A MAY-DAY RESOLUTION
The spring had been a late one at Harding, but it had come at last with a
sudden rush and a glare of breathless midsummer heat. The woods of
Paradise were alive with fresh young green, gay with bird songs, sweet
with the smell of growing things. The campus too was bright in its new
livery. The tulips in front of the Hilton House flaunted their scarlet
and gold cups in the sunshine. The great bed of narcissus around the side
entrance of college hall sweetened the air with its delicate perfume, and
out on the back campus the apple-trees, bare and brown only a day or so
before, were wrapped in a soft pink mist that presaged the coming glory
of bud and blossom.
It was there, in the square of dappled sunshine and shadow under the
apple-trees, at once the loveliest and most sequestered spot on the
campus, that the Harding girls were holding a May-day fete. It was a
strictly impromptu affair. Somebody had discovered at breakfast the day
before that to-morrow would be May-day, and somebody else had suggested
that as it was also Saturday, there ought to be some sort of celebration.
A May queen was decreed "too old"; a May masque too much trouble. Then
somebody said, "Let's all just dress up as little girls and roll hoops,"
and the idea met with instant favor. It was passed along at chapel and
morning classes, and at three o'clock the next afternoon the whole
college, its hair in waving curls or tightly braided pig-tails, its
skirts shortened, its waists lengthened and encircled by sashes, had
gathered in the space under the apple-trees, carrying hoops, dolls and
skipping ropes, intent on getting all the fun possible out of being
little once more.
There were all sorts of children there; little country girls with checked
gingham aprons and sunbonnets, demure little Puritan maids with cork-
screw curls and pantalets, sturdy little girls in sailor suits, sweet
little girls in ruffled muslins, tall little girls, all arms and ankles.
There was even a Topsy, gay in yellow calico, and an almond-eyed Japanese
whose long kimono and high-piled hair prevented her taking part in the
active American games of her mates. The taller girls were necessarily
absurd. Some of the smaller ones were surprisingly realistic. And all,
big and little, danced and laughed and squabbled, tripped over their
skipping ropes, pursued their hoops or played with their dolls under the
apple-trees in true "little girl" fashion and with the utmost zest and
abandon.
Miss Ferris's room at the Hilton House overlooked the apple orchard, and
presently she and Miss Raymond strolled out together to see the fun. They
were greeted with a shout of joyous welcome from a noisy group in the
farthest corner of the lawn, who immediately joined hands and came in a
long, wavering line, "hippity-hopping" to meet them.
"Oh, Miss Ferris," called Dorothy King from one end of the line, "we want
you and Miss Raymond to be judge. Which of us looks the youngest?"
"We've been disputing about it all the afternoon," added Mary Brooks
breathlessly from the middle of the line. "You see we're all dressed
alike in white muslin and blue sashes. Now Miss Raymond, don't I look
lots younger than Dottie?"
"Stand in a row," commanded Miss Ferris laughingly, and the chattering
group straightened out demurely, with much nudging of elbows and planting
of feet on an imaginary line. Miss Raymond and Miss Ferris considered a
moment, and then held a brief consultation.
"We both decide in favor of Betty Wales," announced Miss Ferris. "She
looks about nine and none of the rest of you are under twelve."
"There! What did I tell you!" shrieked Betty gaily, her curls bobbing,
her sash ends flying.
"I protest," called Katherine Kittredge. "Betty doesn't look over twelve
any of the time, and the rest of us look twenty. We've taken off eight
years and she's only dropped five. 'Tain't fair!" and Katherine burst
into a beautiful "little girl" boohoo.
"Don't you wanter hold my dollie?" said Mary Brooks, tendering a
handkerchief puppet to Miss Raymond with a perfect imitation of childish
innocence.
"Oh, no, come an' tell us a story," begged Babbie, twisting her white
apron into a roll.
"You'd ruther roll hoops, hadn't you?" said Katherine to Miss Ferris.
"Please tie on my hair-ribbon," demanded Bob, who in spite of a much
beruffled dress and a resplendent array of doll and sash-ribbon, looked
exactly as tomboyish as usual.
Miss Ferris and Miss Raymond appeared to be properly amused by all this
nonsense, and Miss Raymond, escorted by a little crowd of her special
admirers, went on to the crest of the hill to see Alice Waiters doll
party, which was being held on the grass at the top of the dust-pan
slope. But Miss Ferris refused all the invitations. She had only come out
for a moment, she said, and must go straight back to her work.
Betty and Mary Brooks walked over to the Hilton House with her. When she
had gone in Betty seized Mary's hand and pulled her around the corner of
the house. "Let's trill up to Eleanor," she said. "I don't think she's
been out at all."
Mary looked longingly back at the May party. "I believe--yes, they've
found a hurdy-gurdy, Betty. What's the use of bothering if she doesn't
know enough to come down?"
"Just a minute," pleaded Betty. "Here she is. Oh, Eleanor, come out and
watch, even if you haven't dressed up. It's piles of fun."
"Is it?" said Eleanor uncertainly, touched by Betty's constant
thoughtfulness. "Well, perhaps I will come later. I must finish a letter
first."
"Finish a letter," echoed Mary, "with that hurdy-gurdy going! I admire
your concentration. Betty, truly I can't stand it another minute. I'm
going back."
"All right. Good-bye, Eleanor. Hurry up and come," called Betty, flying
after Mary down the path.
Eleanor Watson looked after them for a moment and then with a little
despairing sigh sat down again at her desk. She was writing to Jim. It
was almost a month since she had sent off her last letter to him and yet
there seemed to be nothing to say. She added a line or two, dropped her
pen and went back to the window. The girls were dancing to the music of
the hurdy-gurdy. Alice Waite was standing on the edge of the crowd,
hugging a huge rag-doll in her arms as if it was her dearest treasure.
Eleanor shrugged her shoulders impatiently. The whole affair was
perfectly absurd. She had told Alice Waite so at luncheon, in her
haughtiest manner. She picked up a book from the table and began to read,
but in spite of her determination to ignore it, her thoughts would wander
to the pretty picture outside her window. The shouts and laughter, the
gay babel of talk with the undertone of droning music rang in her ears.
She slammed down her window, but still she could hear them.
What a good time they were having! Yes, they were absurd, with the
absurdity that belongs to youth--happy, light-hearted, inconsequent
youth. Eleanor Watson felt that she had left that sort of thing far
behind her. Before the summer when Judge Watson had brought home a gay
young wife to take his daughter's place at the head of his household,
before the night on the river when she had seen herself as Harding
college saw her, before the Indian summer afternoon when she had fought
and lost her battle on the stairway of the main building,--before those
crises she could have been a happy little girl with the rest of them, but
not now. Her heart was full of bitter, passionate envy. How easy life was
for them, while for her it seemed to grow harder and more impossible
every day. In the week that had passed since the sugaring-off she had
seen Dora once, and she had been more hurt by the restraint and
embarrassment that the child could not hide than by all that had gone
before. How was she to win back Dora's confidence and change Betty's pity
to respect?
She could not stand that music another minute. She would go for a long
walk--far enough at least to escape from hurdy-gurdies and chattering
girls. She got her hat, pulled on a light silk coat, for in spite of the
unseasonable heat the late afternoon would be cool, and hurried down-
stairs. Hastening through the lower hall she almost ran into Miss Ferris,
the last person she wanted to meet.
"My dear," Miss Ferris cut short her apology, "we evidently have too much
to think about, both of us." She looked at Eleanor keenly. "Why aren't
you out being a little girl with the rest of them?" she asked.
"I didn't feel like it, Miss Ferris," said Eleanor, turning away from the
searching gray eyes, "I was going for a walk instead."
"Alone?"
"Yes."
"Then"--Miss Ferris hesitated--"may I come too, or don't you want me?"
For an astute person Miss Ferris developed all at once an amazing
density. She did not seem to notice the ungracious stiffness of Eleanor's
assent.
"Good!" she cried enthusiastically, running off like a girl to get ready.
Eleanor waited, her face set in hard lines of resentful endurance. She
could not openly insult Miss Ferris, who had been kindness itself to her
all the year, but she would be as cold and offish as she pleased.
"Now which way shall we go?" asked Miss Ferris eagerly as they started
off.
"It makes no difference to me, Miss Ferris." Eleanor's tone was frigidly
courteous.
"Then suppose we go to Paradise. It's always lovely there."
Almost in silence they climbed down the steep slope that leads to the
water path, crossed the sunny stretch of meadow land and came out into
the dim, silent wood beyond. Here the path widened and Miss Ferris, who
had led the way, waited for Eleanor to come up with her.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she said with a little catch in her voice. "There's
nothing quite like the woods in spring, is there? Oh, I'm so glad I ran
away!"
"Ran away?" questioned Eleanor.
"Yes, from my work and my worries and myself out into this big,
beautiful, new world. Doesn't it make you wish you could send out fresh
shoots and blossoms yourself, and help make the world glad?"
"I'm afraid not," said Eleanor coldly, and again she felt the gray eyes,
keen and yet very kindly, fastened on her face.
A turn in the path brought the end of the grove into view. "Oh, dear!"
exclaimed Miss Ferris sadly. "I'd forgotten that Paradise was so very
small. Let's go back to that big pine-tree with the great gnarled roots
and sit down by the water and forget that we aren't lost in a lovely
primeval wilderness."
Eleanor followed her in silence and they found seats on the roots of the
big tree, Eleanor choosing one as far as she dared from her companion.
"And now," said Miss Ferris, as soon as they were settled, "tell me all
about it."
"About what?" inquired Eleanor steadily.
"What you were running away from."
Eleanor flushed angrily. "Miss Ferris, did any one ask you to--"
"No," said Miss Ferris quickly. "No one told me that you were in trouble.
I wish some one had. I'm afraid I've been very blind. I've let you worry
yourself almost ill over something and never asked you if I could help.
I've been so busy being proud of you this year that I've never even
noticed how tired and worn out you were getting."
"Proud!" repeated Eleanor, scornfully.
"Yes," said Miss Ferris, firmly, "proud. You've made a splendid record,
Miss Watson,--a remarkable record, considering last year."
"Please don't. You wouldn't say that if you understood."
Miss Ferris looked puzzled. "Don't tell me anything that you'd rather
not," she said, "but there is one thing that a friend always wants to
know. Do you see your way out, Miss Watson?"
"There isn't any way out."
"Oh, but I think there is always one somewhere," said Miss Ferris,
brightly. "You're quite sure we couldn't find it between us?"
"Quite sure."
"If you ever change your mind--"
"Thank you," said Eleanor, curtly.
There was a little silence. "We runaways mustn't be gone too long. Have
you any idea what time it is?" asked Miss Ferris.
Eleanor did not answer, and Miss Ferris looked up to find her crying
softly, her face hidden in one hand, her shoulders shaking with
suppressed sobs. For a moment Miss Ferris watched her without speaking.
Then she moved nearer and stretched out her hand to take Eleanor's free
one.
"I'm very, very sorry," she said kindly. "I wish I could have helped."
[Illustration: ELEANOR DID NOT ANSWER]
To her surprise Eleanor's sobs ceased suddenly. "I'd rather tell any one
else," she said wearily. "I hate to have you despise me, Miss Ferris."
For answer Miss Ferris only gave the hand she held a soft, friendly
little squeeze.
Then it came out--the sad, shameful story in a fierce, scornful torrent
of words. When it was told, Eleanor lifted her head and faced Miss Ferris
proudly. "Now you know." she said. "Now you can see that I was right--
that there isn't any way out."
Miss Ferris waited a moment. "Miss Watson," she said at last, "I can't
feel quite as you do about it. I think that if you honestly regret what
you did, if you are bound to live it down, if you know that in all your
life long you are never going to do anything of the sort again,--never
going to want anything badly enough to play false for it,--why then the
way out is perfectly plain. That is the way out--to let this time teach
you never to do anything of the sort again."
Eleanor shook her head hopelessly. "But don't you see that I can't put it
behind me--that I can't live it down, as you say. The girls won't let me
forget that I was taken into Dramatic Club the first time. They won't let
me forget that I am the only sophomore who is practically sure of a place
on the 'Argus' board. I tried--" Eleanor gave a pitiful little history of
her efforts to establish her literary reputation on a fair basis with the
song and the story.
"I see," said Miss Ferris, thoughtfully. "Miss Watson, if I understand
you correctly, you find yourself in the position of a man who, having
stolen a precious stone, repents and strains every nerve to pay for his
treasure. But as he is commonly supposed to be the lawful owner of the
stone, his neighbors naturally resent his eagerness to gain more riches
and consider him grasping. It's going to be very hard for you to earn
that stone, isn't it?"
"The thing to do," said Eleanor with quick decision, "is to give it
back."
Miss Ferris waited.
"I don't know that you will believe me," Eleanor went on after a minute,
"because it seems so unlikely; but this is the first time I ever thought
of resigning from Dramatic Club."
"You must remember," said Miss Ferris, quietly, "that if you should
resign now, you would never be voted into the society again, no matter
how much your work might deserve recognition."
"Yes," said Eleanor.
"And that so unusual a proceeding will create comment. People who don't
understand will be likely to say unpleasant things."
"I don't believe I should mind--much," said Eleanor, unsteadily. "It's
the people who do understand that I care about--and myself. I want to
feel that I've done a little something to repair damages. Of course this
won't make things just right. Some other girl in 19-- ought to have been
in the first four, but it will be something, won't it?"
"Yes," said Miss Ferris, soberly. "I should say it would be a great
deal."
The walk back through the green aisle of wood and thicket was almost as
silent as the walk out had been, but there was a new spring in Eleanor's
step and an expression of resolute relief on her face that had not been
there an hour before.
As they turned into the campus Eleanor broke silence. "Miss Ferris, if
the man should return the stone, do you think he ought to confess to
having stolen it?"
Miss Ferris looked up at the orchard on the hill where the girls were
dispersing with much talk and laughter, with gay good-byes and careless
snatches of song, and then back to the girl beside her. "No," she said at
last. "If we were all old in the ways of this world and wise and kind
enough, it might do, but not now, I think. I agree with the girls who
have been keeping your secret. I believe you can accomplish more for
others and for yourself, in the large sense, by stating no reason for
your action. I know we can trust you."
"Thank you," said Eleanor. Then all at once a strong revulsion of feeling
overcame her. "But I haven't promised to resign. I don't believe I can do
it. Think what it will mean to drop out of things--to be thought queerer
than ever--to--"
"Caught red-handed!" cried a mocking voice behind them, and three
stealthy figures bounded out from a tangle of shrubbery. Betty, Madeline
and Mary Brooks had come down the hill by the back path and, making a
detour to leave Rachel at the gate nearest her "little white house round
the corner," had discovered the truants and stolen upon them unaware.
"We're sorry you both had so much to do," said Betty, demurely.
"And that you don't appreciate May parties," added Mary.
"And haven't a proper feeling for hurdy-gurdies," finished Madeline.
"Ah, but you can't tell what deep philosophical problems we may have been
working out answers for down in Paradise," said Miss Ferris, playfully.
Betty slipped a soft arm around Eleanor's waist. "I'd rather go for a
walk with her than to any May party that was ever invented," she
whispered. "Isn't she just splendid?"
"Yes," agreed Eleanor, solemnly, "so splendid that I guess I can't live
up to her, Betty."
"Nonsense! That's the very reason why she is splendid--that she makes
people live up to her, whether they can or not."
And then, feeling that she was treading on delicate ground, Betty hastily
changed the subject.
"I wonder," she asked the green lizard that night, "I wonder if she could
have been telling Miss Ferris about it, and if they were talking it over
when we three big blunderers rushed up to them. Oh, dear!"
Then she added aloud to Helen, who was vigorously doing breathing
exercises before her mirror, "I guess I'll go and see Mary Brooks. I feel
like being amused."
Helen let her breath out with a convulsive gasp. "I saw her go out," she
said. "She went right after supper."
"Then," said Betty, decidedly, "you've got to stop breathing and amuse me
yourself."