It was commencement week at Smith College. To the alumna and the
student, the picture called up by those words is sufficiently definite
and demands no amplification. To them, is no prettier sight possible
than the broad campus dotted with buildings, and the knots of
daintily-dressed girls moving slowly to and fro along the winding paths.
The Meadow City always puts on her most festal array in honor of the
occasion; the very heavens seem to watch for that week, and to provide
for it the finest moon of the whole summer.
Baccalaureate was over, and, early Monday evening, groups were already
gathering on the campus at the rear of College Hall, eager to secure
comfortable places for the glee club concert. It was one of the charming
pictures of the year, that concert, the cluster of girls on the steps
facing the long rows of well-filled benches below. Beyond the benches,
and extending far across the grass to the very steps of the old Dewey
House, was a moving, shifting crowd, changing in form and color, as the
brightly-dressed girls came and went, like the varying slides of a
kaleidoscope. Back of the glee club, again, the open windows of the
reading-room were filled with faces of old graduates who knew the place,
and who chose this point of vantage either to protect their gowns and
their elderly necks from the dampness outside, or to use their position
facing the crowd to discover returning classmates whom they had missed
in the throng.
"There's the class president," one of them said to a friend who had
arrived, only that afternoon.
"Which?"
"That tall girl in pale green at the left. She's in the fourth, fifth,
sixth row; and a tall, gray-haired man is with her, and a young man the
other side."
"Looking this way now?"
"Yes. I don't see anything so remarkable about her; but they say she's
one of the most popular girls they've ever had here."
"That is saying a good deal," her companion answered loyally, as she
raised her lorgnette.
"They wanted her for ivy poet, but she couldn't be everything. She's
class poet, though, and was Portia in the dramatics, Saturday night."
"What's her name?"
"McAlister. Theodora McAlister. She looks it, too; but these soulless
girls all call her Teddy."
"McAlister? That is the name of the girl who made such a record in
basket ball, when I was up here, last winter. They had a song in her
honor."
"Probably it's the same one. My cousin says she is very all-round. All
the under-class girls adore her, and they say she'll be heard from, some
day. Did you say Edith Avery is back?"
Theodora, meanwhile, had settled her guests comfortably to listen to the
concert. They were all there, Dr. McAlister and his wife, Hope and
Hubert, Phebe and Allyn, and the Farringtons. Among so many girls, Hope,
in her pretty pink gown, was quite capable of holding her own; and Billy
and Hubert were in such demand that, all that day, Theodora had scarcely
had a chance to exchange a word with them. It was just as well, however,
for the girl's hands were full, with the active part which her offices
had imposed upon her.
During the whole week, she had borne her part admirably. When she came
out on the stage for the first time, on Saturday night, she had
faltered. For a moment, the sea of upturned faces had terrified her, and
she could distinguish nothing but a formless blur. Then, all at once,
Billy's red-gold hair and clear blue eyes had detached themselves and
caught her attention, and she flashed upon him one glance, half proud,
half appealing. He smiled back at her broadly and waved his programme.
An instant later, she was speaking her opening lines.
She had led the baccalaureate procession; she had presided at the ivy
exercises, that morning; and to-night, at the reception which followed
the glee club concert, she was expected to show herself in her official
capacity. The next day, she would lead her class in the commencement
procession, and preside at the class supper. No wonder that she was
tired, and that dark circles were beginning to come beneath her eyes.
Popularity has its price, though it is a price well worth the paying. It
had come to her unsought, unexpected, and she enjoyed it. Still, she was
undeniably tired. She was glad for the moment to settle down on the
bench, unnoticed in the crowd, with her father's arm across her shoulder
and Hubert by her other side.
"Tired out, Ted?" her father asked tenderly, as she nestled against him,
regardless of her finery.
"Oh, no; only glad of a chance to see my people. I have been in such a
whirl, all the week, that I feel as if I had neglected you."
"We haven't suffered, and you'll rest from the whirl. You can't be
graduated but once, my girl, and I want you to have the best of it," he
said proudly. "Next year, you will be with us again, so don't worry
about us now."
"You'd better sit up straight, Teddy," Phebe said, bending forward and
speaking in an aggressively audible whisper. "You're leaning against
your dress, and that thin stuff crushes awfully. Do be careful."
"Never mind," Theodora answered, with a lazy disregard of her fluffy sea
of pale green chiffon. "Papa and I shall never be here again just like
this, and I mean to have the good of him."
They lingered there until the concert was over and the tide was turning
towards the Art Gallery. Then she rose reluctantly, and shook out her
gown.
[Illustration: "'GIVE ME MY FAN AND GLOVES, HU,' SHE SAID."]
"Give me my fan and my gloves, Hu," she said. "I must fly to my post.
I'd much rather stay here."
As she turned away, a young man abruptly took leave of two juniors,
and went hurrying after her. He was tall and alert, yet he walked with a
certain stiffness, which gave an almost military erectness to his
carriage.
"The Philistines be upon me, Ted! Do save me!"
She turned back to meet him.
"What is the matter, Billy? I thought you looked content while the
concert was going on."
"Content! I'm distracted. I've been introduced to seven thousand girls.
They all look alike, and I can't tell 'em from those I don't know."
"Smile on them all, Billy. You're equal to it."
"But I don't want 'em. I came here to see you, not Miss Swift of
Chicago."
"You don't appreciate your advantages, Billy," she said, laughing, as
they went together up the steps of the Art Gallery.
"Maybe not. I appreciate you, though, and I sail, in ten days. When
shall you be off duty again?"
She looked down at the throng already streaming up the steps behind
them.
"Come and rescue me at half-past nine, Billy, unless you find Miss Swift
of Chicago a more potent attraction."
"Trust me!" And he vanished.
For more than an hour, the stream of people flowed past her. Everywhere
was the swish of countless gowns, the low murmur of countless voices.
Every one was there, not only the seniors and their friends, but the
girls of the under classes, with here and there a wide-eyed, wondering
sub-freshman. Faculty hobnobbed with sophomores, and the alumnæ pervaded
all things and were in their glory. It was a pretty picture, backed as
it was by the dull-hued walls and fine statuary of the gallery; and
Theodora glanced about her in contented pride, to see if any of her
friends were near and enjoying this crowning glory of her Alma Mater.
Ten feet away, Mrs. McAlister was discussing football with the brother
of one of the seniors, a boy too young to have any real share in the
evening's pleasure. Not far off, Dr. McAlister was contentedly ruffling
up his hair, while he monopolized the attention of a prominent
professor, who appeared altogether unconscious of the passing moments
and of the crowd of alumnæ waiting for a word. Theodora smiled to
herself, as she caught an occasional phrase,--
"All the bromides--Grand antiseptic qualities--Your essay in the last
review."
Out on the stairs, Hope was in the midst of a gay crowd; and, quite at
the other side of the building, Hubert sat on the pedestal of the Dying
Gaul, with one arm thrown across the neck of the statue, while he talked
to the pretty young girl perched at his side.
Punctual to the moment, Billy appeared.
"Now let's get out of this," he said abruptly.
"Aren't you having a good time?" she questioned, with a little hurt
tone.
"Yes, fine. I struck some Cleveland girls; they're always pretty. But
now I want a breath of fresh air and a little sensible conversation.
Come along."
"Where?"
"Anywhere, as long as it's quiet."
She laughed, as she handed him her fan.
"I believe you're tired before I am, Billy."
"No; only I do want a little chance to see you. It's not as if I were
going to be at home, this summer."
She glanced at him sharply. Then she bit her lip a little, as she
followed him through the crowd at the door, and out upon the campus.
"This is pretty, for a fact, Ted," he said, breaking the silence. "Yale
can't show anything to beat this."
"That's very generous of you, Billy," she answered; but her tone lacked
its usual vivacity, and her step dragged slightly, as they moved away
together among the Chinese lanterns which edged the walks in double
line.
The crowd was here, too; but Billy steered her through it, past the
houses and the old gymnasium, and out to the far end of the campus. At
the steps of the observatory, he halted.
"It's quiet here, and we can get some good of the moon," he said. "Let's
sit down here, unless you are afraid of taking cold."
"The idea! I'm not an alum.; besides, it's a warm night."
"How will you stand two commencements, Ted?" he asked, settling himself
at her feet and turning to look up at her.
"Better than my gowns will," she said, showing him a long rent in her
skirt.
He laughed.
"You always were hard on your clothes, Teddy. I shall never forget the
sound of rending garments which heralded your first approach."
"Out of the apple-tree? I remember. I also remember the lecture Hope
gave me."
"Those were good old days," he said contentedly, as he opened and shut
her fan.
"These are better," she answered, looking down at him, as he sat there
in the moonlight. "I can't make it seem as if you ever lived in a
chair."
He looked up, shaking back his hair with a quick motion of his head.
"It's over now, thank Heaven! Still, it brought us together, after all.
Teddy, I'm going to miss you. I wish I needn't go."
"But you must," she said hastily, startled at something in his tone. "It
isn't everybody who has the double chance to study for his profession
and to be treated by Dr. Brunald, at the same time."
"If it only finishes the cure! But two years is such a long time."
"Yes. But I'm going down with your mother to see you off, you know; and
then you'll write often."
"Of course. But so much can happen in two years."
"I hope there can. Do you remember my three wishes?"
"No. Yes. Seems to me I do. What were they?"
"It was one day, under the trees in your grounds. I was in a
confidential mood, I remember, and I was moved to tell them to you. They
included a bicycle, a college course, and a successful career of
authorship."
"I remember. You've two of them, Ted; and I believe you'll get the
other."
"Wait till you come home. You may find me no nearer the end than I am
now."
"I doubt it, Teddy. You've the stuff in you. Write and tell me, when you
make your first hit."
"I will. I'm counting on your letters, Billy, for it's going to be very
lonely without you." Her lip quivered again, and in the moonlight he saw
an odd glitter in her eyes.
He took her hand in his.
"Ted," he said gently; "two years can't make any difference in such a
friendship as ours. We've stuck together through thick and thin, and
nothing can change us. Two years isn't a very long time to wait, and
then, please God, I shall come home to you all, a strong man. After
that, I shall never go away again--to leave you, dear."
The last words were almost inaudible. Then the silence and the moonlight
closed in about them.
The chapel was filled to overflowing, the next day, as the procession
filed up the middle aisle. Led by the white-gowned ushers, they came
slowly onward, faculty and trustees, alumnæ and seniors, while above and
around them, soft and full by turns, rose the sound of the organ under
the masterly touch they knew so well. It was an hour when even the most
heedless freshman felt the pain, the almost solemn sadness of the coming
parting, yet the full meaning of the commencement day can be realized
only by those who are leaving their Alma Mater for the last time.
All too soon, the morning sped away and the president rose to confer the
degrees, while a hush, slight, but expectant, crept over the place.
"_Quæ primum gradum accedunt._"
At the well-known words, the seniors rose, with Theodora standing at
their head. The girl was very pale, and her eyes looked dark and liquid,
as she raised them to the president's face. From his seat in the south
transept, Billy watched her while she stood there, tall and straight and
noble in her young womanhood, a very daughter of to-day; and, as he
looked, within him there strengthened the belief which had been slowly
forming and guiding his life ever since the day, more than six years
before, when Theodora had come down to him from the old apple-tree. In
all those tedious, aching years, Theodora had been his best friend; and
now with health and with her before him, he could afford to work, and
wait, and hope.