CLASSMATES
Bea reached for Robbie with one arm, grasped Lila with the other, and
went skipping after the rest of the seniors over the lawn to their class
tree. She dragged them under its spreading branches to the centre of the
throng that had gathered in the June twilight. Berta was already there,
mounted on a small platform that had been built against the trunk in
preparation for the morrow's Class Day ceremonies.
"She looks pretty decent," whispered Bea to Robbie in order to frustrate
the queer sensation in her throat at sight of the eager face laughing
above them on this last evening together before the deluge of
commencement guests. "I hope the alumnæ who are wandering around admire
our taste in presidents."
"Maybe," Robbie spoke reflectively, "they're almost as much interested in
their classmates as we are in ours."
"Um-m," said Bea, "why, maybe so they are. I never thought of that
before. Robbie, you're my liberal education. Now, then, attention! Berta
is raising her hand to mark time for the songs to be rehearsed for
to-morrow."
But Berta's hand dropped at sound of a shout from across the campus.
"There!" she exclaimed, "the sophomores are coming."
They certainly were coming, on a double-quick march, two by two, shouting
for the seniors. As they approached the shouting changed to singing. When
they reached the tree, they spread out and joining hands went skipping,
still viva voce, around the seniors who watched them, silent and smiling.
The air was sweet with the cool, spicy breath of spruces. Lila thought
that she could even smell the roses in the garden beyond the evergreens.
She lifted her face toward the soft evening sky, and her mouth grew
wistful. Bea caught a glimpse of it, and immediately became voluble if
not eloquent.
"This is impromptu," she commented, generous with her least thoughts. "I
enjoy impromptus, except speeches--or that last lecture when the man
couldn't read his own notes. Now my history which is to astonish the
world to-morrow will doubtless glitter with extemporaneous wit which has
cost me two weeks of meditation. Likewise this impromptu on the spur of
the moment----"
"I think it's beautiful," said Robbie. She was watching Berta's eyes as
the last lingering strains died away. Oh, dear! why did they sing that
good-bye serenade again? Berta was going to cry. Hark! A robin's twilight
call rose melodiously from the heart of a shadowy spruce. In the thrill
of it Robbie felt the sting of sudden tears. She turned to Bea.
"Now I know how Berta feels when she listens to music. I'm beginning to
understand. But I think a robin is different from a brass band."
"Is it now? You astonish me." Bea squeezed her understandingly,
nevertheless. "I know. Being with Lila has taught me a lot. She is like a
windharp--every touch finds a response. Berta's a violin, I guess. It
takes skill to play on her. And you--oh, I believe you're a splendid big
drum. You've been marking time for the rest of us all the four years. As
for me, I'm only an old tin horn. You need to spend all your breath to
get any music. Even then it isn't sickeningly sweet, so to speak. Still
for an audience in sympathy with the performer----"
"That is what college has given us," put in Lila who had been listening,
"it gives us sympathy. Being with different persons, you know, and loving
them."
"Oh, yes!" Robbie's sigh of intense assent left her breathless, "loving
them."
"Now, then, girls!" Berta's hand was lifted again to beat time as the
clapping for the sophomores subsided. Then the seniors sang. They sang
the songs that were to be interspersed as illustrations in Bea's class
history. There was the elegant stanza which they had shouted all the way
to the mountain lake that first October at college.
"'Rah, 'rah, 'rah! kerchoo, kerchoo!
We are freshmen--
Who are you?"
From that brilliant composition the selections ranged through four years
of fun and sentiment with an occasional flight to the poetry of earnest
feeling as well as many a joyous swoop into hilarious inanity.
When tired of standing around the tree, the class fluttered across the
campus to the broad stone steps in front of the recitation hall.
Bea clung to Robbie's arm again and reached for Lila in their flight.
"I'm 'most sure we look like nymphs flying through the glades, with our
draperies blowing in the lines of swift motion. I love to run when I feel
like it. Robbie Belle, shall we ever dare to run when we get home?"
Robbie did not hear her. From her seat on the steps she gazed at Berta
who was standing before the ranks of familiar faces, her eager face
alight with the exhilaration of the hour. Once she threw back her head,
laughing at some ridiculous verse. Her eyes sought Robbie's for an
instant, smiled, then danced away again. Robbie swallowed once,
unconsciously, and moved closer to Bea.
In a semicircle sweeping around the group of singers, sophomores and
stray juniors and many a wandering alumna in a flower-decked hat had
gathered to listen. In a pause between the songs. Robbie surveyed them
gravely, unrecognizing any of the older guests until presently one face
stood out vaguely familiar in the clear twilight. It was a beautiful
face, framed by dusky hair beneath the wreath of crimson roses on her
hat. The eyes were dusky too and deep-set. They were staring at Robbie
with an intensity of grieving affection that contrasted sharply with the
stern, almost resentful, expression of her finely cut mouth.
As Robbie gazed back in fascinated perplexity, the face suddenly curved
into a smile so tenderly radiant that Robbie felt quite dazzled for a
moment. Involuntarily she smiled back, while striving to grasp the dim
recollection. Who could it be? She had surely seen her before somewhere.
But where? At college? At home? Where was it? Slowly a vision grew
distinct in her groping memory. It was a vision of Elizabeth, her sister,
lifting a photograph from a pile of others. "This," she had said, "is my
Jessica. She knows all my family from their pictures, and some day she
shall come home with me and meet you your own selves. She wishes Robbie
Belle were to enter college before we finish. Robbie will be a senior
when we go back for our fifth year reunion."
Robbie's chest heaved abruptly under the shock of identifying the face
amid the encircling throng. It was Jessica More, Elizabeth's best friend
at college. This was the June of her class reunion. Robbie Belle was a
senior. But Elizabeth was not there, as she had planned. Jessica had been
expelled before she graduated, and Elizabeth had died.
Before the singing was over, Jessica had disappeared. Then in the rush of
last things Robbie forgot her for a time. Some of the seniors hurried
away on hospitable duties bent, for numerous relatives had already
arrived. There were to be informal gatherings in different rooms. A few
went to the Phi Beta Kappa lecture in the chapel. To tell the truth,
however, these were but few indeed, for to the seniors the last evenings
were too precious, to be wasted on mere scholarly discourse. Probably
Jessica had gone there with the rest of the alumnæ, reflected Robbie
Belle as she sat beside Berta and the others in the soft sweet darkness.
With arms intertwined they talked low or fell silent, lingering over this
farewell to the dear college days.
"I love everybody in the class," whispered Lila once.
"In the college," amended Bea promptly.
"Oh, in the whole world!" exclaimed Berta.
Robbie nodded assent so solemnly that Bea leaned down to peer at her more
closely. "A regular Chinese mandarin," she teased, "or are you nodding in
your sleep? You approve of Berta's breadth evidently. Why do people
always speak about the value of being broadened? I think it is nobler to
be deep than broad, I do. I'd rather divide my heart in four pieces than
in forty billion."
"There are two hundred in the class," said Robbie, "and there were only
one hundred in my sister's class, but I am quite sure that they did not
love each other any more than we do."
[Illustration: SHE HELD BOTH HANDS, SMILING]
The next morning saw the seniors assemble at the amphitheatre which had
been prepared for the Class Day exercises. Berta was already on the
platform, assisting the committee in the arrangement of seats for the
class. Among later comers who were hurrying across the campus Bea caught
up with Robbie Belle.
"I am hastening across the sward," she announced in cheerfully inane
greeting, "what is a sward anyhow, and why isn't it pronounced the same
as sword?"
"It's grass," said Robbie Belle. Bea felt a speaking silence fall and
glanced up to catch the direction of her gaze. Between them and the
expanse of mingled chairs and girls around the platform against the wall
of the nearest dormitory, a stranger was moving rapidly toward them, her
eager eyes on Robbie.
"Little Robbie Belle! I knew you last night from your picture." She held
both hands, smiling.
Bea considered the two pairs of shoulders on a level. "Little!" she
sniffed to herself, "it must be a very old alum."
Robbie turned to introduce her. "This is my friend, Beatrice Leigh, Miss
More. Bea, this is my sister's best friend. I remembered you too, last
night, Miss More. I remembered--I--I wondered----" Robbie's tongue
stumbled in embarrassment at the verge of candor.
Miss More's mouth hardened slightly, though her eyes still smiled. "You
wondered how I happen to be here for the reunion of a class from which I
was expelled. Is that it? Perhaps you are unaware that I have been
reinstated. The faculty has at last reconsidered their unjust decision.
They acknowledge that it was based upon a misunderstanding. I have made
up the work at home. To-morrow I shall receive two degrees, the
Bachelor's with your class, the Master's with the post-graduates. I am
sure you congratulate me."
"Oh!" gasped Robbie Belle, "oh, yes!"
Bea succeeded in depressing somewhat the round-eyed stare with which she
had listened to this extraordinary speech. "I think it is perfectly
lovely, Miss More," she said. "Your class must be delighted. It is a
triumph--a splendid triumph. Oh,--ah!" She turned at the sound of a faint
call behind her: "Jessica!"
From a group of alumnæ under a cluster of spruces, somebody was walking
quickly toward the three. Bea recognized in her a brilliant young
instructor at the college.
"Jessica, I am--glad. How do you do?" She put out her hand.
Miss More lifted her eyes, coolly scanned the other woman from the tip of
her russet shoes to the crown of her sailor hat, then gazed vacantly over
her head, before addressing Robbie again.
"Then to-morrow, Robbie. Don't forget that I wish to see you after the
commencement exercises for a few minutes. There are questions I desire to
ask. Your mother is well, I hope."
Two minutes later Robbie had reached one of the chairs and dropped into
it with a limpness strangely inharmonious with her statuesque
proportions. "Bea, they belong to the same class."
Bea sank down beside her. "That was awful--awful. Those others were
watching her from the path. Why did she do it? I don't understand."
Robbie passed her hand across her forehead. "I don't quite remember
everything," she said, "but I have an impression that it was Miss Whiton
who was to blame for having Miss More expelled. She was class president,
or something, and felt responsible. Elizabeth said she thought it was for
the honor of the college. She meant to do right. And now to think it was
all a mistake! Miss More will receive her degrees to-morrow."
"Did Miss Whiton accuse her of any wrong or make complaint?"
"No, not exactly. I think she believed that Miss More's behavior
somewhere reflected on the college, and she considered it her duty to
report the circumstances. Or maybe it was appearances--it seems now that
it must have been only appearances. That started the trouble, and Miss
More resented it. She was stubborn or indifferent about some
requirements. I don't remember quite what, and Elizabeth never liked to
talk about it. Elizabeth wrote to her every week until she--until she
left us." Robbie's lip twitched suddenly. Bea saw it and gently passing
her arm through the other's arm drew her on to join the class assembled
at the amphitheatre.
The next day brought commencement. Bea from her place among the rows of
white-clad seniors in the body of the chapel could by bending forward
slightly catch a glimpse of Miss More's profile at the head of the front
pew at the right. When she raised her eyes she could see Miss Whiton's
coldly regular features conspicuous in their clean-cut fairness among the
younger instructors in the choir-seats behind the trustees on the
platform. Bea had never liked Miss Whiton. It seemed to her now, as she
studied the immobile face, that she had always recognized there a
suggestion of the self-righteous Pharisee. There could be nothing but
misunderstanding and antagonism between the possessor of such a
countenance and Miss More with those eyes of hers, that nose and that
mouth. Bea's labors over the classes in manners had included some
research in the subject of physiognomy. Now she leaned forward to secure
another view of that profile in the front pew. Then she settled back with
the contented sigh of an investigator whose surmise has proved correct.
Miss More's features certainly expressed an impulsive, reckless and
lovable temperament as opposed to Miss Whiton's conscientious and
calculating prudence. Oh, yes, there was conscience enough in the icily
handsome face among the instructors. It was conscience doubtless that had
driven her across the campus to speak to Miss More on Class Day morning.
Bea sighed again, this time with a faint twinge of sympathy. She
generally meant well herself. A conscience was a very queer thing--she
thought so still even if she had heard it all explained and analyzed in
senior ethics.
"Surgite." That was Prexie's voice. The class rose in obedience to the
word. Bea found herself standing with the others while the Latin
sentences rolled melodiously over their heads. She never could translate
from hearing. Absently her glance sought the front pew where Miss More
had turned to watch them. The girl's wistful gaze caught the expression
of passionate regret in her deep-set eyes, and clung there fascinated for
an endless moment before tearing itself free.
After it was over, after the class had filed upon the platform to receive
their diplomas, after Prexie had delivered his annual address and the
procession of graduates, alumnæ and faculty had marched out into the
golden sunshine, Bea drew aside to wait under an elm. Berta spied her and
beckoned, then came hurrying.
"Lila is over at the doors on guard to capture the various relatives and
start them toward the cottages for dinner. The trustees entertain the
alumnæ in the main dining-room. The seniors will go to Strong Hall.
Aren't you ready?"
"I'm getting an impression," answered Bea, "gothic portals, graceful
elms, bare-headed girls in white, sun-flecked lawns and glimpse of the
sparkling lake beyond, groups intermingling----"
"I'll help give you that impression."
Bea slipped nimbly out of reach in time to escape the promised pinch--or
it may have been a squeeze.
"I've got it already--a hundred of them. You're in two or three. And
Robbie--do you see Robbie anywhere?"
Robbie approached at the moment. "Bea, have you noticed Miss More pass? I
found something last night in my sister's college scrapbook--her
memory-bill, you know. It is something for Miss More."
"Yes, over there half way to the main building. Look--that one in white
all alone. You can overtake her if you hurry, Robbie. Oh, Berta!" Bea
turned and held out one hand impulsively. "If you could only have seen
her eyes while she watched us in chapel! She was thinking of her own
class, how she had been driven away from them in disgrace. It was tragic.
She--she----" Bea gulped and caught herself back from falling over the
brink into the pit of palpable emotion. "In fact, I am almost sure
she--hm-m,--envied us."
She glanced apprehensively at her companion in dread of the usual quick
teasing rejoinder; but Berta was soberly gazing after Robbie.
"Robbie has dropped a paper, Bea," she said, "I saw it flutter. Come."
Bea flitted across the grass, her bright hair an aureole in the sunlight.
Her fingers seized the bit of white; her eyes read the message:
* * * * *
"Sunday evening after Bible lecture.
"Jessica and the rest of us are choosing mottoes to live out just for
experiment this week.
"Marian: 'Love seeketh not her own.' (She always gets to places first.)
"Alice: 'Is not easily provoked.' (Oh, oh!)
"Louise: 'Is not puffed up.' (Ah!)
"Jessica: 'is kind.' (And when she is good, she is very, very good.)
Elizabeth: "envieth not." (My brain doesn't suit.)
"Jessica says hers is the easiest because it means just to keep from
hating anybody, and she loves the whole college."
* * * * *
"Oh, I didn't mean to read it." Bea almost clapped her hand over her
impetuous eyes. "Robbie," she broke into a run, "Robbie Belle, here is
something you dropped."
As Robbie turned at the call, one of the trustees, an elderly woman whose
white hair seemed to soften the effect of her energetic manner and keen
gaze, paused to speak to Miss More. The two seniors strolled on at a
leisurely pace while waiting for an opportunity to ask attention without
interrupting a speech. The distance intervening lessened step by step
till Bea could not help overhearing the trustee's distinct low tones.
"----exceedingly difficult to choose between the two candidates. Their
qualifications balance distractingly. Personally I incline to Miss
Whiton, and I should very much like to see her win this unusual position.
Her original work certainly deserves it. However I know her so slightly
that I am reluctant to give my decisive vote until I learn more of her
from her contemporaries. You were in her class, Miss More, I understand."
"Yes."
At the smothered intensity of that simple word, Bea's head rotated
swiftly to stare at the source of it. She had never seen that beautiful
face like this before. On the campus Class Day morning it had been
friendly though with the hint of hardness about the mouth. In chapel it
had been tragic with regret over the irrevocable. Now the dusky eyes were
blazing with the light of coming triumph over an enemy at last delivered
into her power.
"It is an exceptional distinction for so young a woman," continued the
trustee, "and because it means so much to each of the rivals, a feather's
weight of evidence may turn the scales for one or the other. I am anxious
to be impartial. I invite this discussion merely to assure myself of Miss
Whiton's irreproachable record. I wish sincerely to see her win."
"You never heard the exact circumstances that led to my expulsion from
college?"
The defiant ring of this abrupt question brought Bea to her sense of the
situation. She put out one hand to draw Robbie beyond earshot. But Robbie
did not notice her. She was already touching Miss More's arm.
"Miss More, pardon me. I have hurried to give you this. I--I think
Elizabeth would have enjoyed showing it to you. I--wish--she could have
been here to-day. She would have been--glad."
Miss More took the paper mechanically. "Thank you, Robbie Belle. Will you
wait one moment, dear? I want to speak to you." She turned again to the
older woman. "It may be an enlightening little tale," she began, "and
Miss Whiton plays a part in it. These are the facts."
Bea watched her, fascinated. The eyes seemed to be gazing away beyond the
evergreens at old, unhappy, far-off things. Slowly they returned to
nearer objects, dropped suddenly and caught for an instant upon some one
passing by. At sight of the swift gleam of bitter recognition, Bea
followed the direction, and beheld Miss Whiton. She looked back again in
time to see a wonderful change as Miss More's glance traveled
unconsciously to the paper in her hand.
Robbie's wistful regard was also lingering upon the paper.
"Elizabeth loved it all--the class--the whole college."
The trustee was evidently in haste. "And this enlightening little tale of
yours, Miss More? Pardon me for urging you on. The importance of the
issue--ah!" Bea saw her nod acquiescence in response to a gesture from
some one who was waiting at the porte cochere. "I fear I shall not have
time for it now. May I consult you later? You are sure, Miss More, that
the story is something that I ought to hear?"
Miss More hesitated. "I don't know," she said slowly. "It may have been
merely a schoolgirl misunderstanding. I will--think it over and let you
know after the dinner. In any event, I thank you for your confidence.
Miss Whiton certainly merits the honor."
It seemed to Bea that Miss More looked after the older woman with an
expression of half-puzzled surprise at her own indecision. Then she
turned to Robbie.
"I remember that evening," she spoke in a curiously softened tone.
"Elizabeth sat in the glow of the drop-light and scribbled this card,
while the rest of us watched her idly, and talked, half serious, half in
fun over the novelty of choosing our mottoes. It was Elizabeth who had
proposed it. She had such a shy, sweet, humorous way of being good.
Everybody loved her."
Robbie nodded speechlessly. After a moment she said, "The rest of your
verse is 'Love suffereth long and is kind.'"
The deep-set eyes clouded again under the dusky hair.
"I--have--suffered," she said slowly.
Bea pinched her own arm in a quick agony of vicarious embarrassment. How
could a person show her feelings right out like that before anybody? What
was the use of going around talking about such things? It was not very
polite to make other people uncomfortable. Bea smothered a quick little
sob and walked on, staring straight ahead.
It was Robbie who turned to look into the face so near her own. She saw
the clouds lift before the dawning of an exquisite smile like a ray of
sunshine after a stormy day.
"'Love suffereth long and is kind,'" repeated the oddly gentle voice. "I
have suffered, and I will try--to be kind. I think Elizabeth would have
been glad."
"Elizabeth is glad," said Robbie Belle.