THE QUALITY OF MERCY
The next morning Grace felt singularly dispirited as she went down to
breakfast. It had been raining, and the dreary outlook caused the gloomy
lines, "The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year," to run
through her head with maddening persistency.
"What's the matter, Grace?" inquired Emma Dean. "That chief-mourner
expression of yours is doubly depressing on a day like this. Did you eat
too much fudge last night, or have you been conditioned in math?"
"You are a wild guesser, Emma," returned Grace, smiling faintly. "My
troubles are of an entirely different nature. But how did you know we
made fudge last night, and why didn't you come in and have some?"
"I never go where I am not invited," was the significant retort.
"Nonsense!" declared Grace. "You are always welcome, and you know it.
The spread was in Miriam's room, but you know who your friends are,
don't you?"
"Don't worry, I'm not offended," Emma assured Grace good-humoredly. "I
came in just before the ten-thirty bell last night and heard sounds of
revelry as I passed by."
"There's plenty of fudge on our table," put in Miriam Nesbit. "Help
yourself to it whenever the spirit moves you."
"Where is Mildred Taylor this morning?" asked Irene Evans, glancing
toward Mildred's vacant place.
"Miss Taylor is ill this morning," answered a prim voice from the end of
the table.
With one accord all eyes were turned in the direction of the voice. The
Anarchist had actually spoken at the table! It was unbelievable. What
followed was even more surprising. The Anarchist swept the table with a
defiant look, then said, with startling distinctness, "If she has not
fully recovered by to-night I shall send for a physician. In the
meantime I shall remain with her to care for her."
"That is very kind in you, I am sure," ventured Emma Dean. Surprise had
tied the tongues of the others.
"Not in the least," contradicted the Anarchist coldly. "As her roommate,
common humanity demands that I assume a certain amount of responsibility
for her welfare."
"Oh, yes, of course," agreed Emma hastily. "Please let us know when we
may run in to see her. Excuse me, everybody. I must run upstairs and
study a little before going to chapel."
Several freshmen followed her lead and filed decorously out the door
with preternaturally solemn faces that broke into smiles the moment the
door closed behind them.
The Anarchist, however, went on eating her breakfast, quite unaware that
she had created the slightest ripple of amusement. When Elfreda rose to
leave the dining room the strange young woman rose, too, and walked
sedately out of the room in the stout girl's wake.
"Elfreda has evidently made a conquest," remarked Miriam to Grace. "See
how tamely the haughty Anarchist follows at her heels."
"It's astonishing, but splendid, I think," said Grace decidedly. "Isn't
it strange how much influence for good one girl can have over another?
For some reason or other Elfreda knows just how to bring the best in
Miss Atkins to the surface. Shall we run up and see Miss Taylor for a
moment?"
"You go this morning, Grace," urged Miriam. "I'll stop and see her at
noon. I haven't the time just now."
"I'll go with you," volunteered Anne.
Grace knocked gently on the slightly opened door, then, receiving no
answer, opened it softly. She paused irresolutely on the threshold, Anne
peering over her shoulder. Laura Atkins had left the room, but Mildred
Taylor, fully dressed, sat at the window looking listlessly out. If she
heard Grace's light knock she paid no attention to it. It was not until
Grace said rather diffidently, "We heard you were ill and thought we'd
come in to see you," that the girl at the window turned toward Grace.
Her piquant little face was drawn and pale, and her eyes looked
suspiciously red. She eyed Grace almost sulkily, then said slowly, "It
was kind of you to come, but I shall be all right to-morrow." Under
Grace's serious glance her eyes fell, then, to her visitors' amazement,
she burst into tears. Grace crossed the room. Her arm slid across the
sobbing freshman's shoulders in silent sympathy. "Can't you tell me what
troubles you?" she asked softly.
Mildred shook off the comforting arm with a muttered: "Let me alone. I
can't tell you, of all persons. Go away."
"Why can't you tell me?" persisted Grace gently.
"Because I can't. Won't you please go. I don't wish to talk to any one,"
wailed Mildred.
Grace walked toward the door, her eyes on the weeping girl. Anne, who
had kept strictly in the background during the little scene, stepped out
into the hall, Grace following.
"That was hardly my idea of a cordial reception," was Anne's dry comment
as they entered their own room.
"That young woman has something on her mind," declared Grace. "Her
illness is not physical. It is mental. Either some one has torn her
feelings to shreds or else she has done something she is ashamed of and
remorse has overtaken her."
"Unless she has had bad news from home or has been conditioned,"
suggested Anne.
"I don't believe it's either," said Grace, shaking her head. "I believe
this is something different. Of late she has been acting strangely. Ever
since the reception she has avoided me. Anne Pierson, do you see the
time? We'll be late for chapel!" gasped Grace in consternation.
With one accord the two friends gathered up their wraps, putting them on
as they ran.
After chapel Grace left Anne at the door of Science Hall and went on to
Overton Hall. She wished to see Miss Duncan before her first class
recited, and learn the latest developments of her case. Until chapel
exercises were over, Grace had refused to allow her mind to dwell on her
trouble, but now, as she climbed slowly up the broad stairway to Miss
Duncan's class room, the whole unhappy affair rose before her.
Miss Duncan was sitting at her desk as Grace entered. She looked at her
watch, smiled frankly at Grace and said in her usual businesslike way,
"I can give you only ten minutes, Miss Harlowe."
The teacher's friendly tone made Grace's heart leap. She recognized the
fact that Miss Duncan no longer looked upon her with suspicion.
"Your innocence was clearly proven by Miss Ashe," said Miss Duncan in
her blunt fashion, coming at once to the point. "I recognize your claim
to the authorship of the theme. The other young woman was the real
plagiarist. It was a contemptible trick and not in keeping with Overton
standards."
"What will happen to this other girl, Miss Duncan?" asked Grace
apprehensively, her eyes fixed on Miss Duncan.
"What do you think she deserves?" inquired Miss Duncan quizzically.
"A chance to redeem herself," was the prompt reply. "No one except you
knows who she is. I don't wish to know her identity, and I am sure Miss
Ashe doesn't. Couldn't you send for the girl and tell her that it would
be a secret between just you two. That you were willing to forget it had
happened if she were willing to start all over again and build her
college foundation fairly and squarely. It wouldn't be of any benefit to
her to place her fault before the dean. No doubt she would be dismissed,
and that dismissal might spoil her whole life."
"You are an eloquent pleader, Miss Harlowe," returned Miss Duncan. "As
this is strictly an affair of one of my classes, I consider that I am at
liberty to do as I think best about placing this matter before the dean.
If I did see fit to do so I hardly think it would mean dismissal,
particularly if I took you with me to plead the cause of the offender.
Come to me this afternoon after my last class and I will give you my
answer."
Grace left the class room far more cheerfully than she had entered. Her
own vindication had not impressed her half so deeply as Miss Duncan's
apparently lenient attitude toward the girl who had been false to
herself and to Overton.