sidney Drake, class prophet.
The enthusiasm was uproarious as Bobs took the front of the stage.
Everybody there knew what always happened when Marston’s beloved Bobs
tried to make a speech, and it seemed as if the haunting fear that his
tongue might cleave to the roof of his mouth when he tried to prophesy
kept his audience cheering and cheering to put off the evil moment.
But if that was true, the fears were wasted. Bobs had committed the
prophecy to memory--and he did not forget.
Perhaps it was because they were surprised at his ability to speak,
at all, that his prophecy seemed so good; perhaps it really was a
wonderful piece of wit. In either case, he kept his hearers convulsed
with merriment from the first word to the last. All over the house,
solemn faces broadened into grins; tears rolled down the cheeks of
dignified teachers; and it was only by the greatest effort that anyone
stopped laughing, after each sally, long enough to let him pronounce
the next.
The principal, the teachers, the members of the class, had been told
off in the prophecy, until Louise Markham was the only one left. Bobs
paused abruptly and glanced in her direction. Then he said to the
audience in a confidential tone:
“Wouldst know how future years shall celebrate Miss Markham’s name?
She’ll have to sell that laugh to phonographs;
Its rippling cadences must surely bring her endless fame,
For,--list a moment, while Louisa laughs!”
He turned, and flourished his hand toward Louise, with the air of a
showman. There was a second of absolute silence. Then, as the drollery
of the situation flashed upon her, the red lips parted, and out
bubbled the irresistible laugh!
Bobs made a low bow of gratitude to her, another to the audience, and
modestly took his seat, amid shouts of laughter and rounds of applause.
It was a long time before Mr. Branch could quiet the audience, for it
seemed as if the event of the evening had taken place, but when people
finally caught a hint of what he was trying to say, they leaned forward
and listened, eagerly enough.
He was about to present the University scholarship, which was carried
off each year by the brightest star of the graduating class, and he
was explaining, as he always did, that it was awarded, not only in
recognition of good scholarship, but of exemplary deportment during all
the four years of high-school work.
Most of the pupils who knew the history of Marquis Granville’s last
year at Marston thought they remembered one good reason why he should
not get that scholarship, and yet, somehow, in spite of this, they all
expected that his name would be the one pronounced. Instead, to their
surprise, they saw the principal, in closing, step forward toward Bobs
Drake,--no, past Bobs Drake. He laid the precious document in the
small, white hands of Louise Edwina Markham.
Nobody had expected it, and yet, as soon as it had happened, everybody
felt that it was the right ending to the story--and everybody proceeded
to express that feeling. The blood rushed to Louise’s cheeks and her
dark eyes shone, but she kept a sweet composure through all the long
hand-clapping and until the last word of the closing song was sung and
the end of the programme announced.
At that instant, Jacquette, her face glowing with pride and gladness,
made a dash for Louise, but, oddly enough, before she could reach her
idol, she came face to face with Quis and Bobs, who happened to be
crowded close together in the confusion following dismissal.
Both boys saw her coming, and, each taking it for granted that she was
rushing straight toward him, held out his hand. Like a flash, before
either could feel his mistake, the quick-witted girl caught both hands,
one in her right and the other in her left.
“Boys, you were splendid! You were glorious!” she cried, straight from
her heart. “Quis, your address was great; and Bobs----”
The words failed, for, suddenly, she felt the barrier of constraint
between the boys, and, with a swift impulse, not stopping to fear
consequences, she drew their two right hands together, and darted one
appealing glance at Quis.
This time he did not fail her.
“Yes, old man, you’re the one to be congratulated,” he cried, grasping
Bobs’s hand so quickly that Jacquette’s part was almost lost. “My
speech was an everyday oration, but that prophecy of yours was a stroke
of genius. We’re all proud of it, I tell you!”
Bobs’s face lighted up. He tried to speak, but, before the words could
form, his blue eyes had said it all, and Jacquette, standing close to
them both, murmured, with a tremble in her voice,
“Oh, boys--I’m so glad!”
At that moment, the gentle fingers of Mademoiselle Dubois were laid on
the clasped hands of the two young men.
“My little peacocks!” she said caressingly, with a quick, understanding
glance from one to the other. “I am ravished to see the heroes of the
evening clasping hands!”
“Bobs Drake, you sinner!” struck in a merry voice from over Jacquette’s
shoulder. “How dared you? And to think that I should help you to
disgrace me in my last moments at Marston! I acted just like a trained
animal!”
“Louise! Louise! That scholarship!” Jacquette half-shrieked, whirling
around and venting her deferred congratulations in a smothering
embrace. “Here come the Sigma Pi girls to hug you! Look out for
yourself!”
With the Sigma Pi girls came the fond mothers and fathers, the
grandfathers and Aunt Sulas, the Uncle Macs and Aunt Fannys, the
brothers and sisters, and all the rest of the proud, happy friends.
Everybody’s face was covered with smiles; everybody’s voice was bright
with gladness; but, through all those blithesome moments, in the depths
of one girl’s heart, was running an undercurrent of feeling that no one
guessed.
She kept it hidden until she and Aunt Sula were quite alone at home.
Then she put both hands on the little woman’s shoulders, and said, in a
low voice.
“Tia, I saw you when they gave Louise that scholarship. I saw the look
on your face. It was just a look of yearning envy, and Tia--don’t deny
it!--it was because you knew my first year’s marks were so low that I
couldn’t get the scholarship, now, no matter how I might try, the rest
of the time. There isn’t any chance to get it, now, and oh--the reason
I feel the worst is because I can’t help knowing that my sorority has
lost me the chance!”
She hid her face on Aunt Sula’s shoulder. “I don’t know how Louise ever
managed to be a sorority girl and a good student, too,” she murmured.
“The rest of us can’t. Tia, I believe I’d give up anything if I could
only get back the chance of winning that scholarship--for you!”
Aunt Sula patted her tenderly. “There’s something I care for more than
scholarships, Jacquette,” she said, cheerily, “and you haven’t lost
your chance for that. It’s the development of character; learning
to see things in their relative proportions--and to choose the best
things. That stands before high marks, I think, though high marks are
almost sure to be a part of it.”
There was silence for a minute; then Jacquette lifted her face. “Do
you mean,” she asked, doubtfully, “that if I were to try just as hard,
in studies and deportment, from now on, as if I were working for that
scholarship with a real chance of winning, it would be worth as much as
the scholarship itself, to you?”
“More!”
Jacquette’s hand moved toward her heart, and drew back, irresolute.
“Tia,” she begged, her voice breaking, “do you believe it’s actually
true, as the girls say, that if I resign from Sigma Pi, I won’t have
any friends in school--not one?”
She stood, in the white gown she had worn that evening, all unconscious
of the commanding power of her youth and sweetness, and the little
woman who loved her with a great love, looked up into her face. “No,”
she answered emphatically. “It is not true!”
Slowly, Jacquette’s hand moved again to the Sigma Pi pin on her breast,
unclasped it, and held it in her hand.
“I’ve made up my mind to do it,” she said.