A BOOK OF
BRYN MAWR
STORIES
EDITED BY
MARGARETTA MORRIS AND
LOUISE BUFFUM CONGDON
[Illustration]
=PHILADELPHIA= GEORGE W JACOBS
AND COMPANY =ANNO DOMINI MCMI=
Copyright, 1901, by
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
A Book of Bryn Mawr Stories
Preface
In compiling a volume of Bryn Mawr stories, the editors have been
conscious that such a book could never adequately represent the college
life. Its strong subtle character that commands the devotion of every
Bryn Mawr student is something difficult if not impossible to depict.
Yet there comes a time in the life of a college, as of an individual,
when self-expression is inevitable. Such a time, the editors believe,
has come for Bryn Mawr. And this conviction has induced them to bring
out the present volume.
Until now the literary efforts of the students have concerned themselves
with external matters rather than with introspection. Perhaps this is
due to an instinctive reticence we Bryn Mawrtyrs have wherever our
feelings are deeply stirred. We can joke about ourselves and our
traditions as we do in _The Fortnightly Philistine_. But when we come to
speak seriously to the outside world, as in _The Lantern_, we confine
ourselves for the most part to subjects of general literary interest,
practically ignoring the college atmosphere. At last, however, the ice
is broken, and Bryn Mawr talks about herself.
In the earliest days, when the college had only two buildings and
forty-four students, even in that first year it had a character and a
spirit all its own. And fifteen years of rapid growth have seemed but to
strengthen its individuality. To show the college unity in diversity the
editors have carefully chosen authors from the older and younger alumnæ
and from the undergraduates. They hope that in this way a truer
impression of the college life may be given than would be possible if
the whole book were written by one person.
Some readers may ask which of the many heroines in these tales is the
typical Bryn Mawr girl. The reply is no one, but all. Bryn Mawr students
come from all parts of the country, from all sorts of different
surroundings, and on entering college they do not, popular prejudice to
the contrary, immediately drop their individuality and become samples of
a type. We have among our number the pedant, the coquette, the athlete,
the snob, the poser, the girl who loves dress and prettiness, and she
who affects mannish simplicity, the all-round girl, the serious-minded,
and the frivolous. Yet none of these is the Bryn Mawr girl _par
excellence_. That mythical personage can be known only by comparing and
contrasting her various incarnations.
This book is an attempt to show some of her incarnations and some
typical scenes of Bryn Mawr life. College life is not dramatic and
college stories have no great dramatic interest, unless they introduce
elements foreign to the campus. Those who look to these stories,
therefore, for entertainment may be disappointed, since most of them are
serious in tone, and in their appeal to the reader depend largely upon
the charm of local colour.
If in the mind of any one the spirit portrayed in this book is unworthy,
if it falls short of the ideal of what college life should be, let it be
remembered that this is a first attempt, and let the expression be
blamed but not the Bryn Mawr spirit.
All of the following stories are new, and were written for this book,
except _Studies in College Colour_, which are reprinted from _The
Lantern_ of 1893. One of these studies, the description of Chapel, has
appeared also in _Cap and Gown in Prose_. For permission to use this
last the editors are indebted to the courtesy of Messrs. L. C. Page &
Company.
_M. M. 1900._
_L. B. C. 1900._
Contents
HER MASTERPIECE, _Marian T. MacIntosh, '90_
IN MAYTIME, _Anne Maynard Kidder, 1903_
WITHIN FOUR YEARS, _Elva Lee, '93_
FREE AMONG THE DEAD, _Georgiana Goddard King, '96_
STUDIES IN COLLEGE COLOUR,
_L. S. B. S., '93, and G. E. T. S., '93_
EPOCH MAKING, _Cora Armistead Hardy, '99_
A REMINISCENCE, _Clara Warren Vail, '97_
CATHERINE'S CAREER, _Harriet Jean Crawford, 1902_
THE APOSTASY OF ANITA FISKE, _Ellen Rose Giles, '96_
A DIPLOMATIC CRUSADE, _Edith Campbell Crane, 1900_
_HER MASTERPIECE_
I
For the first time in many years Ellen Blake was conscious of inability.
Of course she could not have expected that her good fortune would last
forever. And yet, it must be confessed, that her helplessness coming, as
it did, when she had every reason to feel confident, had been altogether
a surprise, had, indeed, taken her at a cruel disadvantage. She was the
more disconcerted at finding herself unable to do what she had promised
when she thought of the serious responsibility resting upon her. It was
wholly natural that she should be looking at the predicament with the
eye not of an ordinary being but of a personage, whose failure would be
a public calamity,--no mere personal misfortune. Intellectual
distinction, natural eloquence, and the personal charm that made her so
marked and attractive a figure, had brought her into prominence as a
leader among progressive women. If she seemed inclined to take herself a
trifle seriously, no one could wonder, for the demands made upon her
were neither few nor slight. And while a more selfish person might have
shown a nice discrimination in the choice of duties, Ellen, in her
gracious readiness to be of service, accepted as obligations all the
greatnesses thrust upon her. Constantly importuned for utterances, she
felt bound to answer all requests for opinions, till at last, her sense
of humour grew weak in conflict with her strenuousness, she had become
an oracle on all matters that were or ought to be of interest to women.
And so it happened that when she had been asked to make a speech at the
Women's Convention in Indianapolis, on _The Educational Value of College
Life_, she had unhesitatingly consented. But in this instance her fame
and her conscience had brought her face to face with failure, for on a
subject peculiarly suited to her, she could find no words for feelings
or ideas.
She was in despair, for not to make the speech would be to play the
traitor to the cause of Woman, and to show the basest ingratitude to
Bryn Mawr, the place that had fitted her for her life work. Taking
herself to task had no effect. She wrote some sentences, read them over,
found them vague and inaffective, gushing indeed. She continued to write
almost feverishly only to reject sheet after sheet. At length she
decided that she had no exact information, neither facts nor figures.
That was the trouble. In the discussion of so weighty a matter both were
important. Then, almost as an inspiration, it seemed to her, came the
thought of Katherine Brewster, also a Bryn Mawrtyr, also interested in
woman.
"She is certainly just the person," said Ellen, and she was soon
standing on the Brewsters' doorstep. A very systematic maid opened the
door and showed Ellen to a small room at the end of the hall.
Katherine's quarters had always met with her approval,--the little room
in which she waited, communicating as she remembered with a larger room
beyond, had about it an air of business and privacy. Though it had for
seats only the stiffest of chairs, and for reading matter only the
dullest of reports, Ellen's mood led her to envy the uncomfortable and
repellent atmosphere. By force of contrast it reminded her of many
miserable occasions, when she had tried to feel at ease, while
interviewing some ardent reformer in the presence of her humourous if
sympathetic family.
She forgot for the time being, what she could not but perceive in her
less absorbed moments, that the distinction and notoriety of Katherine
was the distinction and notoriety of the Brewster family; and that, in
sacrificing the general comfort to the convenience of one, they were
exchanging insignificance for importance; while she, however conspicuous
personally, was also the daughter of Chief Justice Blake, and was "the
image of her mother, the beautiful Polly Meredith." "Not so good-looking
though," sighed many an old gentleman, as his thoughts reverted to the
triumphs of that beauteous maid in the days when girls broke hearts,
rather than conventions.
Wealth and social distinction, good-breeding and beauty were hers
without an effort, without a college education; yet she knew well that
there was something in her that was due to Bryn Mawr. In striving to
express this she had come to Katherine Brewster, sure that from her she
would get the explanation.
She had hardly sat down before the door between the rooms opened
energetically and the brisk young owner appeared, cheerful and
businesslike in manner.
"Oh, Ellen! How do you do? I shall be at leisure," drawing out her watch
and considering a moment, "in six or seven minutes."
Without waiting for an answer, Katherine turned back to the other room.
She left the door behind her open and Ellen could not but see what was
going on. Her disused sense of the ridiculous stirred slightly as she
took in the details. Katherine was talking, or rather giving facts, to a
young man who was dotting down her words in shorthand. From the scraps
of the conversation that reached her, Ellen received a confused
impression of myriads of facts marshalled in excellent order. She
congratulated herself that she had indeed come to the right person and
would find valuable assistance in the clear brain of Katherine Brewster.
At length she caught the words, "I have now given you all the
information at my command, and shall trust you to make it interesting to
the general public and so prepare the way for our reform." The young man
could not linger in face of the finality in her manner, and before he
was well out of the door Katherine had turned to her next visitor with
brief friendliness.
"I'm glad to see you, Ellen, and can just fit you in between the
Committee of Councils and the reporter, who was anxious to get my
opinion on the new system for the disposal of garbage. I should like to
tell you all about it. It is so absorbing."
"I am afraid I shall have to hold you down to another subject. I need
enlightenment as well as the reporter. I have to tell the Women's
Congress the value of life in a woman's college. I was sure this
subject was one on which I was well informed, till I came to think what
I might say,--and lo! commonplaces are all I can utter. I was at a loss
what to do,--loath to break my promise, and helpless in my stupidity.
Now, can't you give me an idea? I hate to bother you, you are so busy.
But it isn't for myself only."
"Well, Ellen, I think I can help you," answered Katherine with the
utmost seriousness, "but you will need pencil and paper," rising to get
them, "or suppose you sit here," sweeping aside the papers littered over
the desk and pointing to the chair in front of it. "I shall have to deal
in figures and you might not remember them all."
Then followed a maze of numbers reeled off with surprising readiness,
now and then authenticated by a glance at one of the many pigeon-holes.
Ellen felt somewhat dazed; but she was conscious that the bewilderment
was her contribution for the figures were arranged with
precision,--_Health of College Women_, _Matrimonial Prospects of College
Women_, _The College Woman and the Problem of Domestic Service_, _The
Economic Results of College training for Women_. Valuable facts were
quoted from them, facts bristling with suggestions for the capable young
woman so utterly mistress of them, but a trifle unmanageable for Ellen
till she should have time thoroughly to conquer them.
She was not altogether ungrateful when the servant announced the
Committee of Selectmen, and she hastened to show her deference to the
fathers of the city by immediate withdrawal.
Katherine's good-bye took the form of advice, "I should certainly deal
with the practical value of college life, taking up some line of thought
that will show its power to make women effective citizens in the broad
sense of the word."
There was no use in going directly home, for she could make nothing of
facts so dull, Ellen decided, as she left the house. Besides she had no
time to get down to work. It was now four o'clock, and she had promised
to be at Edith Warrington's for tea at five. She could go directly
there; or, better still, she might find Sara Ford and Augusta Coles at
home. Their flat was near by. They would be sure to give her some ideas.
Sara was alone when Ellen reached their rooms, and gave her a warm and
ready welcome, of the sort that tempted to friendly chat rather than to
weighty discussion. Sara was slight and frail in appearance, and made an
immediate appeal to most persons by the wistful expression of her eyes.
But for all her seeming delicacy, she was full of nervous strength, and
was besides very earnest, almost anxious in her devotion to her duty and
in her attitude toward the responsibilities of a college woman.
There was in the room an effect of collision, of an effort to combine
the possessions of a gentle, ease-loving nature, with those of one given
overmuch to austerity. The room itself, sunny and old-fashioned, went
far to reconcile the hostile elements, and the result was inviting, if
not harmonious.
Sara had settled Ellen comfortably on the broad window-seat, and was
solicitously tucking pillows behind her back, apologizing the while for
Augusta's absence. "She has gone to see an authority on labor," Sara
explained. "She wanted his opinion on public ownership. She won't be
gone long, though."
"How does Augusta excite herself over such questions?" wondered Ellen.
Sara smiled absent-mindedly, and then as though pondering, without a
shade of remonstrance in her manner, said, "Augusta has the keenest
insight into everyday subjects, and the most wonderful grasp of them
that I have ever known. I never dare to be amused at Augusta. I can do
nothing but admire her. But now, Nell," she continued, drawing her chair
nearer the window where Ellen was sitting, "tell me about yourself. You
are always doing interesting things. Certainly the world ought to be
convinced of the value of college education by the work of such women as
you and Augusta."
Ellen's mind was so firmly fixed on the object of her visit that she was
unembarrassed by the flattery lavished upon her, and noted only the
sympathy in the words. When she had explained her difficulties to Sara,
she met with instant comprehension.
"Why, Nellie dear, I know just how you feel," was the prompt response to
Ellen's statement. "You are conscious of an overwhelming desire to
honour Bryn Mawr, of a responsibility to woman's education, and you
would not by a word injure the one or retard the other."
"Of course, I feel that. But what am I going to do? I've thought and
thought till I haven't an idea left. Katherine Brewster has loaded me
down with statistics, but I need something more. Can't you give me a
hint? There is so much of the picturesque in the college life that is
not at all frivolous, and yet when I put pen to paper it is gone."
"I am always conscious of just that state of mind," assented Sara, "when
I try to express my feeling about college. The beauty of the place, the
glamour over everything! One can't describe it."
It was becoming evident to Ellen that Sara was but echoing her own
words, was giving sympathy rather than advice. She had just made up her
mind to be off, when the door opened to admit Sara's room-mate.
A cursory, modern greeting was all that Augusta Barneson Coles
vouchsafed her visitor.
"Is there anything I can do for you?" asked Augusta, drawing off her
gloves, and with the greatest precision pulling out the fingers. When
she had finished this operation she laid the gloves on the table.
Augusta maintained, against all comers, that neatness alone was to be
considered in dress, and showed herself consistent by appearing at a
formal dinner party in an immaculate shirt waist and short skirt. In the
obtrusive simplicity of the shapeless coat, the uncompromising hat, the
well-hung but skimped skirt, the severely arranged tie, the colourless
hair smoothed in defiance of the wind, the stout shoes and correct
stockings, you perceived the care of one who had a character to
preserve.
Ellen straightened herself and assumed a thrifty exactness in her
speech, setting aside preamble and apology; for in talk with Augusta she
felt that the amenities of life were worse than wasted, they were
insulting.
"Yes, Augusta, tell me what you can say for women's colleges, as
distinguished from other modes of training."
"They will redeem the world from its present deplorable condition by
teaching women to live by ideas," was the succinct if sweeping
assertion.
"I am afraid I don't understand," murmured Ellen.
"By removing them from the sordid pressure of the practical," Augusta
went on, "and that at a critical period in the mind's development and
bringing them into an atmosphere of pure ideas, till the concrete no
longer exists for them."
This statement seemed somewhat nonsensical to Ellen, but she had come
for information and persisted. "That's all very well, but to make it
more personal. I can't express what my college education has meant to
me. What has it meant to you?"
"Experience meetings of any sort are distasteful to me," answered
Augusta brusquely, "they make impossible abstract thought and result in
commonplaces of undisciplined sentiment. They bend the idea to the
individual, not the individual to the idea."
There was no doubt that Augusta had given all that was in her power and
that Ellen would only lose time by urging her to closer definition. So
far she had received opinions almost irreconcilable one with the other,
the practical views of Katherine and the abstractions of Augusta. She
was indeed amused rather than disappointed at the failure of her visit.
How absurd she had been to expect fertile suggestions from Sara, always
ready to reflect the mood of her companion--a quality often soothing and
endearing but hardly useful in moments of perplexity;--or from Augusta
with her futile theories and ridiculous jargon.
She had still one hope, Bertha Christie, who had gathered about her a
group of Bryn Mawr graduates, all anxious to indulge the scholastic
passion. Research and literature occupied them for the most part; but,
in the intervals of study, they cultivated self-consciousness and held
dress-rehearsals that they might perfect themselves in the parts
selected. Phrase-making was their pastime and tricks of face and manner
their delight. Their duty to themselves led them to withdraw from their
families, thus liberating themselves from the exigencies of an
unappreciative society. So sedulous were these artists in life to free
themselves from tyranny to the individual that they regarded all outside
demands as impertinent intrusions. They courted criticism and experience
and craved æsthetic satisfaction.
The only one of the band at home when Ellen was shown in, was Bertha
Christie. Had she been seen in the midst of commonplace surroundings,
dressed in a less studied fashion, she would in all likelihood have
passed unnoticed. But the clinging folds of her dress, exquisite in
colour and texture, the deliberately loosened hair, the poise of the
head, and the languid grace of motion as she moved forward to greet
Ellen, suggested something of the romantic, something of the ascetic,
with just a seasoning of coquetry. She had the artistic temperament, but
abilities critical rather than creative. She read poetry but measured
life by her intellect. Hers was a disposition susceptible to
impressions, but cruel in the analysis of them.
Her expression of indifference became one of scornful amusement as she
listened to Ellen's earnest setting forth of her errand. A skilled
fencer in words she succeeded in parrying the insistent queries, without
revealing the triviality of her ideas. The impression left on Ellen's
mind by this conversation was really disturbing. Up to this point she
had no doubts about the value of college life, but now she wondered if
there were not more to be said against it than for it. Was it not
responsible for the selfishness and affectation of Bertha Christie? She
looked at the clock on a near-by steeple and saw that she was already
late for her engagement with Edith. In her annoyance at her wasted
effort she was not sorry to think that at her next stopping-place she
might dismiss business from her thoughts and enjoy the consolation and
diversion she was sure to find.
It was significant of her attitude that, although she had meant all
along to drop in on Edith, on her way home, and knew besides that she
was certain to find one or two more of her college friends, she had no
thought of them in connection with her speech. She had unconsciously
drifted into imagining, as did all outsiders, that Augusta Coles and
Bertha Christie were the types and her own friends the anomalies among
college women. Her friendships and her activities were no longer brought
into contact. So long as Ellen was looking for companionship, she still
showed herself capable of appreciating wisdom as well as cleverness,
good sense as well as originality; but just so soon as she desired
enlightenment, she forgot that her own friends might hold opinions
worthy of consideration, and singled out the eccentric or visionary
among her acquaintances. In doing so she was not consciously seeking
singularity, she was rather showing her instinctive reverence for
experience. Having become something of a doctrinaire, she went for her
instruction to those more advanced than herself.
Had Edith Warrington been true to what seemed to Ellen the best in her,
she might have been set among the sages, but Edith had voluntarily
forfeited all right to be considered really earnest, for after she had
determined to devote her life to study, she had been turned aside by a
mere trifle. In the second year of her post-graduate study, she had had
a call from an old lady whom she had always found most entertaining and
had been bored with the random gossip so delightful hitherto.
"It's the last straw," she said, in talking to one of her friends of the
occurrence, "when Mrs. Astruther bores me there's something the matter.
I've noticed an indifference to everything but my work growing upon me
of late, but have ignored it. This shock has brought me to my senses and
shows me that I prefer people to things." She was urged not to
generalize too hastily, by the friends who were eager to see her fulfil
her promise as a scholar. She had now been married about five years,
and, because the memory of her scholarship was still fresh, she was
spoken of as one lost past recovery; for, though she never lost her
student ways, she was no longer called a student.
When Ellen came within sight of the house, she heard some one tap on the
pane and on looking up saw Edith signalling to her not to ring.
"Here you are at last, Nell," was her greeting. "I was looking for you.
What kept you so late? Some old committee?"
"Oh, I'm dead tired. I have had a miserable afternoon."
"You poor thing! Come along and be amused. Louise and Evelyn are here.
They're having a heated discussion about matrimony. It's a bit personal
and very funny."
"Louise and Evelyn? It must be absurd."
"Yes, they think they're talking on broad general principles, but
they're just talking about Dick Fisher and Mr. Brandon."
"You know him?" asked Ellen. "I've never met him and since Evelyn's
engagement was announced I've been curious about him."
"Oh, he is a very nice fellow--really charming."
"But not good enough for Evelyn, I'm sure."
"They never are, are they, Nell?" and Edith turned with an amused smile.
"No, not even Mr. Warrington," laughed Ellen. "I don't agree about him
yet."
When they reached the little study, Ellen nodded to the two girls
sitting near the window and flung herself into an easy chair by the tea
table, glad to rest her mind with a counter distraction. She knew the
disputants well and felt as much at home with them as with Edith.
Louise Fisher had been her room-mate at college, distinguished for her
common sense and independent ways and a warm advocate of the business
career for women, all women married or single. Many a satirical picture
had Ellen drawn in those days, of Louise's ideal of domestic happiness.
But Louise had become engaged before she graduated, to a man
immeasurably her superior in mental ability, and she had settled down to
echoing his opinions. Ellen often wondered if no ghosts sat opposite to
Louise at the breakfast table; but she could not disturb her by any
amount of banter.
Evelyn Ames, the other disputant, had been an enigma at college. She had
attracted many on first acquaintance; but had baffled them at the point
where acquaintance ripens into intimacy. No one dared call herself
Evelyn's friend, except such as were content with the formal
graciousness of her ways. And yet she had been a force in college life,
had shown both courage and enthusiasm at critical moments.
She had recently announced her engagement, and was naïve in her
disclosures of her own feelings in the present discussion. She was
thoroughly at her ease with her companions; for since she had left
college, she had surprised many, whom she had before held at a
distance, into very real friendships, taking them unawares by her
affection for Bryn Mawr and its associations. These three had discovered
that her inaptitude for fellowship at college was the result of a former
starvation of her affections. The daughter of a widow, a woman of small
means, of cold nature and social ambition, Evelyn had not been allowed
to find out the softer side of her nature, till she had been sent to
Bryn Mawr by a rich and domineering relative.
When Edith and Ellen joined them, Louise was saying, "The only way is to
try to divert his mind from his work."
"But that doesn't seem to me at all the nicest way," said Evelyn. "I
think you ought to be able to help a man in his work."
"At that rate," said Edith, as she poured out a cup of tea, "Ellen
should marry a public man and help him write his----"
"Yes," sniffed Louise contemptuously, "like Mrs. Jones, Dick says----"
"Oh, Nell," and Evelyn turned quickly to Ellen, "somebody told me about
the speech you're to make. What a splendid chance you've got."
"I don't know about that," answered Ellen, "it's the hardest thing I
ever had to do. I can't for the life of me----"
"But just think," interrupted Evelyn, "it means Bryn Mawr. That's what
we think of when we think of college. Oh! I wish I could just for once
say what I think of the dear place. But I never can talk about it in a
sensible way."
"Just as well," put in Edith, "it's one of the things it doesn't pay to
be sensible about."
"Edith, what do you mean?" interjected Louise, "when you speak in public
you can't talk twaddle. Dick says, common sense is the only thing that
holds people."
"He's faithful to his opinions anyway," answered Edith with a friendly
nod, "you've just as much as ever."
"But, Nell," asked Evelyn, leaning forward in her interest, "what are
you going to say?"
"That's what I don't know. I've gone from pillar to post trying to find
out and----"
"No wonder you're weary," said Edith, "wasting your time that way. Why
on earth didn't you ask us? Please tell us where you did go."
"Oh, to several places," answered Ellen evasively. "I never thought of
bothering you people, you have so many outside things to attend to."
"Yes to be sure, husbands and children and all the----"
"You know that isn't what I mean," objected Ellen, setting down her
teacup. "You always say you aren't interested in movements."
"Oh, no!" corrected Edith, "not movements."--
"Well, anyway I didn't succeed with the other people. 'College training
fits us to be citizens'; 'college teaches us to live by ideas'; 'college
is of value to none but those gifted with a susceptibility for the
exquisite refinements of the intellectual existence.' What am I to do
with that?"
Edith and Evelyn exchanged amused glances, while Louise looked scornful.
Ellen continued, "I have to think how my words will affect Bryn Mawr,
and also how they will strike my audience."
"Don't forget yourself," said Edith. "You've a way of leaving a bit of
yourself behind when you get to work."
"Oh, it will come to you, don't fear," broke in Evelyn. "You do all that
sort of thing so well, you'll be sure to make a hit. You couldn't help
it talking about Bryn Mawr. If only I could do it. My four years there
made life worth living."
"Come now, Evelyn," said Edith teasingly, "it will never do for you to
say things like that, and you just engaged. Please think of poor Mr.
Brandon. He'll get to hate Bryn Mawr, and I won't blame him a scrap. You
must----"
"That has nothing to do with it," protested Evelyn, looking embarrassed,
"but I know nothing could have been at all as it is if I hadn't gone
there. With me the trouble wasn't so much a dearth of resources as a
lack of opportunity for devotion. When I got to college I found that the
thing demanded of me was devotion to Bryn Mawr. Every one expected it
and I gave myself up to serving the first thing that needed me."
"But that wasn't anything in Bryn Mawr," objected Louise, "that was
you."
"Don't you think," interposed Edith, "that the personal romance of our
lives takes the place of all impersonal romance of that sort in time?"
"Perhaps," assented Evelyn slowly, "but it is the one romance that
hasn't to rub up against realities. We lived there in a world of our own
creation--a land of dreams. Our dreams for Bryn Mawr may always be
realized; they are never shown to be impossible."
"Well, really," exclaimed Louise, "you seem to be getting very high
falutin, all of you. My feeling about college is that if it hadn't been
for my friends it would have been a hateful place--all hard work and
nothing else. It's the friendships you make there that count."
"To be sure they count," said Edith, "but you might say the same of
boarding-school. I know what it is. It's the student government."
"Now just listen to that," cried Ellen, "you're as bad as other people,
you don't agree at all. You, Edith, talk of self-government, but that
isn't general. And I can't tie myself down to Bryn Mawr. We all think
Bryn Mawr the best of----"
"Twenty years hence this weather
May tempt us from office stools;
We may be slow on the feather,
And seem to the boys old fools.
But we'll still swing together
And swear by the best of schools,"
sang a merry voice in the doorway and with one accord the girls sprang
to their feet to welcome the singer. But she continued serenely,--"The
same idea may be found in the lines of another well-known song:
"'When the cares of life o'ertake us--'"
The last lines were lost in the vehemence with which Ellen and Edith
greeted the newcomer.
"You piece of absurdity," urged Edith impatiently, "stop your mimicry
and tell us how you got here."
"Without adventure, my excitable Edith, till I came upon this strange
gathering, perhaps the strangest gathering ever known to the
scientist,--for as Leuwenhoek says----" The change of voice in the last
words, and the immediate response from her listeners showed a
traditional joke. But she went on immediately, "I'm on my way to Bryn
Mawr and I dropped in to remind you that you've all promised to bear me
company. I was afraid you might forget. A trip there from Philadelphia
is less of an undertaking than one from Emmonsville, Montana. And I'm
going to pass the night with you, fair Ellen. I wrote to you warning you
of my intention about two weeks ago. My trunk is already at your house,
and I have been there; but was sent to bring you home. Your mother was
afraid you would forget you were to dine with Mrs. Boughton and help her
with a Dean or a Bishop,--something architectural and impressive."
"I had forgotten all about it and I haven't a minute to lose," said
Ellen, as she and Marjorie hurried off amid the protests of the others.
Ellen begged Marjorie to come upstairs with her and amuse her while she
dressed; but Marjorie refused to talk, insisting on hearing all about
Ellen's visits of the afternoon. She passed her comment on the
characters in the narrative, comment genial, friendly, sympathetic, till
Ellen came to Bertha Christie's part. On a sudden Marjorie's indignation
blazed out.
"Ellen, is it that you have failed to understand Bryn Mawr, or that you
have willfully misunderstood? You have accepted the judgment of the
outside world and have treated those freaks as representatives of Bryn
Mawr. Have you forgotten how they were ignored, jeered at, anything but
accepted by everybody but a few freshmen? They defied college spirit,
mocked at common sense and still do. And the world sets them down as
types! Bertha Christie with her menagerie of intimates intolerant of the
commonplace! I could pity them if people like you didn't make them of so
much importance."
"Intolerant, maybe I am," in answer to a feeble protest from Ellen, "I'm
rather proud of being intolerant of a set of sophisticated hermit-crabs,
a few puling nuns who've gone to school to the melancholy Jacques. No
wonder I hear queer things about Bryn Mawr when you go to them for ideas
and pass by Edith and Evelyn and a host of others. It's enough to make
one turn cynic. Tolerance! Tolerance of evil, breadth of mind it calls
itself, is the most discouraging thing I meet with. And yet how absurd
it all is. You, so well-balanced, so lofty in your aims, going to those
geese to learn wisdom----"
"They're not geese," protested Ellen at length, "they're unusually
clever girls."
"'A goose,' please remember," quoted Marjorie, regaining her temper with
the reassertion of her sense of humour, "is none the less a goose,
though sun and stars be minced to yield him stuffing! You'd better be
off or you'll have to apologize to the Bishop for keeping him from his
dinner."
II
Greatly to her astonishment Ellen found that she had fallen to the
Bishop's care at dinner. She was not, however, easily appalled by
distinguished people, and she chatted lightly to the stranger. His
beautiful face, benignant and merry, set her completely at her
ease,--the secure ease of the American woman, it seemed to him as he
made mental notes of the effect produced by the exquisite dress, the
vivacity and readiness, the almost boyish frankness, the worldly wisdom.
And all the time he wondered why there recurred to him the thought of a
serious nature, an intellectual nature, free from worldliness and
triviality.
Ellen was giving herself up to the enjoyment of the moment, giving her
best to a listener so responsive and stimulating and she was all the
more ready to do so because of the concentrated thought of the day. But
she was not to escape for long, for she heard her companion say, "You
have been a student at Bryn Mawr, they tell me, Miss Blake, and I have
been greatly interested in hearing so; for I think it a most lovely
spot, quite an ideal sort of place. Its airs of age are very clever too,
very deceptive. It impressed me as an old place. An almost reverential
feeling stirred me, so marked was the sense of dignity. It is in a word
academic. Everywhere one may see that bewildering mixture of history and
aspiration."
"We can't help feeling a little proud that after so few years of
existence it should begin to be impressive as well as beautiful," said
Ellen, who hardly welcomed the return to the subject that had engrossed
her thoughts so long, though she could not resist the enthusiasm of one
familiar with the English universities.
"Of course, in this country one never wonders at rapidity of growth, but
I must confess that æsthetic charm does not always accompany it. That
delightful president of yours has secured both."
"She is a worker of wonders. She has plans for the place now that exceed
all our dreams."
"Of course years may mellow the ugliest spot and association endear it,
but after all 'virtue is loveliest in lovely guise.' The gift of beauty
is not to be despised. Even the most casual visitor must acknowledge a
spell in that college of yours altogether independent of the mysterious
charm that you who know it intimately find for yourselves,--to some
degree what I am sure people would find in my own university were they
to go there ignorant of its wealth of history. But they are outsiders,"
he continued musingly, almost as though he had forgotten the existence
of the girl to whom he was talking, "they see only the outward show,
they are forever shut out from a share in that spirit that is the
immortal part of the university, that persists in spite of change."
The old man's memories awoke at these words, and in his reminiscences he
unfolded for Ellen picture after picture of that old world school, and
flattered her with a sight of the thing her Alma Mater might become. For
she listened to tales that made distant things seem real and present to
her, stories of the frailties of men whose names had been beacons to her
intellect. Her emotions were stirred by the tender humour that summoned
up for her the personalities that had touched his own boyhood, and had
left their impress on the life of Oxford.
The bishop's attention was challenged by a gentleman across the table
with a question on South Africa, and for the rest of the evening Ellen
shared her friend with the other guests.
Before she left she found a chance to tell Mrs. Boughton how delightful
her companion had been. "Well, Ellen, to be candid," with an indulgent
smile at the girl whom she liked in spite of her brains, "I should not
have honoured you so much had he not asked to have you for a neighbour.
But you needn't lay the credit to your attractions. I was running over
the people he would meet this evening and when I came to you, that he
might not expect an angel, I mentioned your only faults,--that you had
been to college and spelled woman with a large W. But I told him that as
a rule you kept these peculiarities in the background. However it was
your having been to college that interested him, for he wanted to see
what sort of women Bryn Mawr turned out. Of course I told him he
couldn't judge by you--you were an exception--that he would have to see
a few specimens like your friend Miss Christie or Augusta Barneson
Coles."
As she drove home Ellen's thoughts turned to Marjorie Heywood and her
plans for the next day. The talk at dinner had decided Ellen to go with
the others. Though she lived so near, she found little pleasure in going
out to Bryn Mawr nowadays, for everything seemed changed and she felt
nothing but resentment that the past should have been so easily
forgotten, its ways so quickly superseded.
Her careless reading of Marjorie's letter had made her arrival a
surprise, and Ellen experienced a sense of relief at Marjorie's
appearance. Her relief showed how apprehensive she had been of the
changes possible in ten years' time, and above all in a ten years so
trying as those that Marjorie had passed through. Just when she had
seemed well started in her chosen work she had had to give up everything
and care for a worthless brother. She had had to fight poverty for
herself and him, and for him disease and evil. The cheerful letters that
had come to Ellen now and then, had brought her little satisfaction,
they were so impersonal. It had been in vain that Edith reminded her
that Marjorie had always been impersonal, reticent. Putting herself into
everything she did and said was her way of talking about herself. It had
been in vain too that Edith contended that Marjorie's enthusiasm for
righteousness and humorous freshness of mind were her safeguard against
old age. "Marjorie will be just the same," she maintained, "when she is
a hundred years old." To-night for the first time, Ellen believed her.
Ten years! Could it be ten years? And Marjorie still the same, the old
spirit of raillery gleaming in her eyes, the irresistible quiver at the
corners of the mouth?
Ellen found her mother and Marjorie in the full swing of a good talk.
They had been linked in their sympathetic understanding of one another
since early in freshman year, when Marjorie had spent a Sunday with
Ellen. And to-night they had no remembrance of the interval that had
passed since they had last been together. Ellen longed to throw herself
into one of the easy chairs and share in the ardour of conversation; but
she remembered her speech.
"If I am to fall in with your plan, and I am afraid I am too weak to
defy your indomitable will, I must write that wretched speech to-night.
I don't dare trust myself to write it at Bryn Mawr with you to beguile
me," was her answer to Marjorie's entreaties that she should stop and
tell them all about her evening.
"Oh, sit up all night, if you'll get to Bryn Mawr by doing it," answered
Marjorie with a nod to Mrs. Blake who was about to remonstrate. "I'll
assist you by the subtle influence of my presence and read the while.
"What do I want to read? Oh, anything at all, thank you, Mrs.
Blake,--something that will keep me from interrupting Ellen. Yes, that's
just the thing," and she took the book that Mrs. Blake handed her and
started upstairs.
As the girls reached the room Ellen said, "I've a good mind to give the
whole thing up. I'm perfectly hopeless about it."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," asserted Marjorie. "You'll just sit
down there and write."
"It will be a perfunctory business at that rate," objected Ellen, "I
don't feel as though I could write a word."
"Never mind that," retorted Marjorie, "but just see that you get through
with it to-night. A body can't get any good of you with it on your mind.
And that's one of the things I came on for."
With that Marjorie opened her book and Ellen sat down to her task. It
went slowly at first. She wrote little and that with constant reference
to her notes. But after a time she seemed to find the thoughts coming
more quickly.
Marjorie's book did not seem to hold her attention. Her thoughts seemed
borne beyond it, and her eyes wandered about the room, noting the
restfulness of the golden brown on the walls, the preponderance of
etchings--landscapes for the most part--the low bookcase stretching the
full length of the wall, the ornaments, obviously the choice of one more
susceptible to form than to colour. There was in the room nothing
brilliant, nothing conspicuous. Taking in the details, her glance came
at length to rest on Ellen herself as she bent over the old-fashioned
desk. She was turned so that Marjorie could see a little more than her
profile. And Marjorie's expression was one of affectionate amusement as
she watched the serious, almost stern lines of the face, the gravity in
the eyes, when they were occasionally raised.
For some time Marjorie observed her closely and then broke in upon the
silence with,--"I'm drifting irresistibly to conversation or drowsiness,
I don't know which, but in any case I'd much better away to bed. So
good-night and good luck."
Then just as she reached the door she turned laughingly to Ellen and
said, "Your hair is just as nice as ever; but I'm afraid you've got the
world tied to your little finger."
But Ellen merely nodded and smiled at the sound of Marjorie's voice, not
hearing one word of the taunt.
III
Marjorie had had her way and the five friends were now spending the last
day of their visit to Bryn Mawr, as they had spent the others, picking
up old threads and discovering new ones.
The changes since their day were many and to Marjorie, seeing them for
the first time, they seemed like personal affronts, rousing in her that
passion of resentment which is the lunacy of the graduate. The old gate
was done away with. The old road no longer existed. A long stretch of
buildings struck her eye unfamiliarly. Taylor had shrunk itself among
the trees and its dear ugliness was retired from the gaze of approaching
visitors. But the alterations were so skillful that the alumnæ soon felt
an admiring ownership in them and quickly embraced the changes.
Almost the only familiar figures to be seen were those of college
servants there since the beginning, one of whom, William, once well-nigh
universal in his activities, was now so highly differentiated that he
seemed to do nothing but carry the mails. He was a repository of
traditions, and he delighted forlorn alumnæ by his air of proprietorship
in the past as well as in the present. Small wonder that, when they
found their doings sunk into a mere tradition and marked the shortness
of memory and self-importance of the undergraduates, they turned for
cheer to William's flattery and refused to consider its ambiguities.
"No, no, miss, none of our young ladies now are like the young ladies
when you were here. In your time they certainly was young ladies.
"And your name, miss? It's the same I suppose, I'm afraid to call any of
you by name, there's so many married, you see, and they might be
offended if I didn't remember the gentleman's name, you see. I keep
track of you all by reading the list of names and who's dead and
married. Talking of marriages, miss, so Dr. ---- is married. Well, he's
the last of our professors I'd a thought of marrying. Well, changes is
changes, miss, when all's said and done."
On this their last afternoon, Susan Everett and Beatrice O'Hara had
joined the five where they were sitting under the cherry tree in front
of Taylor. Their talk was of the undergraduates and the zest with which
they listened to tales of those first days.
"Their seeming disregard of us and our doings is the result of
ignorance, not of indifference," Edith was saying, "but their curiosity
is now thoroughly aroused."
"Oh, yes indeed," groaned Marjorie, "they've decided they'll collect the
traditions and if you've the age of Methuselah and the memory of
Macaulay, they wind you up and you can be doing nothing at all but
telling them stories. And you've to stop and explain to them who the
Polyglot is and the Gifted, and even I can't quite make clear to them
those treasures of individuality. All you get for your pains is, 'Oh
yes! one of the professors.'"
Her plaint seemed to be justified, for across from Pembroke some girls
came running and when they saw the group under the tree, one of them
called out,--"Oh, here you are, Miss Heywood! May we not come and learn
some more history?"
And as though Marjorie's consent were a foregone conclusion, they sat
down on the grass at her feet and settled themselves as children will
for the treat in store.
"Come, Tommie, tell us a story and play the fool for us, as you used to
do," said Susan Everett lapsing into the old name and desirous that
Marjorie should assume her old character.
"I should have drifted naturally into my accustomed rôle, had you kept
still a moment; but introductory remarks are death to spontaneity. And,
like Amanda Jones, I want my little fun spontaneous.
"Now, you never knew Amanda Jones," she continued to the undergraduates,
"but by that historic utterance she deprived you of a custom. Did you
ever think why you never had a class-day at Bryn Mawr? You know you
never have had one, and if you ever do the ghost of Amanda Jones will
haunt the campus.
"It was the year we graduated, and we," indicating her companions, "had
been sitting up into the small hours arranging for a class-day. The
first class had gone out in solemn dignity, but we craved something
more; we would have a class-day. We had an elaborate program made out,
amusing, but academic, without doubt the cleverest entertainment that
has ever been or ever will be. We had written an inimitable parody of
the _Clouds_,--so funny, so much funnier than anything Aristophanes ever
did. Humour so subtle was never heard. We couldn't read it ourselves
without weeping with laughter. Well, the parts were assigned, the
costumes half made, the invitations sent out, when of a sudden a class
meeting was called at Amanda's request. As soon as preliminaries were
over she arose, made a telling arraignment of class-day, referred
touchingly to former graduations at Bryn Mawr, and then she, who had
never even gone to an entertainment, much less invented one, paused
dramatically, and slowly enunciated, 'we've always had our little fun
spontaneous!' She carried the day, and still carries it, and there is no
such thing as class-day at Bryn Mawr."
"Amanda wasn't about when we were practicing for our comb-orchestra,"
laughed Beatrice. "Poor Amanda! She didn't know that the deliberations
beforehand were half the fun."