PAT’S SACRIFICE
“But, Dean Walters, she does not seem really bad.”
“There have been many complaints of her, Mrs. Vincent, and her actions
are causing most unfavorable comment outside as well as inside college
circles. It is not desirable for the institution to retain such a girl.”
“It seems to me that the crowd she was in with for a while is largely
responsible. I feel quite sure that Clarice was not entirely to blame in
that last affair.”
“Might it not have been better to have verified your suspicions at the
time, and brought them to my attention, instead of waiting until now to
mention them?”
“Well—she—she naturally would not wish to betray her friends—and I—I—”
“Be that as it may, one more escapade will automatically sever Miss
Tyson’s connections with Granard College. I leave it to you to make my
decision known to the young lady.”
Patricia drew a long breath of relief as the two women left the library
alcove next to the one in which she had been an unwilling eavesdropper.
Not long ago, a noisy party on the top floor, one night when the chaperon
was at a concert, had brought a shower of complaints from private houses
surrounding Arnold Hall. Exactly who else beside Clarice had attended the
spread, no one knew; for she was the only one who owned up when the
matter had been made the object of a very solemn house meeting a couple
of days later. The affair had crystallized Clarice’s standing in the
Hall; for the law-abiding students felt that the honor and reputation of
their house had been tarnished. Secretly they wished that the ringleader
might be sent to room elsewhere, but gossip whispered that the chaperon
was especially interested in Clarice by reason of a long-standing
friendship with one of the girl’s relatives.
Patricia was sure, however, that underneath the veneer of lawlessness,
the girl was fine and true. She was the only one who had “owned up” and
she wouldn’t divulge the names of the other culprits. Too bad she got in
with that crowd of girls who roomed outside of the dormitories. They were
less hampered by rules and regulations, and gladly welcomed Clarice with
her generous allowance and her readiness for all kinds of fun. She was
always easily led by anyone who was friendly toward her, and on several
occasions she had been taken advantage of by the crowd. It was a pity
that a girl who was capable of doing good work, and possessed of
qualities which, if developed, would make her amount to something, should
be playing around with those idlers who had come to college principally
for a good time. Somebody really ought to rescue her.
“I suppose I might undertake the job,” thought Patricia reluctantly.
“Clarice responds to flattery and petting like a pussy cat. Yet even if I
wanted to (which I really don’t) I haven’t the time. It would mean
constant attention, and would probably ruin my standings.”
Patricia shook herself, as if to be rid of the whole troublesome
business, and resolutely opened her book. Next day’s assignment was
difficult, and required perfect concentration.
“One more escapade—sever connections—”
Bother! Why need those relentless words ring in _her_ ears? It was the
duty of Mrs. Vincent, as chaperon, to advise and guard the girls under
her care. Inefficient little Dolly! The only methods she knew how to use
were reprimands and warnings, neither of which would do in this case. The
redemption of Clarice must be effected by one who would win and hold her
affection; who could, and would, detach her from the outside crowd, and
unite her to the girls from Arnold Hall.
Patricia gave up further attempts to study, and sat arguing with herself
until a bell rang and the janitor came in to close the building. With a
start she packed up her books, hurried out, and walked briskly across the
campus in the direction of the Hall. The girls, unless special permission
had been granted, were expected to be in the house at ten o’clock, and it
was within a quarter of that hour. A passing automobile forced her to
pause at the corner where a street light clearly revealed the faces of
the occupants of the car: Clarice and Bert King!
Quick anger filled Patricia’s heart. How could anyone, with any sense at
all, go right out on top of a warning? She could not have obtained
permission, because all her privileges had been used up. Calender Street
led directly out to Driftwood Inn, where there was a dance every Thursday
night. Evidently that was their destination. No use bothering one’s head
about a girl who was quite so reckless. A sheer waste of time and energy!
Thursday night? This was the evening that the chaperons played bridge at
the Faculty Club. Possibly Mrs. Vincent had gone directly there from the
library. In that case, very likely she had not yet seen Clarice. That put
a different face on the matter. Poor Clarice! Rushing so gayly away to
the Inn for a good time, she would return to find herself expelled.
Hardly fair; yet the Dean had said distinctly that one more escapade, and
she always kept her word. In view of her recent reprimand, Mrs. Vincent
would not be likely to spare Clarice this time.
Mechanically Patricia entered the Hall and walked down the empty corridor
to her own room. She was alone tonight; for Betty had gone home for the
week end a day early. Mechanically she undressed, her brain busy creating
and discarding ways and means of shielding the truant.
There was little doubt about Clarice’s ability to enter the house and get
to her room unseen and unheard. That she had accomplished before by
secret methods of her own. The greatest danger lay in room inspection,
recently inaugurated. Every night, now, Mrs. Vincent made a tour of rooms
about eleven o’clock to see if any of her charges were missing. In all
probability, after the Dean’s recent hint that she had not been
sufficiently on the alert, tonight would be the time for greater
thoroughness than usual.
If there were only someone who could be placed in Clarice’s bed until
after the ceremony had been concluded. No one of the girls, of course,
would risk a demerit by absence from her own room, especially for
Clarice; they disapproved of her too strongly.
Her own hair was almost exactly the shade of Clarice’s. There seemed no
way except to sacrifice herself to the cause, and she rebelled against
it.
“It is being deceitful, and that is wrong,” admonished an inner voice.
“It’s being very charitable,” contradicted another little voice. “By
doing this, you’ll give Clarice a chance to complete her year’s work.”
“And next year,” came back the sneering suggestion, “she’ll act just the
same as ever.”
“No such thing! You are going to help her keep away from undesirable
companions, and develop her real self.”
The fact that she might not be back next year herself was entirely lost
track of in the conflict between the opposing impulses.
When she was all ready for bed, Patricia opened her door quietly, paused
to listen, then slipped noiselessly along the corridor to Clarice’s room.
Cautiously turning the knob, she slipped into the dark room. Safe so far.
Rolling herself in the bed clothes, she turned her face to the wall and
burrowed deep into the pillows. Shaking with excitement, and too much
disturbed to sleep, she lay listening to the trolley cars and automobiles
which passed and repassed on the busy street, and to the little movements
and noises inside. She heard Mrs. Vincent come in and go directly to her
own room. Finally the clock in the hall sounded its soft chimes, then
gave forth eleven measured strokes. Like a cuckoo, Mrs. Vincent promptly
emerged from her room and crossed the hall to the table where the
register lay. Presently, Patricia heard her put down the heavy book and
start along the corridor. Now she was at Lucile’s door; now Anne’s; then
Patricia’s own. A pause. Quick step around the room. Return to the
register. Silence. Then the steps re-crossed the hall and stopped at
Clarice’s door. The knob turned softly. Patricia held her breath.
Suppose, after all, she should be caught, and Clarice’s absence
discovered! The ray of a little flash light wavered over her head, darted
about the room, and—disappeared. Half an hour later, Mrs. Vincent was in
bed, fast asleep; then Patricia crept noiselessly back to her own room.
The students had just returned from breakfast the following morning, when
Mrs. Vincent called Patricia into her room.
“Miss Randall,” she began, without preamble, “did you have permission to
go out last night?”
“No, Mrs. Vincent.”
“You were not in your room at room inspection.”
Patricia was silent. The chaperon looked surprised.
“Where were you?” she asked at last.
“That I am not at liberty to tell you; but I can truthfully say that I
was not doing anything of which I should be ashamed.”
“You realize, of course, that I shall have to report this to the Dean?”
“Yes, Mrs. Vincent.”
Baffled, rather annoyed, and wholly puzzled, the chaperon dismissed her.
By dinner time that evening the whole college seethed with the report
that Patricia Randall had been required to withdraw from participation in
the spring entertainment which was to be given the following Saturday.
Little groups were gathered here and there excitedly discussing the
astounding news.
“My dear, Patricia was out without permission last night—”
No one knew where!
“Her room was empty at inspection.”
“Dean Walters and Mrs. Vincent are furious because they couldn’t get her
to say where she was.”
“Jack Dunn’s terribly upset, because they say she had one of the most
important dance numbers with him!”
“Yes, and nobody else knows how to do it; and it’s too late to coach
anyone.”
“It is a shame! That part will just have to be omitted.”
“What _do_ you suppose possessed Patricia, of all people, to start
breaking rules, and then be so secretive about it?”
In the little reception room of Arnold Hall sat the object of their
discussions.
“I feel just as bad as you do, Jack,” she was saying to the serious-faced
youth opposite her; “and I’d explain if I could; but I really can’t. The
worst of it is cutting you out of the dance.”
“What about yourself?”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter—much.”
Patricia was examining the pleats in her skirt, laying each one carefully
into its exact crease. If only she wouldn’t feel so like crying every
time she talked about the entertainment. She had never been in anything
as large as this before, and was looking forward to inviting some people
down from home. How glad she was that she had held up the invitations!
“There _is_ a way,” she continued, as soon as she could control her
voice, “that the dance could be given just the same, if you will only
agree.”
“I won’t make a solo of it, because it would be a complete frost. Anyhow,
I don’t want to go on without you. I need you for inspiration,” he added,
with a mischievous grin.
“It’s nice of you to put it that way, but your desire to make the affair
a success should furnish enough ‘inspiration.’ The omission of that dance
leaves an awful gap in the performance.”
“Don’t I know it?” gloomily.
“Well, then, ask Clarice Tyson to take my place.”
As if shot, the boy sprang from his chair. If Patricia had hurled a bomb
at his head, he couldn’t have been much more shocked.
“Nothing doing!” he exclaimed violently.
“Hush! Don’t get so excited. Sit down and listen to me.”
The look of mingled astonishment and disgust on his face was so funny
that Patricia almost had to laugh. Just in time, she succeeded in choking
back her amusement. This was not a time for mirth; the case required
diplomatic handling.
“In the first place, Clarice is perfectly familiar with that dance; and
since she is a born dancer, she won’t embarrass you by ignorance and
awkwardness.”
“She’ll not have a chance to,” muttered the boy.
“Don’t say that,” pleaded Patricia. “Jack, we’ve been good pals for some
time now; can’t you do this for me, if we must put it on a purely
personal basis? There is a special reason why I very much want to place
Clarice before the public in a new role and under different auspices.
Your position in the college is so solid, your reputation so—so
irreproachable, that what you do or sponsor meets with the complete
approval of the Powers-that-Be.”
“Baloney; but I’m beginning, I think, to see through your scheme.”
“And you will do it?” Eagerly the girl leaned forward and waited for his
reply.
“I can’t take her by the hand and just drag her onto the stage with me
Saturday night,” objected Jack irritably.
“Of course not. Tell Jane you know a girl who is well able to take my
place, and ask if you may substitute her. Jane is so busy and worried
over the affair that she’ll be delighted, and probably will ask no
questions.”
Jack considered the question gravely, while Patricia watched his face
hopefully.
“Will you, Jack?” she begged. “Please say you will.”
“All right,” he agreed gruffly. “I’m not at all keen, I must confess, at
appearing so publicly with the celebrated Clarice; but if you say so, it
must be done. Probably will cause a tempest in a teapot, but—”
“I’ll take care of that,” cried Patricia joyfully; “and thanks a lot.
I’ll do something big for you some day.”
Jack drew from his pocket a small note book and scribbled a few lines on
one of its pages.
“What are you doing?” asked Patricia curiously.
“Just making a note of that promise.”
At that moment the clock struck half past ten.
“I must get out of here before I’m put out,” said Jack, getting up and
starting for the hall. At the outside door, he paused.
“By the way, Pat, how does Clarice happen to know that dance?”
“I taught it to her this afternoon,” was the startling reply, as Patricia
closed the door.
On her way to her own room, she stuck her head into Jane’s.
“Jack knows a girl he can get to sub for me Saturday night,” she said.
“Will it be all right?”
Jane jumped up with a sigh of relief. “I’ll say so!” she ejaculated. “Oh,
boy! How worried I’ve been at the idea of leaving out that dance!”
“I’m so very sorry to have made all this trouble for everybody,” faltered
Patricia, with tears in her eyes; “but I just couldn’t help it.”
“Don’t, dear!” whispered Jane, putting both arms around the girl. “The
Gang’s back of you, whatever you do.”
“It’s good of you to say that, especially when I can’t clear myself.”
“Maybe later on something will happen to clear things up for you,”
suggested Ruth.
Pat looked at her quickly, wondering if the girl suspected anything; but
Ruth, who was placidly combing her hair, smiled at her in the mirror so
innocently that her fears were allayed.
“Pat’s shielding some one,” declared Ruth, after Patricia had gone.
“We’ll have to find out who it is.”
“Oh, Ruthie,” groaned Jane, distractedly, “don’t suggest my doing
anything until after this blamed entertainment is over.”
Ruth said no more, but she made up her mind that Pat _must_ be cleared.