FAREWELLS.
The rest of the time until graduation was like a dream to Molly and her
friends whose hearts were filled with a sort of two-pronged
homesickness; homesickness for home and for Wellington, which now they
were about to leave forever more.
A great many things happened in the space that intervened between the
first of May and the eighteenth of June, when graduation occurred. There
were dances at Exmoor and dances at Wellington and the senior reception
to the juniors. Then there were long quiet evenings when the old crowd
gathered in No. 5 and talked of the future.
It was on one of these warm summer nights that they were draped as usual
about the couches in the mellow glimmer of one Japanese lantern. Judy,
thrumming on the guitar, sang:
"'When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,
And every dog his day.
"'When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among:
God grant you find one face there,
You loved when all was young.'"
"My, that makes me sad," said Jessie. "I feel that I've already lived my
life and am coming back to old Wellington to die with a lot of other
decrepit old persons who used to be young and beautiful."
"Thanks for the compliment about looks," said Edith. "But I don't feel
that way. I'm going forth to conquer. I am going to write books and
books before I come home to die."
"I'm going to write books, too," announced Molly meekly, "but I feel
that I'm not ready to begin yet----"
"You can't begin too young," interrupted Edith.
"I know, but I'm coming back for a post grad. course in"--Molly
hesitated, she hardly knew why--"in English and--and a few other things.
I've got no style----"
"What, are you really coming back?" they cried.
"Nance and I have decided to return," replied Molly. "We are not ready
to join the ranks yet, are we, Nance? Dear Nance is going to polish up
her French literature. I'll be busy enough. I expect to do a lot of
tutoring and other profitable work."
"What shall I do?" groaned Judy. "I don't want to study any more, and,
yet, how can I bear for you two to be at Wellington without me to bother
you."
Molly looked at her and smiled.
"Remember, you are to come home with me this summer, Judy, and maybe
you'll like Kentucky so well you'll want to stay there."
Molly was well aware that her brother Kent had fallen in love with Judy
at first sight, and it didn't occur to her that anybody could resist the
charms of her favorite brother.
"Margaret, why don't you come back?" asked Nance.
"Not me," answered Margaret. "I hear the voice of suffrage calling!"
"We all of us hear voices calling," broke in Katherine. "And each is a
different voice according to our natures. Now Margaret's voice is
soprano, but Jessie hears a deep baritone----"
"Nothing of the sort," cried Jessie.
"'Fess up, now, Jessie, when is it to be?"
The girls all gathered around pretty Jessie and at last, hard pressed,
she said:
"When it does come off you'll have to assemble from the four quarters of
the globe to act as bridesmaids, but the day's not set yet."
"Have you decided on the man?" asked Edith.
"Edith, how can you?" answered Jessie, laughing.
"What are you going to do, Katherine?" asked Molly, when the excitement
had quieted down.
"Teach," answered Katherine bluntly. "I loathe the thing, but a place
awaits me, so I suppose next winter will find me sitting behind a little
table, ringing a bell sharply, and saying, 'Now, girls, pay attention,
please.'" She turned her large melancholy eyes on her sister. "Edith
thinks she's the only writer in the family, but in the intervals of
teaching I intend to surprise her. I've already had one short story
accepted by an obscure but _bona fide_ magazine which hasn't sent me a
check yet."
"Have you heard the joke on Katherine?" put in Edith.
"Do tell," they cried, while Katherine said fiercely: "Now, Edith, you
promised to keep that a secret."
"It's too good to keep. She chose for the subject of her graduating
essay 'The Juvenile Delinquent,' and got it all written and then it
occurred to her that Miss Walker would announce 'The Juvenile
Delinquent, Katherine Williams,' and she could not stand the
implication."
"Poor Katherine," they cried, laughing joyously.
And now Molly was handing around nut cake and cloud bursts, it seemed
almost for the last time, and after that these bright spirits in kimonos
flitted away to their rooms.
A little later, after darkness and quiet had descended, an ecstatic
little giggle broke from Judy, lying alone and staring at the dim
outline of her window. It was too soft a sound to disturb the tired
sleepers in the adjoining rooms, but it meant that Judy had an idea,--an
idea that she could see already realized by the aid of her remarkable
imagination.
Her mind had been reviewing the talk of the evening and revolving about
each of the girls in turn;--Edith and Katherine and Molly, literary and
ambitious; Nance, serious and studious; Jessie, pretty, romantic and
destined for marriage; and Margaret, the able and willing champion of
suffrage. And Judy had smiled as she began to recall certain hours when
Margaret's enthusiasm had waxed high, even so far back as Freshman year,
and her first class presidency. That thought had started others, and as
Judy remembered various amusing incidents of the four years, her "idea"
had flashed upon her. It was then that Judy had hugged herself and
laughed aloud, but it was several nights later that she shared with the
other girls her inspiration.
They had gathered in Otoyo's little room that night,--just the eight
close friends who now grasped every opportunity for one more good time
together. They were a little inclined to sadness, for they had all been
busy with those extra duties that point directly to the closing days of
college life.
Some had posed before the class photographer's camera, some had borne
the weariness of having gowns fitted, and at least two had practiced
their parts for the commencement exercises.
Margaret and Jessie were humming the chorus of one of the Senior class
songs and Otoyo was just beginning to make the tea, when Judy slipped
out of the room with a word of excuse and a promise to return.
Molly turned lazily to Nance who sat close beside her on the couch and
whispered, "Judy is as nervous as a witch these days. She has probably
thought of something to add to her list!"
"Oh, that list!" returned Nance. "She has everything on it now from
white gloves to a trunk strap, and still it grows!"
"'Seniors, seniors, seniors,'" chanted Margaret and Jessie dreamily,
watching Otoyo as she deftly arranged her dainty cups and saucers on
beautiful lacquered trays.
Edith and Katherine were quietly disputing some point about the class
program and absent-mindedly accepting lemon for their tea, when the door
opened and a woman draped closely in black stepped into the room.
"Ah, ha, young ladies," she cried in a high, weird voice that startled
them into instant silence, "so you would pierce the mysterious veil of
the future and read in your teacups the fortune that awaits you? Could
you but possess my occult vision, you would not need to employ such
puerile methods."
Here the somber figure raised two black-gloved arms and held before her
eyes a pair of plain black opera glasses. She had reversed their usual
position and now gazed steadily about the room through the large end of
the glasses.
"Ah, ha," she began again, fixing her roving attention upon Margaret,
who returned her gaze easily, "I see far, far away, through a vista of
crowded seats, a huge platform adorned with distinguished figures. A
pretty woman stunningly gowned is introducing to a breathlessly
expectant audience a tall, striking person. The plaudits of the
multitude drown the sound of her name as it is announced, but our keen
sight enables us to recognize the famous Miss Wakefield! To those who
have long known her, it will not be surprising to learn that her
companion is none other than her college satellite, now Miss
Jessie,--but I cannot quite pronounce the unfamiliar name."
As the voice stopped for a moment, Jessie started toward the strange
figure, but Margaret pulled her back and drew her blushing face down
upon her own shoulder.
At the same time Molly cried, "Where have I seen those shabby old
glasses before?"
And Nance added, "My old bird glasses, or I'm blind!"
Nothing daunted, the prophetess went on in the same weird key, "I see
the gray towers of Wellington looming grandly against a wild autumnal
sky. I see troops of girls crowding across the campus and into
recitation rooms. I see a single figure walking beside the white-haired
President as though discussing the schedule of lectures and the merits
of students, and the figure is that of Miss Oldham,--dear old Nance!"
And the voice of the soothsayer broke suddenly as she turned the glasses
on Nance and Molly.
Then she hurried on, "By forcing my keen vision to its utmost capacity,
I am able to read upon certain profound text books the names of their
joint compilers, Edith and Katherine Williams, the world-famed writers!"
Again the voice paused as the glasses were leveled at the friendly
disputants, long since quieted by the eloquence of the seer.
All this time Otoyo had stood spellbound beside her teapot. Now she
started slightly as the glasses glimmered in her direction.
"Oh, no, no, no," she cried in real distress. "Don't tell me, please,
Mees Kean!"
At that, Judy flung the draperies back from her hair, the glasses to
Nance, and her arms about Otoyo, exclaiming at the same moment:
"You precious child, I don't know any more than your little Buddha does
about your future, but the gods will be good to you and we'll leave it
to them."