LOVE YOUR ENEMIES
True to Marjorie’s prediction one momentous event after another,
relative to her many campus interests, caused March to skim away on
wings. On the fifth day of March, which fell upon Saturday, Hamilton
College turned out in full force to attend the dedication of the
dormitory. Due to the large crowd that must inevitably be present the
exercises had been scheduled to take place in the open air in the large
open space in front of the building. In the event of bad weather they
would be conducted in the assembly hall of the building. It was hoped by
the Travelers that the day for which they had toiled so faithfully would
be mild and sunny.
When the day came it proved to be a marvel of balmy breezes and warm
sunshine. It was one of those rare early spring days which promise so
smilingly of the return of Spring in her glory.
The dedication exercises began at one o’clock before the largest student
body ever enrolled at Hamilton College and in charge of the Reverend
Compton Greene, the oldest minister in the county of Hamilton, and also
the Episcopal minister at Hamilton Estates. A platform had been erected
as a speakers’ stand. On the platform sat President Matthews, the
members of the Hamilton College Board, Miss Susanna, Peter Graham,
Professor Venderblatt, Miss Remson, Signor Baretti, Marjorie, Robin and
the other eight members of the original Travelers’ Chapter. The two new
chapters of Travelers attended the dedication in a body, occupying a
special place on the lawn roped off for them.
The faculty also attended in a body, grouped well to the right of the
speakers’ stand. To the left stood row upon row of dark-faced men
dressed in their best, their faces bright with smiles. Their leader,
Peter Graham had Signor Baretti on one side of him and on the other a
tall, broad-shouldered man with keen dark eyes and a firm mouth. Peter
Cairns had demurred at accepting the honor of standing with Peter Graham
on such an occasion. “Oh, I’ll stay at the edge of the crowd,” he had
declared, but had been overruled by his two friends.
“You don’t come and make the strike break up, and my countrymen go work
like these should, we don’t have any dorm now. So you help, too, and you
should go with us. Why you are ashamed to be seen with us? I am once
poor Italiano, but very respec’bl,” had been the argument Baretti had
used to Mr. Cairns. He had finally won his point.
Among the company of Travelers in the roped-in space was Leslie Cairns.
She had also yielded to persuasion, though she had still the humiliated
inner conviction that she did not deserve such kindness on the part of
the Travelers.
Marjorie, Robin and Miss Susanna had all vowed firmly before hand that
under no circumstances would they be drawn into speech making. “Let the
men make the speeches,” Miss Susanna had said with an emphatic nod. The
uneasy partners had agreed with her and informed her that they should
depend upon her to stick to her guns.
When the time came, however, Miss Susanna found herself the center of a
student body, ready to bow down to her. She received an ovation that
amazed her to the point of all but reducing her to tears. Sturdy soul
that she was she set her jaws and refused to break down. She had to make
a speech, however, and the few terse sentences she spoke came straight
from her heart.
Neither were Page and Dean permitted “to get by” without a speech. Robin
came first and spoke with the charming sincerity which was the keynote
of her disposition. Marjorie listened to her in active discomfort, all
too sure that she would be called upon next. She tried to think of
something to say, but her mind suddenly seemed to become blank.
Worried over her own lack of inspiration she scarcely heard what Robin
said. She merely caught the tones of her partner’s earnest voice.
Presently Robin had finished speaking and applause broke out in
deafening waves. After a little it subsided. Then—Marjorie heard
President Matthews announce her to the acclaiming throng. As she rose it
came to her that there was one subject on which she could speak—the
greatness of Brooke Hamilton. There were so many wonderful things to be
said of him.
She began her speech with: “Dear friends of Hamilton College.... Because
Mr. Brooke Hamilton adored and venerated his mother, because he wished
the highest for womankind, we are here today to do him honor by adding
our bit to the splendid educational plans he made and carried out so
nobly in the building of Hamilton College.” Her voice, clear and
ringing, carried to the farthest limits of the enthusiastic throng.
Brooke Hamilton could have had no stauncher advocate than Marjorie. In
the short speech she made she brought before the assembled company the
man as she had come to know him through her work on his biography. She
ended eloquently with:
“When his biography is given to the world he will take his rightful
place among the great men who have devoted their lives to aiding the
cause of education. He planned unselfishly, and gave royally. He must be
to us who love our Alma Mater the great example. Because we have
believed in his maxims we shall try to live by them.”
She was surprised when she resumed her chair next to Jerry to find her
eyes full of tears. She had been carried away by the very earnestness of
her praise for the founder of Hamilton.
“Pretty fair, Bean; pretty fair,” was the welcome whisper from Jerry,
which threatened to upset her gravity. “You done noble.”
“_Taisez vous_, Jeremiah. I almost cried. Now please don’t make me
laugh. I’m glad it’s all over. I never was intended as a speechifier.”
“You only think you weren’t, Bean, dear Bean. ‘Speechifier’s’ a fine
word; I shall adopt it. I’m sure it isn’t in the ‘dic.’ That’s what I’m
looking for, original words; like ‘celostrous,’ for instance.”
Satisfied to have made Marjorie laugh Jerry subsided. Presently a final
prayer was said by the Reverend Greene, and the large company joined in
the singing of the Doxology. Following the exercises the enthusiastic
throng moved forward to inspect the new dormitory, the massive entrance
doors of which stood open as though inviting visitors.
Among the few students who did not follow the crowd were Julia Peyton
and Mildred Ferguson. Mildred was frankly contemptuous over the whole
affair. She was not interested in a dormitory for the use of needy
students, nor did she care anything about Brooke Hamilton as the founder
of the college.
“Shucks,” she commented disdainfully to Julia as the two turned away
from the animated scene. “Let’s go back to the campus. Somebody had to
found Hamilton. Why should there be so much fuss made over it?”
“That small woman on the platform!” Julia exclaimed in consternation.
“That was Miss Susanna Hamilton! I saw her at the Hall and thought she
was Miss Remson’s sister.”
“Well, she doesn’t know it,” shrugged Mildred.
Julia, however, was anything but at ease in mind. Ever since the dismal
failure of the attempt to force Leslie Cairns from Wayland Hall she had
been more or less gloomy and morose. She had haughtily declared on the
day after Muriel’s “show” that she would not any longer keep the
presidency of the club. She would not even attend any future meetings.
She wrote a resignation as president and intrusted it to Mildred to read
to the club.
Mildred read it out to the members at the next meeting of the Orchid
Club. It was accepted with such alacrity, and a new president so
promptly elected, that she decided she would not be so foolish as risk
her membership in the club by offering to resign. She was inwardly
peeved in that she had not been appointed president and another girl
elected as vice-president. Only her ability to brazen things out kept
her in a club in which the attitude of its other members toward her was
one of polite endurance.
Julia’s club troubles were less to her, however, than Clara Carter’s
defection. Clara still roomed with her, but paid very little attention
to her. The red-haired girl was trying to model her acts on a higher
basis. She was completely out of sympathy with her former intimate.
Julia also had another worry which had at first seemed too remote for
anxiety. Her mother had written her that her father had met with severe
losses in his manipulations of stocks. She had paid little attention to
this news from home. Her father frequently engaged in the daring raids
on the market which had earned him the name of “Wolf Peyton.” Later, her
mother had written her again of her father’s critical financial
situation. This time Julia had heeded the alarm of her mother’s
sounding. She knew it to be serious from the very fact that her mother
had written her twice on the subject.
The day after the dedication of the dormitory she received a third
letter from home that sent her into a panic. She let it overcome her to
the extent of cutting her classes for the day and staying in her room to
weep dismally over the Peytons’ changed prospects.
“What is the matter?” Clara Carter asked Julia not unsympathetically as
she came in from her Greek recitation to find Julia seated lachrymosely
in the very chair she had been occupying when Clara had left their room.
“Nothing,” Julia gulped, and sighed.
“There certainly must be. You hardly ever cry.”
“You wouldn’t be interested to know if I tell you,” Julia quavered. “You
are not my friend any more.”
“I would be if you would try to do as you should,” Clara returned with
stolid dignity. “I don’t care much about you lately, Julia, but I used
to like you. Only both of us were wrong in the way we gossiped about the
girls. We used to wonder sometimes why Doris was so queer and haughty
with us at times. I know now that it was because she disapproved of our
gossiping. Now when I am with her I never say an unkind word about
anyone. And she is sweet to me on that very account.”
“I wish I had never got up that miserable petition, or listened to a
word Mildred Ferguson told to me about that Dulcie Vale, her cousin,”
Julia’s voice rose to a disconsolate wail.
“I am very glad I came to my senses in time and had my name taken off
the list,” Clara returned grimly. “I feel sorry for you, somehow, Julia,
though you’ve only yourself to blame for what’s happened.” Clara had not
yet reached a point of forbearance wherein she could honestly sympathize
with her roommate. She had not yet arrived at the charitable spirit of
which she now gave signs of someday achieving.
“I know it.” Julia held her handkerchief to her eyes, continuing to cry
softly.
“I’d truly like to know what troubles you, Julia,” Clara presently said
in a softer tone than she had at first used.
“I can’t come back to Hamilton next year,” Julia sobbed out. “We’ve lost
our money; everything we own, too. My father has been having bad luck in
the market for the past year. My mother knew he was losing, but didn’t
think things were so bad as they’ve just turned out to be. We are poor,
terribly poor. I am going to stay here the rest of this year, but I
can’t come back next year. My father says I’ll have to become his
secretary, and he’ll have only a small office. It will take him quite a
while to get over this failure and we’ll have to live in a common three
story house, and maybe not have even one car. Mother says we will try to
keep my car for her use. It’s all so terrible. I was never poor. I can’t
bear to think about it. And I want to come back to Hamilton for my
senior year more than anything.”
“Why don’t you come back and live at the dormitory? Your father could
afford to pay your fees, couldn’t he?” Clara suggested. This time she
showed real sympathy.
“No. That is I’m not sure. It’s his idea—for me to be his secretary. He
says I’ve always been so wasteful and extravagant that it is time I had
to shoulder a little responsibility. He’d have to pay a confidential
secretary capable of doing his work not less than from fifty to a
hundred dollars a month. He says he must cut expenses to a minimum in
order to pull himself up again financially. It may take him a year to do
it. He made my mother write me all this. She is dreadfully upset by the
whole thing. Anyway I wouldn’t come back to the campus as a dormitory
girl. I simply _couldn’t_!” Julia exclaimed vehemently.
“My father would lend your father some money, Julia, if I were to ask
him,” Clara said after a short silence, broken only by the sound of
Julia’s muffled sobs.
“No, no.” Julia made a dissenting gesture. “My father is awfully proud.
He wouldn’t accept help from even his oldest friends. He’s an out and
out crank about such things. Thank you just the same, Clara. It’s sweet
in you to wish to help me. I—I—appreciate—it. Never mind me. You’d
better hurry along, or you’ll be late for French.”
Clara cast a hasty glance at the wall clock, gathered up her books and
hurried away. On her way to her recitation she racked her brain for some
way in which she might help Julia. Of the Wall Street realm of
financiering she knew very little. Her father was a manufacturer and had
inherited wealth from his father. Julia had occasionally told her tales
of “Wolf” Peyton’s exploits as a financier. She had never been much
interested in hearing them. She now wished she had listened to them more
attentively.
Her mind fixed on the subject of Julia’s misfortunes, she paid little
attention to her French lesson. On the way back to Wayland Hall she
chanced to encounter Doris Monroe.
“What are you looking so solemn about, Clara?” Doris greeted in friendly
fashion.
“Oh, I was just thinking. Somebody just told me some bad news. Not about
myself,” she added quickly. “I was just trying to think of a way I could
help the person.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Doris’ alert brain instantly reverted to
Julia Peyton. She had caught a glimpse of Julia hurrying through the
hall to her room that morning and had noticed her woebegone expression.
“No. Why, I don’t know.” Clara paused uncertainly. “I’d be breaking a
confidence to tell you, but you might know of a way to help.”
“I’d rather you wouldn’t break a confidence,” Doris returned candidly.
“I know. But—” Clara hesitated again, “—I think I could tell you of the
difficulty without naming the person. It would do no harm, Doris, I can
assure you of that.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Doris made quick response.
Clara colored with pleasure. Doris’s confidence in her was gratifying.
“The father of a certain student here has lost all his money. He is a
Wall Street financier. He is going to be awfully poor for a while. This
student I speak of will not be able to come back to Hamilton next year.
Her father says she will have to be his secretary. She feels very badly
about it. She’d like to complete her college course. I wish I knew a way
to help her father financially. I told her that my father would lend her
father some money, but she said he would not accept a loan from even a
friend. I can’t think of any other way to help. Can you?”
“No; not this minute. But I will think it over. Perhaps I may hit upon a
brilliant idea. I’ll see you tonight about it. Come to my room. We’ll
have more time to talk things over. I must run along.” With a little
farewell gesture Doris turned and ran toward Hamilton Hall, where she
would make her next recitation.
While Clara continued to ponder the matter without success it haunted
Doris, also. She was now positive that the student in question was Julia
Peyton. She had heard that Julia’s father was a Wall Street “raider.”
Leslie Cairns had gone to some pains to explain the term to her.
Leslie—of course! The very one to know what should be done. Thought of
Julia’s despicable part in the recent plot against Leslie’s welfare
recurred to Doris. Leslie could hardly be blamed if she refused to
consider helping Julia. Leslie, however, understood a great deal about
the world in which her father had piled up millions. Doris decided with
her usual calm judgment that Leslie should be in her room that evening
when Clara came to it. Muriel would be away at the rehearsal of a play
which Leila was directing. She would ask Clara in Leslie’s presence to
tell Leslie what the red-haired girl had just told her.
When Clara stepped into Doris’s room that evening she cast an
unconsciously disappointed look at Doris. She had not expected to see
Leslie Cairns. Doris caught the glance, understood it and said
instantly:
“Please don’t mind Leslie’s being here, Clara. I asked her to come. I
wish you to tell her what you told me this morning. Her father is one of
the greatest financiers in the United States, or in Europe, perhaps.
Leslie knows a great deal about finance. She will surely find a way to
help you.”
“I—I—you couldn’t help in this affair, Miss Cairns,” Clara burst forth
in embarrassment. “It wouldn’t be possible for you to.”
“Why not?” Leslie turned a direct kindly glance upon the red-haired
girl. “Please tell me. I know nothing of what it may be. I do know that
I’d like to be of service. I have several years of pleasing no one but
myself to make up for.” She smiled her grimly humorous smile.
It took a little more coaxing, however, before Clara would yield.
Finally she did so, telling Leslie what she had previously told Doris.
Leslie listened without comment, until Clara had wound up her doleful
little tale. She sat with one elbow on an arm of her chair, one hand
cupping her chin.
“I think my father can find the way to help this man,” she said
reassuringly. “Pardon me when I say I believe I know who this man is. I
have heard of him often from my father.” She paused, viewing Clara with
mute inquiry.
Clara understood. “I—I—it’s Julia’s father,” she stammered. “Perhaps I
should not have told you his name. Julia did not ask me not to. But she
gave me her confidence. It—”
“It was necessary for me to know,” Leslie cut in with a trace of her
old-time brusqueness. “How can my father help a man regain his financial
ground unless he knows that man’s identity?” she asked half humorously.
“Well, of course not.” Clara brightened, laughing a little.
“Will you trust the matter to me for a few days, perhaps weeks, Miss
Carter?” Leslie asked kindly. “I will write to my father at once.
Meanwhile the matter shall be one of strict confidence among us three. I
should prefer Miss Peyton never to know the source from which help came
to her father through any of us. I believe my father may wish not to be
known in the matter, either.”
“You speak with great confidence, Miss Cairns. You are sure something
can be done by your father for Mr. Peyton?” Clara asked half doubtfully.
“Very sure,” Leslie repeated encouragingly.
Clara did not remain in Doris’s room long. She went back to her own room
to find Julia making a conscientious effort to study.
“I mustn’t neglect what last few opportunities I have,” she said
soberly. “I shall try to do well in all my subjects for the rest of the
year.”
“That’s a brave view to take.” Clara longed to tell Julia what she had
just done. She smiled to herself. The more she considered Leslie’s quiet
confidence in her father’s success the more she was inclined herself to
believe in it.
In her room Leslie had just finished a brief but forceful letter to her
father. It read:
“DEAR PETER THE GREAT:
“Here is a further chance for you to prove your greatness. Do
you know a raider on the Street named Wolf Peyton? Of course you
do. You know them all. He has lost his fortune. Dead broke. His
daughter expects nothing but to leave college this June. She
must come back for her senior year. It seems he needs her as his
secretary, or thinks he does. I think the secretary business
would flivver after he had tried it. Anyhow please put him on
his feet so it won’t be necessary for her to sacrifice her
senior year. He may be your bitterest enemy, his daughter
thought she was mine, but, never mind. We should tremble. Fix it
up without him knowing you did anything.
“I am going to be in one of Page and Dean’s shows. It is to be a
revue, and will be given on the evening of the eighth of April.
You had better come to it. I am going to sing a French song and
give some of those funny imitations of Parisians which you like
to see me do. I am happy, Peter. The Hedge begins to look like a
near future proposition. With oceans of love. I’ll write again
soon.
“Faithfully,
“LESLIE.”
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