A GIRL TO HAVE FRIENDS
"Laura!" It was a soft little call sent fluttering in through the
keyhole. "Laura, are you there?"
Laura with her chin propped on her hands at one of the broad sills
stirred uneasily in her chair and glanced sideways at her roommate who
was seated before the other window. Lucine had stopped reading aloud and
was regarding the door with an irritable frown on her vivid dark face.
"I do wish, Laura, that you would tell Berta Abbott that an engaged sign
on our door means nothing if not the desire for undisturbed privacy. She
is the most inconsiderate person in the junior class. This is the third
time----"
"Laura!" called the voice again, "answer me! I know you are in there.
I've simply got to speak to you one minute. It's awfully important."
Laura half rose with a pleading smile toward Lucine who motioned her
indignantly back to her seat.
"Laura Wallace, stay right there. You promised to help me revise this
essay. You know that I can't do it alone, because I haven't a particle of
critical ability; and the editors say they cannot print it as it is now.
You are exceedingly selfish to think of deserting me just when I most
need your suggestions. The board of editors meets to-night to choose the
material for the next number of the magazine, and if they decline this
again I shan't be eligible for election next month. You promised."
"Laura, there's something I've got to ask you. If you don't come out, I
shall have to take this sign down and walk in my own self. Laura! Ah!"
The door swung open and tall Berta popped in. Slamming it behind her, she
stood with both hands on the knob, her eyes fixed with an expression of
innocent inquiry upon Lucine who had halted in the middle of her sudden
dash across the floor, her hand still outstretched toward the key.
"Excuse me, Miss Brett. Were you just going out? I'm glad I did not
disturb you. Shall I hold it open for you?" She stepped to one side and
waited gravely without moving a muscle till Lucine after a withering
stare had stalked angrily back to her window. The corner of Berta's mouth
gave a quick, queer little twitch before settling back into proper
solemnity.
"Come, Laura. You'd better. I shan't keep you long." At her imperious
gesture Laura slid out of the room at an apologetic angle, her head
twisted for a final shy glance back at Lucine who was apparently absorbed
in her papers.
When safely outside in the corridor Berta seized her about the waist and
whirled her away from all possible earshot through cracks and transom.
"Now then, exit the ogre, or rather eximus nos, leaving the ogre alone.
For what particular reason is she trampling all over you to-day? I didn't
catch all her last speech. You don't mean to say that you have promised
to help her with her writing?"
"Yes," Laura nodded her rough curly head. She was a delicate little thing
with the irregular features that generally accompany such hair. Her
beauty lay in her expression which brightened charmingly from minute to
minute since her escape. "Oh, how good the air smells!" she stopped to
lean from an open window. "Lucine shivers at every draught. It is hard to
manage the ventilation to suit two persons in the same room. I
smother----"
"Of course you smother--and you smother a good many more hours than she
shivers. Trust her for that. Such a little ninny as you are! Don't forget
that you have agreed to room with my best little sister when she enters
next fall. You would not have been thrust in with Lucine Brett this year
if I could have prevented it."
"Oh, but if I can't come back--you know, I'm almost sure I shan't come
back. And anyhow I'm the only friend she has. I've got to stick to her.
If you could hear her mourning over her loneliness! Nobody cares for
her--nobody in all the world! And the girls don't like her. I promised to
be her friend. She--she needs me."
"Humph!" growled Berta sourly, but somehow her arm was stealing around
the slight shoulders so far beneath her own, "that's the silly kind of a
person you are. If any creature needs you, from a lame kitten to a lion
with a toothache, you'll cling. Idiocy, that's what it is! Your brother
warned me last summer to restrict your charities. And now to help her
with her writing, and she your most dangerous rival for the editorship!"
"Ah, but she doesn't know it, you understand. She doesn't know that I am
eligible. The editors have been so awfully kind to me and gave me book
reviews to do and reports to make, and they printed my verses and two
editorials. Every freshman who has had so many words published is
eligible for election on the board at their annual meeting next month.
Lucine's last story was clipped so much that she is short about two
thousand words; and this is her last chance to qualify by getting her
essay accepted for the next issue. I've got to help."
"Yes, certainly you've got to help a rival qualify for a competition in
which she is likely to defeat you. Do you realize that?" Berta swung
Laura around in front of her and studied her curiously while she spoke.
"You are a good steady worker, you understand. You have critical ability
and a simple, sincere style. If elected you would make an excellent
editor, but--now listen, but, I say, you are not a genius like Lucine
Brett. She is brilliant. Oh, I acknowledge that, even if I do despise her
for being selfish and disagreeable and ego----"
"Hush! She tries--she doesn't understand----You mustn't talk that way. I
won't listen. I promised to be her friend. She wonders why the girls
don't like her."
"And yet she expects you to help her defeat you! She is willing to accept
that sacrifice from you! When it means so much to you that----"
"Oh, hush, Berta!" Laura slipped out of the range of that keen
straight-ahead gaze and nestled under the protecting arm again. "She
doesn't know that I am eligible, I tell you. My articles weren't signed
usually except with initials. And she is not thinking about other girls'
qualifications--she's bothered about her own. It's got to be a fair race
with everybody in it, if they want to be. Of course she will be
elected--there isn't a doubt--and I'll be as glad as any one."
"Yes!" Berta's voice veered from sarcasm to genuine anxiety. "You'll be
glad--but you'll be glad at home. You can't come back to college--you
told me so yourself--unless you are elected editor. That's why I called
you out just now. Did your uncle really say that he was disappointed in
your career here?"
Laura cleared her throat. "He doesn't like it because I haven't won any
honors yet. Don't you know how almost every girl here came from a school
where she was the brightest star and carried off all the prizes and
things like that? My uncle doesn't understand. He thinks it is the fault
of the college because I haven't done anything great. Oh, you know,
Berta. I--I do hate to talk in such a conceited way. He doesn't realize
that I am not brighter than the rest and can't dazzle. He wants me to win
an honor that he can put in the papers at home. He says if I don't
distinguish myself this year, I might as well stop and go to the Normal
next fall. He thinks college is too expensive. This editorship is the
only chance, because--because there isn't anything else for our class now
that the offices are filled and committees appointed. He didn't like it
because my articles in the magazine were signed with initials and not the
whole name. He said, 'Well, niece Laura, let me see your name printed
plain in that list of editors, and then we'll decide about next year.'
He--he's disappointed."
"And yet," Berta spoke slowly, "you are going to help Lucine Brett with
that essay. And you know how much my little sister cares about being at
college with you."
Laura gave a startled jump and turned to run. "Oh, Berta, I had
forgotten. She's waiting. I've stayed too long. She'll be so angry!"
"Let her," growled Berta; but Laura had fled.
Meanwhile Lucine when left alone had dropped the sheets of her essay in
her lap and planting her elbows on the sill crouched forward, staring
miserably out at the brown soaked lawn flecked with sodden snowdrifts in
the shadows of the evergreens that were bending before a rollicking March
wind.
"Nobody cares," she mourned, "even Laura doesn't care whether I succeed
or not. I want the girls to like me, but they won't."
Tears of self-pity dimmed her lashes when Laura slipped timidly into the
room and after a worried glance at the scattered papers resumed her
former seat.
"Now, Lucine, if you will read that last paragraph once more, I will try
to see where the difficulty lies. It--it's fine so far."
Lucine looked down at her essay, then across at the attentive small face
that appeared quite plain when fixed in such a worried pucker. "No," she
said at last, "I won't. You are not interested in the essay or in my
hopes of success. You offer to help merely because you think it is your
duty. I refuse to accept such grudging friendship. You toss aside my
affairs at the slightest whim of an outsider, and then expect me to
welcome the remnant of your mental powers. No, thank you."
Laura bit her lip. "I'm sorry," she said, "you ought not to feel that way
about it. I do truly wish to help you all I can. Please!"
Lucine made a half-involuntary movement to gather up the sheets; then
checked herself. "No, I have too much pride to play second fiddle. Your
neglect has wounded me deeply, and I do not see how I can ever forgive
you. To forsake me for such a shallow, disagreeable person as Berta
Abbott is an unpardonable insult."
Laura gave a little shiver and lifted her head sharply. "I have tried to
be your friend. I have endured--things. But I won't endure this--I
won't--I can't. Berta is my friend. You shall not speak of her like that
to me. Say you're sorry--quick! Oh, Lucine, say you didn't mean it and
are sorry."
"I am not sorry," said Lucine distinctly, "and I did mean it. I am glad I
have dared to speak the truth about her. She is shallow and disagreeable."
"And what are you?" Laura sprang to her feet. "A conceited selfish
inconsiderate----" She clapped her hand to her mouth with a quick sobbing
breath. "Oh, Lucine, we can't be friends. I've tried and tried, but we
can't."
From beneath lowered eyelids Lucine watched the slight little figure
hurry to the door and vanish. Then rising abruptly she jerked a chair in
front of her desk, slapped down a fresh pad of paper, jabbed her pen into
the inkwell, shook it fiercely over the blotter--and suddenly brushing
the pages hither and thither she flung out her arms upon them and buried
her face from the light.
A few minutes later Laura entered noiselessly and stopped short at sight
of the crouching form with shoulders that rose and fell over a long
quivering sob. Laura took one step toward her, next two away; finally
setting her teeth resolutely she glided softly across the room and patted
the bent, dark head. For an instant Lucine lay motionless; then with a
swift hungry gesture she reached out her arms and swept the younger girl
close to her heart.
"Laura, I can't spare you, I can't spare you. You are all I have. Forgive
me and let me try again. It is an evil spirit that made me talk that way.
And, oh, Laura, dear, I want you to like me better than you like Berta. I
need you more."
Laura put up her mouth in child-fashion for a kiss of reconciliation. "I
like you both," she said, and freeing herself gently stooped to pick up
the loose leaves of the essay. "Shall we go on with revising this now,
Lucine? It is due this evening, you know. The board meets at eight in the
magazine sanctum."
Lucine watched her with a wistfulness that softened to tenderness the
faint lines of native selfishness about her mouth. "Laura, I want you to
room with me next year. We can choose a double with a study and adjoining
bedrooms. It will make me so happy. Do you know, last autumn when I lived
in the main building and you away off in the farthest dormitory, I used
to sit in a corridor window every morning to watch for you. I care more
for you than for any one else. I shall teach you to care most for me next
year."
Laura seemed to have extraordinary trouble in capturing the last sheet,
for it fluttered away repeatedly from her grasp and she kept bending to
reach it again. Lucine could not see her face.
"Will you," she repeated, "will you room with me next year, Laura?"
Laura coughed and made another wild dive in pursuit of the incorrigible
paper. "Let's not talk about next year," she mumbled uncomfortably, "it
is so far off and ever so many things may happen before June. Of course,"
she faltered and swallowed something in her throat, "I'd love to room
with you, if--if I can. But now we must hurry with this essay."
"Well, remember that I have asked you first," said Lucine, "and I can't
spare you."
Laura said nothing.
After the essay had been read and discussed by Laura whose critical
insight was much keener than Lucine's, the older girl settled herself to
rewrite the article before evening. Dinner found her still at her desk,
fingers inky, hair disordered, collar loosened in the fury of
composition. In reply to Laura's urgent summons to dress, she paused long
enough to push back a lock that had fallen over her brow.
"Don't bother me now. I'm just getting this right at last. Go away. I
don't want any dinner." The pen began again on its busy scratching.
"Lucine, you know the doctor warned you to be more regular about eating.
Whenever you work so intensely, you always pay for it in exhaustion the
next day. Do come now and finish the essay later."
The rumpled head bent still lower. "I wouldn't drop this now for thirty
dinners or suppers. It's good--it's fine--it's bound to be accepted--it
means the editorship. To sacrifice it for dinner! Do go away. I wish you
would leave me alone."
Laura turned away silently. If the success of the article was in
question, she certainly could not interfere further. Lucine wrote on,
paying no heed to the gong except for the tribute of an impatient frown
at the sound of many feet clicking past in the corridor, with a rustling
of skirts and light chat of voices. At seven when the bell for chapel
again filled the halls with murmur and movement, she only shrugged
uneasily and scribbled faster. By half-past she had finished and was
re-reading it for final corrections. Then folding it with a smile of
weary contentment, for at last she knew that it was sure of success, she
set out to carry it to the magazine sanctum.
Down the stairs and through the lower corridor she hastened toward the
plain wooden door whose key she hoped next year to claim for her own
fingers. The transom shone dark, and no voice yet disturbed the quiet of
the neighborhood. Evidently the editorial board had not yet begun to
assemble for the business session. Lucine decided to wait till they
arrived, so as to be certain that the precious essay reached their hands
in safety. If she should drop it through the letter slit in the door, it
might be overlooked.
Curling up on a window ledge in a shadowy corner behind a wardrobe she
waited while dreamily gazing at the moon which was sailing through clouds
tossed by the still rollicking wind. Ever since her first glimpse of the
magazine's brown covers, she had determined to become editor-in-chief
some time. Now this essay would surely be accepted, and when printed this
month would render her eligible for election as the first sophomore
editor. From that position she would advance to the literary editorship
next year, and then to be chief of the staff when she was a senior.
Then--ah, then the girls would be eager and proud to be friends with her.
And Laura would be glad she had not forsaken her in her early struggles.
So far she had been too busy with her writing to make friends and keep
them. It took so much time and was such a bother to be friendly and do
favors all the while. But by and by she would have leisure to grow
unselfish and show the girls how noble and charming and altogether
delightful she could be--by and by. Meanwhile her work came first. She
simply had to succeed in winning this editorship.
While Lucine lingered there, leaning her forehead against the cool pane,
footsteps sounded from around the transverse; and two figures, arm in
arm, strolled nearer. They glanced at the dusky transom, laughed over the
tardiness of their stern editor-in-chief, and sat down on a convenient
box to wait.
Lucine after an intent scrutiny to identify the two seniors as
subordinate editors turned again to the moon, and listened half
unconsciously to the low trickle of words till suddenly her own name
roused her alert.
"Yes, they're the favorite candidates." It was Bea's voice that spoke.
"If Miss Brett completes her quota of lines this month she will
undoubtedly have the best chance in the election, even if she is
personally unpopular. She is exceedingly self-centred, you know, and does
not trouble herself even to appear interested in anybody else. Her manner
is unfortunate. However she is unquestionably the ablest writer in the
class though little Laura Wallace is a close second. Berta knew her at
home and is very fond of her. Laura and Berta's sister Harriet have
always been special friends."
"Is Laura eligible? I do think she is the sweetest child!"
"Didn't you know it? Her work has been mainly inconspicuous contributions
signed only with initials. Stuff like that counts up amazingly in the
long run. She is a better critic though not so original as Miss Brett.
For my part I think the editor-in-chief ought to be primarily a critic,
but perhaps I am wrong. Anyhow the theory is that the election goes to
the best writer. I'm sorry. I half wish Miss Brett would fail to qualify.
The editorship means such a heap to Laura."
"How?"
"Her uncle who pays her expenses here is rather queer--thinks he ought to
see more results of her career. He's disappointed because she doesn't
gather in prizes as she did in the country schools. She may in her senior
year, but freshmen don't have much chance to win anything more than an
honorable record. He doesn't believe in college anyhow and consented to
send her under protest. Now he threatens to stop it if she doesn't do
something dazzling this year."
"Poor infant! What a ridiculous attitude! But since that is the case, why
not vote her in? Lay the circumstances before the board, and they'll
elect her."
"Oh, no, they won't. The board is altogether too scrupulous and
idealistic this season to let personal feelings interfere. You're rather
new to office as yet. Mark my words and trust me: if Miss Brett
qualifies, she will be elected. I know--and that's why I wish she
wouldn't."
"There come the others. See that pile of manuscript. We'll be lucky if we
get away at midnight. I only hope nobody will ask me to compose a poem to
fill out a page; my head feels as if stuffed with sawdust."
Lucine turned her head slowly to watch the group of girls wander into the
office and light the gas amid a flutter of papers and dressing-gowns
mixed with sleepy yawns and tired laughter. Then some one shut the door.
Lucine was still sitting in the shadowy window-seat, her essay clutched
tightly in her hand.
After a minute she rose, walked toward the door, and lifted her arm as if
to knock. Then giving herself an impatient shake she swung around and
hurried down the corridor as far as the transverse. There she hesitated,
halted, half swerved to retrace her steps, stamped one foot down hard,
brought up the other beside it, and clenching both fists over the essay
fled from the neighborhood.
When she reached her room, she paused to listen. Hearing no sound she
slipped inside, threw the essay into a drawer, locked it, and put the key
in her pocket. Then after a wistful glance around she stooped to pick up
Laura's white tam from the couch, pressed it against her cheek for a
moment, and laid it gently in the empty little chair where Laura had sat
while listening to the essay that afternoon.
"Laura," she whispered, "I can't spare you, Laura. You shall come back
next year, and we shall room together again, you and I."
Without a backward look toward the drawer where the manuscript lay
buried, Lucine gathered up note-book and fountain-pen and departed for
the library. She walked slowly through the long apartment, glancing into
alcove after alcove only to find every chair occupied on both sides of
the polished tables that gleamed softly in the gaslight. Finally she
discovered one of the small movable steps that were used when a girl
wished to reach the highest shelf. Capturing it she carried it to the
farther end of a narrow recess between two bookcases and doubled her
angular length into a cozy heap for an evening with Shelley's poem of
"Prometheus Unbound." That was to be the English lesson for the next day.
As she read verse after verse, the music of the wonderful lines soothed
her restless mood, and the beauty of the thought that love and
forgiveness are stronger than selfishness lifted her to a height of
joyous exaltation. The idea of Prometheus suffering all agonies for the
sake of men came to her like a revelation. While she pondered over it,
suddenly like the shining of a great light she understood the truth of
"he that loseth his soul shall find it." The Christ-ideal of
self-sacrifice meant the highest self-realization.
"My cup runneth over, my cup runneth over," sang Lucine in her heart, as
she read on and on. "I have been blind but now I see. It has been always
true, always, always. My cup runneth over. Listen:
"'It doth repent me; words are quick and vain;
Grief for awhile is blind, and so was mine,
I wish no living thing to suffer pain.'"
"Laura!" Lucine raised her head dreamily. She was unconscious of how the
evening hours had drifted past, leaving only a few lingering students
here and there in the library. She could not see the two girls bending
over the table on the other side of the bookcase behind which she was
nestling. But their voices floated mistily to her ears.
"Laura, remember that you have promised to live with my sister next year.
Don't let Lucine coax or frighten you out of it. You have promised."
"But if I don't come back?"
"Well, anyway you have promised to room with Harriet if you do. We'll
choose a parlor away off at the other end of the campus from Lucine, so
that I can protect you from her demands. You've been growing thinner and
whiter all the year. Now, remember. Don't you give in to her selfishness.
She is able to take care of her precious self without killing you in the
process. Promise."
Lucine heard a sigh. "I've promised to be her friend and I do care for
her dearly; but I want with all my heart to room with Harriet, if I can
manage to get back for next year. I'm almost sure I shan't. Now, see
here, does this verb come from vinco or vincio? I'm so sleepy I can't
read straight."
Lucine very white about the lips was sitting erect in her corner. "My cup
runneth over, my cup runneth over," echoed faintly in her brain. "My cup
runneth over and Laura likes her best and the essay is up-stairs and I
wish no living thing to suffer pain--suffer pain. My cup runneth over.
'Pain, pain ever, forever!' I won't, I won't, I can't do it, I can't, I
can't, I can't! To sacrifice it all for her and then--and then to be
forsaken!"
Lucine glided from the recess, passed swiftly from the library, climbed
the stairs to her room, moved toward the drawer which held the essay, and
felt for the key in her pocket. It was gone. It must have fallen out
while she read, doubled up on the low step. In wild haste now, for the
minutes were flying and the board of editors might even now have
adjourned, she hurried back to search. The green baize doors swung open
in her face, and Berta and Laura came loitering out, their arms around
each other, their heads bent close together affectionately.
"Lucine, oh, Lucine!" Laura at sight of her slipped away from Berta,
"what is the matter? What has happened? Didn't they accept the essay?"
Brushing her aside Lucine swept on into the library, turned into the
recess, and dropped on her knees beside the step to look for the stray
key. Her eyes fell upon the open book which lay face downward where she
had forgotten it. Then she remembered. "I wish no living thing to suffer
pain."
It was long past ten o'clock and the corridors stretched out their dusky
deserted length from one dim gas-jet to another flickering in the
shadows, when Lucine crept back to her room. Laura raised a wide-eyed
anxious face from the white pillow.
"Lucine, I couldn't sleep until I knew."
The older girl sat down on the bed and drew the little figure close.
"When you are editor, Laura, will you try to like me still? And will you
keep on forgiving me and helping--helping me to deserve to have friends?
And will you--will you teach me how to make Harriet like me too?"
"Oh, Lucine!" Laura flung her warm arms around the bowed neck. "I know
what we shall do next year, if I can come back. The idea has just struck
me. You and Harriet and I shall room together in a firewall with bedrooms
for three!"