BLURRED WINDOWS
With Sylvia's life in college we have little to do, but a few notes we
must make now that she has reached her sophomore year. She had never
known girls until she went to college and she had been the shyest of
freshmen, the least obtrusive of sophomores.
She had carried her work from the start with remarkable ease and as the
dragons of failure were no longer a menace she began to give more heed
to the world about her. She was early recognized as an earnest,
conscientious student whose work in certain directions was brilliant;
and as a sophomore her fellows began to know her and take pride in her.
She was relieved to find herself swept naturally into the social
currents of the college. She had been afraid of appearing stiff or
priggish, but her self-consciousness quickly vanished in the broad,
wholesome democracy of college life. The best scholar in her class, she
was never called a grind and she was far from being a frump. The wisest
woman in the faculty said of Sylvia: "That girl with her head among the
stars has her feet planted on solid ground. Her life will count." And
the girlhood that Sylvia had partly lost, was recovered and prolonged.
It was a fine thing to be an American college girl, Sylvia realized, and
the varied intercourse, the day's hundred and one contacts and small
excitements, meant more to her than her fellow students knew. When there
was fun in the air Sylvia could be relied upon to take a hand in it. Her
allowance was not meagre and she joined zestfully in such excursions as
were possible, to concerts, lectures, and the theatre. She had that
reverence for New England traditions that is found in all young
Westerners. It was one of her jokes that she took two Boston girls on
their first pilgrimage to Concord, a joke that greatly tickled John
Ware, brooding in his library in Delaware Street.
A few passages from her letters home are illuminative of these college
years. Here are some snap-shots of her fellow students:--
"I never knew before that there were so many kinds of people in the
world--girls, I mean. All parts of the country are represented, and
I suppose I shall always judge different cities and states by the
girls they send here. There is a California freshman who is quite
tall, like the redwood trees, I suppose. And there is a little girl
in my class--she seems little--from Omaha who lives on a hilltop
out there where she can see the Missouri River--and when her father
first settled there, Indians were still about. She is the nicest
and gentlest girl I know, and yet she brings before me all those
pioneer times and makes me think how fast the country has grown.
And there is a Virginia girl in my corridor who has the most
wonderful way of talking, and there's history in that, too,--the
history of all the great war and the things you fought for; but I
was almost sorry to have to let her know that you fought on the
other side, but I _did_ tell her. I never realized, just from books
and maps, that the United States is so big. The girls bring their
local backgrounds with them--the different aims and traits. . . . I
have drawn a map of the country and named all the different states
and cities for the girls who come from them, but this is just for
my own fun, of course. . . . I never imagined one would have
preferences and like and dislike people by a kind of instinct,
without really knowing them, but I'm afraid I do it, and that all
the rest of us do the same. . . . Nothing in the world is as
interesting as people--just dear, good folksy people!"
The correspondence her dormitory neighbors carried on with parents and
brothers and sisters and friends impressed her by its abundance; and she
is to be pardoned if she weighed the letters, whose home news was quoted
constantly in her hearing, against her own slight receipts at the
college post-office. She knew that every Tuesday morning there would be
a letter from her grandfather. Her old friend Dr. Wandless sent
occasionally, in his kindly humorous fashion, the news of Buckeye Lane
and the college; and Mrs. Owen wrote a hurried line now and then,
usually to quote one of John Ware's sayings. The minister asked about
Sylvia, it seemed. These things helped, but they did not supply the
sympathy, of which she was conscious in countless ways, between her
fellow students and their near of kin. With the approach of holiday
times, the talk among her companions of the homes that awaited them, or,
in the case of many, of other homes where they were to visit, deepened
her newly awakened sense of isolation. Fathers and mothers appeared
constantly to visit their daughters, and questions that had never
troubled her heart before arose to vex her. Why was it, when these other
girls, flung together from all parts of the country, were so blest with
kindred, that she had literally but one kinsman, the grandfather on whom
all her love centred?
It should not be thought, however, that she yielded herself morbidly to
these reflections, but such little things as the receipt of gifts, the
daily references to home affairs, the photographs set out in the girls'
rooms, were not without their stab. She wrote to Professor Kelton:--
"I wish you would send me your picture of mother. I often wondered
why you didn't give it to me; won't you lend it to me now? I think
it is put away in your desk in the library. Almost all the girls
have pictures of their families--some of them of their houses and
even the horse and dog--in their rooms. And you must have a new
picture taken of yourself--I'd like it in your doctor's gown, that
they gave you at Williams. It's put away in the cedar chest in the
attic--Mary will know where. And if you have a picture of father
anywhere I should like to have that too."
She did not know that when this reached him--one of the series of
letters on which the old gentleman lived these days, with its Wellesley
postmark, and addressed in Sylvia's clear, running hand, he bowed his
white head and wept; for he knew what was in the girl's heart--knew and
dreaded this roused yearning, and suffered as he realized the arid
wastes of his own ignorance. But he sent her the picture of her mother
for which she asked, and had the cottage photographed with Mills Hall
showing faintly beyond the hedge; and he meekly smuggled his doctor's
gown to the city and sat for his photograph. These things Sylvia proudly
spread upon the walls of her room. He wrote to her--a letter that cost
him a day's labor:--
"We don't seem to have any photograph of your father; but things
have a way of getting lost, particularly in the hands of an old
fellow like me. However, I have had myself taken as you wished, and
you can see now what a solemn person your grandfather is in his
_toga academica_. I had forgotten I had that silk overcoat and I am
not sure now that I didn't put the hood on wrong-side-out! I'm a
sailor, you know, and these fancy things stump me. The photographer
didn't seem to understand that sort of millinery. Please keep it
dark; your teachers might resent the sudden appearance in the halls
of Wellesley of a grim old professor _emeritus_ not known to your
faculty."
The following has its significance in Sylvia's history and we must give
it place--this also to her grandfather:--
"The most interesting lecture I ever heard (except yours!) was
given at the college yesterday by Miss Jane Addams, of Hull House,
the settlement worker and writer on social reforms. She's such a
simple, modest little woman that everybody loved her at once. She
made many things clear to me that I had only groped for before. She
used an expression that was new to me, 'reciprocal obligations,'
which we all have in this world, though I never quite thought of it
before. She's a college woman herself, and feels that all of us who
have better advantages than other people should help those who
aren't taught to climb. It seems the most practical idea in the
world, that we should gather up the loose, rough fringes of society
and weave the broken threads into a common warp and woof. The
social fabric is no stronger than its weakest thread. . . . To help
and to save for the sheer love of helping and saving is the noblest
thing any of us can do--I feel that. This must be an old story to
you; I'm ashamed that I never saw it all for myself. It's as though
I had been looking at the world through a blurred window, from a
comfortable warm room, when some one came along and brushed the
pane clear, so that I could see the suffering and hardship outside,
and feel my own duty to go out and help."
Professor Kelton, spending a day in the city, showed this to Mrs. Owen
when she asked for news of Sylvia. Mrs. Owen kept the letter that John
Ware might see it. Ware said: "Deep nature; I knew that night she told
me about the stars that she would understand everything. You will hear
of her. Wish she would come here to live. We need women like that."
Professor Kelton met Sylvia in New York on her way home for the holidays
in her freshman year and they spent their Christmas together in the
cottage. She was bidden to several social gatherings in Buckeye Lane;
and to a dance in town. She was now Miss Garrison, a student at
Wellesley, and the good men and women at Madison paid tribute to her new
dignity. Something Sylvia was knowing of that sweet daffodil time in the
heart of a girl before the hovering swallows dare to fly.
In the midyear recess of her sophomore year she visited one of her new
friends in Boston in a charming home of cultivated people. The following
Easter vacation her grandfather joined her for a flight to New York and
Washington, and this was one of the happiest of experiences. During the
remainder of her college life she was often asked to the houses of her
girl friends in and about Boston; her diffidence passed; she found that
she had ideas and the means of expressing them. The long summers were
spent at the cottage in the Lane; she saw Mrs. Owen now and then with
deepening attachment, and her friend never forgot to send her a
Christmas gift--once a silver purse and a twenty-dollar gold piece;
again, a watch--always something carefully chosen and practical.
Sylvia arranged to return to college with two St. Louis girls after her
senior Christmas, to save her grandfather the long journey, for he had
stipulated that she should never travel alone. By a happy chance Dan
Harwood, on his way to Boston to deliver an issue of telephone bonds in
one of Bassett's companies, was a passenger on the same train, and he
promptly recalled himself to Sylvia, who proudly presented him as a Yale
man to her companions. A special car filled with young collegians from
Cincinnati and the South was later attached to the train, and Dan,
finding several Yalensians in the company, including the year's football
hero, made them all acquainted with Sylvia and her friends. It was not
till the next day that Dan found an opportunity for personal talk with
Sylvia, but he had already been making comparisons. Sylvia was as well
"put up" as any of the girls, and he began to note her quick changes of
expression, the tones of her voice, the grace of her slim, strong hands.
He wanted to impress himself upon her; he wanted her to like him.
"News? I don't know that I can give you any news. You probably know that
Mrs. Owen went to Fraserville for Christmas with the Bassetts? Let me
see, you do know the Bassetts, don't you?"
"Yes. I was at Waupegan three summers ago at Mrs. Owen's, and Mrs.
Bassett and all of them were very good to me."
"You probably don't know that I'm employed by Mr. Bassett. He has an
office in Indianapolis where I'm trying to be a lawyer and I do small
jobs for him. I'm doing an errand for him now. It will be the first time
I've been east of the mountains since I left college, and I'm going to
stop at New Haven on my way home to see how they're getting on without
me. By the way, you probably know that Marian is going to college?"
"No; I didn't know it," exclaimed Sylvia. "But I knew her mother was
interested and I gave her a Wellesley catalogue. That was a long time
ago!"
"That was when you were visiting Mrs. Owen at Waupegan? I see, said the
blind man!"
"What do you see?" asked Sylvia.
"I see Mrs. Bassett and Marian, niece and grandniece respectively, of
Aunt Sally Owen; and as I gaze, a stranger bound for college suddenly
appears on Mrs. Owen's veranda, in cap and gown. Tableau!"
"I don't see the picture," Sylvia replied, though she laughed in spite
of herself.
"I not only see," Dan continued, "but I hear the jingle of red, red
gold, off stage."
This was going a trifle too far. Sylvia shook her head and frowned.
"That isn't fair, Mr. Harwood, if I guess what you mean. There's no
reason why Marian shouldn't go to college. My going has nothing to do
with it. You have misunderstood the whole matter."
"Pardon me," said Dan quickly. "I mean no unkindness to any of them.
They are all very good to me. It's too bad, though, that Marian's
preparation for college hadn't been in mind until so recently. It would
save her a lot of hard digging now. I see a good deal of the family; and
I'm even aware of Marian's doings at Miss Waring's school. Master
Blackford beguiles me into taking him to football games, and I often go
with all of them to the theatre when they're in town. Mr. Bassett is
very busy, and he doesn't often indulge himself in pleasures. He's the
kind of man whose great joy is in work--and he has many things to look
after."
"You are a kind of private secretary to the whole family, then; but you
work at the law at the same time?"
Harwood's face clouded for a moment; she noticed it and was sorry she
had spoken; but he said immediately:--
"Well, I haven't had much time for the law this winter. I have more
things to do outside than I had expected. But I fear I need prodding;
I'm too prone to wander into other fields. And I'm getting a good deal
interested in politics. You know Mr. Bassett is one of the leading men
in our state."
"Yes, I had learned that; I suppose he may be Senator or Governor some
day. That makes it all the more important that Marian should be fitted
for high station."
"I don't know that just that idea has struck her!" he laughed, quite
cheerful again. "It's too bad it can't be suggested to her. It might
help her with her Latin. She tells me in our confidences that she thinks
Latin a beast. It's my rôle to pacify her. But a girl must live up to
her mother's ambitions, and Mrs. Bassett is ambitious for her children.
And then there's always the unencumbered aunt to please into the
bargain. Mrs. Owen is shrewd, wise, kind. Since that night I saw you
there we've become pals. She's the most stimulating person I ever knew.
She has talked to me about you several times"--Dan laughed and looked
Sylvia in the eyes as though wondering how far to go--"and if you're not
the greatest living girl you have shamefully fooled Mrs. Owen. Mr. Ware,
the minister, came in one evening when I was there and I never heard
such praise as they gave you. But I approved of it."
"Oh, how nice of you!" said Sylvia, in a tone so unlike her that Dan
laughed outright.
"You are the embodiment of loyalty; but believe me, I am a loyal person
myself. Please don't think me a gossip. Marian's mother still hopes to
land her in college next year, but she's the least studious of beings; I
can't see her doing it. Mrs. Bassett's never quite well, and that's been
bad for Marian. College would be a good thing for her. I've seen many
soaring young autocrats reduced to a proper humility at New Haven, and I
dare say you girls have your own way of humbling a proud spirit."
"I don't believe Marian needs humbling; one can't help liking her; and
she's ever so good to look at."
"She's certainly handsome," Dan admitted.
"She's altogether charming," said Sylvia warmly; "and she's young--much
younger than I am, for example."
"How old is young, or how young is old? I had an idea that you and she
were about the same age."
"You flatter me! I'm nearly four years older! but I suppose she seems
much more grown-up, and she knows a great many things I don't."
"I dare say she does!" Dan laughed. And with this they turned to other
matters.
Dan sat facing her, hat in hand, and as the train rushed through the
Berkshires Sylvia formed new impressions of him. She saw him now as a
young man of affairs, with errands abroad--this in itself of
significance; and he had to do with politics, a subject that had begun
to interest Sylvia. The cowlick where his hair parted kept a stubborn
wisp of brown hair in rebellion, and it shook amusingly when he spoke
earnestly or laughed. His gray eyes were far apart and his nose was
indubitably a big one. He laughed a good deal, by which token one saw
that his teeth were white and sound. Something of the Southwestern drawl
had survived his years at New Haven, but when he became earnest his eyes
snapped and he spoke with quick, nervous energy, in a deep voice that
was a little harsh. Sylvia had heard a great deal about the brothers and
young men friends of her companions at college and was now more
attentive to the outward form of man than she had thought of being
before.
When they reached Boston, Harwood took Sylvia and her companions to
luncheon at the Touraine and put them on their train for Wellesley. His
thoughtfulness and efficiency could not fail to impress the young women.
He was an admirable cavalier, and Sylvia's companions were delighted
with him. He threatened them with an early visit to college, suggesting
the most daring possibilities as to his appearance. He repeated, at
Sylvia's instigation, the incident of the hearse horses at Poughkeepsie,
with new flourishes, and cheerfully proposed a cousinship to all of
them.
"Or, perhaps," he said, when he had found seats for them and had been
admonished to leave, "perhaps it would be more in keeping with my great
age to become your uncle. Then you would be cousins to each other and we
should all be related."
Speculations as to whether he would ever come kept the young women
laughing as they discussed him. They declared that the meeting on the
train had been by ulterior design and they quite exhausted the fun of it
upon Sylvia, who gained greatly in importance through the encounter with
Harwood. She was not the demure young person they had thought her; it
was not every girl who could produce a personable young man on a railway
journey.
Sylvia wondered much about Marian and dramatized to herself the girl's
arrival at college. It did not seem credible that Mrs. Bassett was
preparing Marian for college because she, Sylvia Garrison, was enrolled
there. Sylvia was kindly disposed toward all the world, and she resented
Harwood's insinuations. As for Mrs. Owen and Dan's intimations that
Marian must be educated to satisfy the great aunt's ideals as
represented in Sylvia--well, Sylvia had no patience whatever with any
such idea.