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[Illustration: "I want a new room-mate"]
Just Patty
By
Jean Webster
Author of
When Patty Went to College
Daddy Long Legs, Etc.
Illustrated by
C. M. Relyea
[Illustration]
THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1911, by
THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1911, by THE
CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
* * * * *
_Published, October, 1911_
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
MADE AT INNISFREE
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I REFORM 3
II THE ROMANTIC HISTORY OF CUTHBERT ST. JOHN 33
III THE VIRGIL STRIKE 65
IV THE THIRD MAN FROM THE END 99
V THE FLANNIGAN HONEYMOON 119
VI THE SILVER BUCKLES 149
VII "UNCLE BOBBY" 181
VIII THE SOCIETY OF ASSOCIATED SIRENS 199
IX THE REFORMATION OF KID MCCOY 229
X ONIONS AND ORCHIDS 247
XI THE LEMON PIE AND THE MONKEY-WRENCH 273
XII THE GYPSY TRAIL 309
List of Illustrations
"I want a new room-mate!" _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
Patty just had time to snatch the box 88
Patty meanwhile addressed her attention to Harriet's hair 174
Evalina sat up and clutched the bedclothes about her neck 286
Just Patty
I
Reform
"It's a shame!" said Priscilla.
"It's an outrage!" said Conny.
"It's an insult!" said Patty.
"To separate us now after we've been together three years--"
"And it isn't as though we were _awfully_ bad last year. Lots of girls
had more demerits."
"Only our badness was sort of conspicuous," Patty admitted.
"But we were _very_ good the last three weeks," reminded Conny.
"And you should see my new room-mate!" wailed Priscilla.
"She can't be any worse than Irene McCullough."
"She is!--Her father's a missionary, and she was brought up in China.
Her name is Keren-happuch Hersey, after Job's youngest daughter. And
she doesn't think it's funny!"
"Irene," said Conny gloomily, "gained twenty pounds through the summer.
She weighs--"
"But you should see mine!" cried Patty, in exasperation. "Her name is
Mae Mertelle Van Arsdale."
"Keren studies every second; and expects me to walk on tiptoe so she can
concentrate."
"You should hear Mae Mertelle talk! She said her father was a financier,
and wanted to know what mine was. I told her he was a reform judge, and
that he spent his time putting financiers in prison. She says I'm an
impertinent child," Patty grinned feebly.
"How old is she?"
"She's nineteen, and has been proposed to twice."
"Mercy! Whatever made her choose St. Ursula's?"
"Her father and mother ran away and got married when they were
nineteen, and they're afraid she inherited the tendency. So they picked
out a good, strict, church school. Mae doesn't know how she's ever going
to fix her hair without a maid. She's awfully superstitious about
moonstones. She never wears anything but silk stockings and she can't
stand hash. I'll have to teach her how to make a bed. She always crosses
on the White Star Line."
Patty scattered these details at random. The others listened
sympathetically, and added a few of their own troubles.
"Irene weighs a hundred and fifty-nine pounds and six ounces, not
counting her clothes," said Conny. "She brought two trunks _loaded_ with
candy. She has it hidden all over the room. The last sound I hear at
night, is Irene crunching chocolates--and the first sound in the
morning. She never says anything; she simply chews. It's like rooming
with a cow. And I have a sweet collection of neighbors! Kid McCoy's
across the hall, and she makes more noise than half-a-dozen cowboys.
There's a new French girl next door--you know, the pretty little one
with the two black braids."
"She looks rather desirable," said Patty.
"She might be if she could talk, but she only knows about fifty words.
Harriet Gladden's rooming with her, as limp and mournful as an oyster,
and Evalina Smith's at the end of the corridor. You know what a
_perfect_ idiot Evalina is."
"Oh, it's beastly!" they agreed.
"Lordy's to blame," said Conny. "The Dowager never would have separated
us if she hadn't interfered."
"And I've got her!" wailed Patty. "You two have Mam'selle and Waddams,
and they're nice, sweet, unsuspicious lambs; but the girls in the East
Wing simply can't sneeze but Lordy--"
"Sh!" Conny warned. "Here she comes."
The Latin teacher, in passing, paused on the threshold. Conny
disentangled herself from the mixture of clothes and books and sofa
cushions that littered the bed, and politely rose to her feet. Patty
slid down from the white iron foot-rail, and Priscilla descended from
the top of the trunk.
"Ladies don't perch about on the furniture."
"No, Miss Lord," they murmured in unison, gazing back from three pairs
of wide, uplifted eyes. They knew, from gleeful past experience, that
nothing so annoyed her as smiling acquiescence.
Miss Lord's eyes critically studied the room. Patty was still in
traveling dress.
"Put on your uniform, Patty, and finish unpacking. The trunks go down
to-morrow morning."
"Yes, Miss Lord."
"Priscilla and Constance, why aren't you out of doors with the other
girls, enjoying this beautiful autumn weather?"
"But we haven't seen Patty for such a long time, and now that we are
separated--" commenced Conny, with a pathetic droop of her mouth.
"I trust that your lessons will benefit by the change. You, Patty and
Priscilla, are going to college, and should realize the necessity of
being prepared. Upon the thorough foundation that you lay here depends
your success for the next four years--for your whole lives, one might
say. Patty is weak in mathematics and Priscilla in Latin. Constance
_could_ improve her French. Let us see what you can do when you really
try."
She divided a curt nod between the three and withdrew.
"We are happy in our work and we dearly love our teachers," chanted
Patty, with ironical emphasis, as she rummaged out a blue skirt and
middy blouse with "St. U." in gold upon the sleeve.
While she was dressing, Priscilla and Conny set about transferring the
contents of her trunk to her bureau, in whatever order the articles
presented themselves--but with a carefully folded top layer. The
overworked young teacher, who performed the ungrateful task of
inspecting sixty-four bureaus and sixty-four closets every Saturday
morning, was happily of an unsuspicious nature. She did not penetrate
below the crust.
"Lordy needn't make such a fuss over my standing," said Priscilla,
frowning over an armful of clothes. "I passed everything except Latin."
"Take care, Pris! You're walking on my new dancing dress," cried Patty,
as her head emerged from the neck of the blouse.
Priscilla automatically stepped off a mass of blue chiffon, and resumed
her plaint.
"If they think sticking me in with Job's youngest daughter is going to
improve my prose composition--"
"I simply _can't_ study till they take Irene McCullough out of my room,"
Conny echoed. "She's just like a lump of sticky dough."
"Wait till you get acquainted with Mae Mertelle!" Patty sat on the floor
in the midst of the chaos, and gazed up at the other two with wide,
solemn eyes. "She brought five evening gowns cut low, and all her shoes
have French heels. And she _laces_--my dears! She just holds in her
breath and pulls. But that isn't the worst." She lowered her voice to a
confidential whisper. "She's got some red stuff in a bottle. She says
it's for her finger nails, but I _saw_ her putting it on her face."
"Oh!--not really?" in a horrified whisper from Conny and Priscilla.
Patty shut her lips and nodded.
"Isn't it dreadful?"
"Awful!" Conny shuddered.
"I say, let's mutiny!" cried Priscilla. "Let's _make_ the Dowager give
us back our old rooms in Paradise Alley."
"But how?" inquired Patty, two parallel wrinkles appearing on her
forehead.
"Tell her that unless she does, we won't stay."
"That would be sensible!" Patty jeered. "She'd ring the bell and order
Martin to hitch up the hearse and drive us to the station for the
six-thirty train. I should think you'd know by this time that you can't
bluff the Dowager."
"There's no use threatening," Conny agreed. "We must appeal to her
feeling of--of--"
"Affection," said Patty.
Conny stretched out a hand and brought her up standing.
"Come on, Patty, you're good at talking. We'll go down now while our
courage is up.--Are your hands clean?"
The three staunchly approached the door of Mrs. Trent's private study.
"I'll use diplomacy," Patty whispered, as she turned the knob in
response to the summons from within. "You people nod your heads at
everything I say."
Patty did use all the diplomacy at her command. Having dwelt touchingly
upon their long friendship, and their sorrow at being separated, she
passed lightly to the matter of their new room-mates.
"They are doubtless very nice girls," she ended politely, "only, you
see, Mrs. Trent, they don't match us; and it is extremely hard to
concentrate one's mind upon lessons, unless one has a congenial
room-mate."
Patty's steady, serious gaze suggested that lessons were the end of her
existence. A brief smile flitted over the Dowager's face, but the next
instant she was grave again.
"It is very necessary that we study this year," Patty added. "Priscilla
and I are going to college, and we realize the necessity of being
prepared. Upon the thorough foundation that we lay here, depends our
success for the next four years--for our whole lives you might say."
Conny jogged her elbow warningly. It was too patently a crib from Miss
Lord.
"And besides," Patty added hastily, "all my things are blue, and Mae has
a purple screen and a yellow sofa cushion."
"That is awkward," the Dowager admitted.
"We are used to living in Paradise Al--I mean, the West Wing--and we
shall--er--miss the sunsets."
The Dowager allowed an anxious silence to follow, while she thoughtfully
tapped the desk with her lorgnette. The three studied her face with
speculative eyes. It was a mask they could not penetrate.
"The present arrangement is more or less temporary," she commenced in
equable tones. "I may find it expedient to make some changes, and I may
not. We have an unusual number of new girls this year; and instead of
putting them together, it has seemed wisest to mix them with the old
girls. You three have been with us a long time. You know the traditions
of the school. Therefore--" The Dowager smiled, a smile partially tinged
with amusement--"I am sending you as missionaries among the newcomers. I
wish you to make your influence felt."
Patty straightened her back and stared.
"Our influence?"
"Your new room-mate," Mrs. Trent continued imperturbably, "is too
grown-up for her years. She has lived in fashionable hotels, and under
such conditions, it is inevitable that a girl should become somewhat
affected. See if you cannot arouse in Mae an interest in girlish sports.
"And you, Constance, are rooming with Irene McCullough. She is, as you
know, an only child, and I fear has been a trifle spoiled. It would
please me if you could waken her to a higher regard for the spiritual
side of life, and less care for material things."
"I--I'll try," Conny stammered, dazed at so suddenly finding herself
cast in the unfamiliar rôle of moral reformer.
"And you have next to you the little French girl, Aurelie Deraismes. I
should be pleased, Constance, if you would assume an oversight of her
school career. She can help you to a more idiomatic knowledge of
French--and you can do the same for her in English.
"You, Priscilla, are rooming with--" She adjusted her lorgnette and
consulted a large chart.--"Ah, yes, Keren Hersey, a very unusual girl.
You two will find many subjects of mutual interest. The daughter of a
naval officer should have much in common with the daughter of a
missionary. Keren bids fair to become an earnest student--almost, if
such a thing were possible, too earnest. She has never had any girl
companions, and knows nothing of the give and take of school life. She
can teach you, Priscilla, to be more studious, and you can teach her to
be more, shall I say, flexible?"
"Yes, Mrs. Trent," Priscilla murmured.
"And so," the Dowager finished, "I am sending you out in my place, as
moral reformers. I want the older girls to set an example to the
newcomers. I wish to have the real government of the school a strong,
healthy Public Opinion. You three exert a great deal of influence. See
what you can do in the directions I have indicated--and in others that
may occur to you as you mix with your companions. I have watched you
carefully for three years, and in your fundamental good sense, I have
the greatest confidence."
She nodded dismissal, and the three found themselves in the hall again.
They looked at one another for a moment of blank silence.
"Moral reformers!" Conny gasped.
"I see through the Dowager," said Patty, "She thinks she's found a new
method of managing us."
"But I don't see that we're getting back to Paradise Alley," Priscilla
complained.
Patty's eyes suddenly brightened. She seized them each by an elbow and
shoved them into the empty schoolroom.
"We'll do it!"
"Do what?" asked Conny.
"Pitch right in and reform the school. If we just keep at
it--steady--you'll see! We'll be back in Paradise Alley at the end of
two weeks."
"Um," said Priscilla, thoughtfully. "I believe we might."
"We'll commence with Irene," said Conny, her mind eagerly jumping to
details, "and make her lose that twenty pounds. That's what the Dowager
meant when she said she wanted her less material."
"We'll have her thin in no time," Patty nodded energetically. "And we'll
give Mae Mertelle a dose of bubbling girlishness."
"And Keren," interposed Priscilla, "we'll teach her to become frivolous
and neglect her lessons."
"But we won't just confine ourselves to those three," said Conny. "The
Dowager said to make our influence felt over the whole school."
"Oh, yes!" Patty agreed, rising to enthusiasm as she called the school
roll. "Kid McCoy uses too much slang. We'll teach her manners. Rosalie
doesn't like to study. We'll pour her _full_ of algebra and Latin.
Harriet Gladden's a jelly fish, Mary Deskam's an awful little liar,
Evalina Smith's a silly goose, Nancy Lee's a telltale--"
"When you stop to think about it, there's something the matter with
everybody," said Conny.
"Except us," amended Priscilla.
"Y--yes," Patty agreed in thoughtful retrospection, "I can't think of a
thing the matter with us--I don't wonder they chose us to head the
reform!"
Conny slid to her feet, a bundle of energy.
"Come on! We'll join our little playmates and begin the good
work--Hooray for the great Reform Party!"
They scrambled out of the open window, in a fashion foreign to the
dictates of Thursday evening manner class. Crowds of girls in blue middy
blouses were gathered in groups about the recreation ground. The three
paused to reconnoiter.
"There's Irene, still chewing." Conny nodded toward a comfortable bench
set in the shade by the tennis courts.
"Let's have a circus," Patty proposed. "We'll make Irene and Mae
Mertelle roll hoops around the oval. That will kill 'em both with one
stone--Irene will get thin, and Mae Mertelle girlish."
Hoop-rolling was a speciality of St. Ursula's. The gymnasium instructor
believed in teaching girls to run. Eleven times around the oval
constituted a mile, and a mile of hoop-rolling freed one for the day
from dumb-bells and Indian clubs. The three dived into the cellar, and
returned with hoops as tall as themselves. Patty assumed command of the
campaign and issued her orders.
"Conny, you take a walk with Keren and shock her as much as possible; we
must break her of being precise. And Pris, you take charge of Mae
Mertelle. Don't let her put on any grown-up airs. If she tells you she's
been proposed to twice, tell her you've been proposed to so many times
that you've lost count. Keep her snubbed all the time. I'll be elephant
trainer and start Irene running; she'll be a graceful gazelle by the
time I finish."
They parted on their several missions. St. Ursula's peace had ended. She
was in the throes of reform.
* * * * *
On Friday evening two weeks later, an unofficial faculty meeting was
convened in the Dowager's study. "Lights-out" had rung five minutes
before, and three harried teachers, relieved of duty for nine blessed
hours while their little charges slept, were discussing their troubles
with their chief.
"But just what have they done?" inquired Mrs. Trent, in tones of
judicial calm, as she vainly tried to stop the flood of interjections.
"It is difficult to put one's finger on the precise facts," Miss
Wadsworth quavered. "They have not broken any rules so far as I can
discover, but they have--er--created an atmosphere--"
"Every girl in my corridor," said Miss Lord, with compressed lips, "has
come to me separately, and begged to have Patty moved back to the West
Wing with Constance and Priscilla."
"Patty! _Mon Dieu!_" Mademoiselle rolled a pair of speaking eyes to
heaven. "The things that child thinks of! She is one little imp."
"You remember," the Dowager addressed Miss Lord, "I said when you
suggested separating them, that it was a very doubtful experiment.
Together, they exhaust their effervescence on each other; separated--"
"They exhaust the whole school!" cried Miss Wadsworth, on the verge of
tears. "Of course they don't mean it, but their unfortunate
dispositions--"
"Don't mean it!" Miss Lord's eyes snapped. "Their heads are together
planning fresh escapades every moment they are not in class."
"But what have they done?" persisted Mrs. Trent.
Miss Wadsworth hesitated a moment in an endeavor to choose examples from
the wealth of material that presented itself.
"I found Priscilla deliberately stirring up the contents of Keren's
bureau drawers with a shinny stick, and when I asked what she was doing,
she replied without the least embarrassment, that she was trying to
teach Keren to be less exact; that Mrs. Trent had asked her to do it."
"Um," mused the Dowager, "that was not my precise request, but no
matter."
"But the thing that has really troubled me the most," Miss Wadsworth
spoke diffidently, "is a matter almost a blasphemy. Keren has a very
religious turn of mind, but an unfortunate habit of saying her prayers
out loud. One night, after a peculiarly trying day, she prayed that
Priscilla might be forgiven for being so aggravating. Whereupon
Priscilla knelt before her bed, and prayed that Keren might become less
self-righteous and stubborn, and more ready to join in the sports of her
playmates with generosity and openness of spirit. They carried
on--well, really, one might almost call it a praying match."
"Shocking!" cried Miss Lord.
"And little Aurelie Deraismes--they have been drilling the child
in--er--idiomatic English. The phrase that I overheard her repeating,
seemed scarcely the expression that a lady would use."
"What was it?" inquired the Dowager, with a slightly expectant note.
"I'll be _gum-swizzled_!"
Miss Wadsworth colored a deep pink. It was foreign to her nature even to
repeat so doubtful an expression.
The Dowager's lips twitched. It was a fact, deplored by her assistants,
that her sense of humor frequently ran away with her sense of justice. A
very naughty little girl, if she managed to be funny, might hope to
escape; whereas an equally naughty little girl, who was not funny, paid
the full penalty of her crime. Fortunately, however, the school at large
had not discovered this vulnerable spot in the Dowager's armor.
"Their influence," it was Miss Lord who spoke, "is demoralizing the
school. Mae Van Arsdale says that she will go home if she has to room
any longer with Patty Wyatt. I do not know what the trouble is, but--"
"I know it!" said Mademoiselle. "The whole school laughs. It is touching
the question of a _sweetch_."
"Of what?" The Dowager cocked her head. Mademoiselle's English was at
times difficult. She mixed her languages impartially.
"A sweetch--some hair--to make pompadour. Last week when they have
tableaux, Patty has borrowed it and has dyed it with blueing to make a
beard for Bluebeard. But being yellow to start, it has become green, and
the color will not wash out. The sweetch is ruin--entirely ruin--and
Patty is desolate. She has apologize. She thought it would wash, but
since it will not wash, she has suggest to Mae that she color her own
hair to match the sweetch, and Mae lose her temper and call names. Then
Patty has pretend to cry, and she put the green hair on Mae's bed with
a wreath of flowers around, and she hang a stocking on the door for
crape, and invite the girls to come to the funeral, and everybody laugh
at Mae."
"It's just as well," said the Dowager, unmoved. "I do not wish to favor
the wearing of false hair."
"It's the principle of the thing," said Miss Lord.
"And that poor Irene McCullough," Mademoiselle continued the tale, "she
dissolves herself in tears. Those three insist that she make herself
thin, and she has no wish to become thin."
"They take away her butter-ball," corroborated Miss Wadsworth, "before
she comes to the table; they make her go without dessert, and they do
not allow her to eat sugar on her oatmeal. They keep her exercising
every moment, and when she complains to me, they punish her."
"I should think," the Dowager spoke with a touch of sarcasm, "that Irene
were big enough to take care of herself."
"She has three against her," reminded Miss Lord.
"I called Patty to my room," said Miss Wadsworth, "and demanded an
explanation. She told me that Mrs. Trent thought that Irene was too fat,
and wished them to reduce her twenty pounds! Patty said that it was hard
work, they were getting thin themselves, but they realized that they
were seniors and must exert an influence over the school. I really think
she was sincere. She talked very sweetly about moral responsibility, and
the necessity of the older girls setting an example."
"It is her impudence," said Miss Lord, "that is so exasperating."
"That's--just Patty!" the Dowager laughed. "I must confess that I find
all three of them amusing. It's good, healthy mischief and I wish there
were more of it. They don't bribe the maids to mail letters, or smuggle
in candy, or flirt with the soda-water clerk. They at least can be
trusted."
"Trusted!" gasped Miss Lord.
"To break every minor rule with cheerful unconcern," nodded the
Dowager, "but never to do the slightest thing dishonorable. They have
kind hearts and the girls all love them--"
A knock sounded on the door with startling suddenness, and before anyone
could reply, the door burst open and Keren-happuch appeared on the
threshold. She was clutching with one hand the folds of a brilliant
Japanese kimono, the other she reserved for gestures. The kimono was
sprinkled with fire-eating dragons as large as cats; and to the
astonished spectators, Keren's flushed face and disheveled hair seemed
to carry out the decorative scheme. The Dowager's private study was a
sacred spot, reserved for interviews of formality; never had a pupil
presented herself in such unceremonious garb.
"Keren!" cried Miss Wadsworth. "What has happened?"
"I want a new room-mate! I can't stand Priscilla any longer. She's been
having a birthday party in my room--"
"A birthday party?" Mrs. Trent turned questioningly to Miss Wadsworth.
She nodded unhappily.
"Yesterday was Priscilla's birthday, and she received a box from her
aunt. This being Friday night, I gave her permission--"
"Certainly." The Dowager turned to the tragic figure in the center of
the floor. "It is Priscilla's room as much as yours and--"
Keren plunged into a sea of words. The four leaned forward in a strained
endeavor to pluck some sense from the torrent.
"They used my bed for a table because it wasn't against the wall, and
Patty tipped a pot of chocolate over in the middle of it. She said it
was an accident--but she did it on purpose--I know she did! And because
I objected, Priscilla said it wasn't polite to notice when a guest
spilled anything, and she tipped a glass of current jelly on my pillow,
to make Patty feel comfortable. That was the polite thing for a hostess
to do, she said; they learned it last year in manner class. And the
chocolate soaked right through, and Conny Wilder said it was fortunate I
was thin, because I could sleep in a curve around it; if it had happened
to Irene McCullough, she would have had to sleep in it, because she's
so big she takes up the whole bed. And Priscilla said I could be
thankful to-morrow's Saturday when we get clean sheets; it might have
happened so that I would have had to sleep in that puddle of chocolate a
whole week. And then the "Lights-out" rang, and they left me to clean
up, and the housekeeper's gone to bed, and I can't get any fresh bed
clothes, and I _won't_ sleep that way! I'm not used to sleeping in
chocolaty sheets. I don't like America and I _hate_ girls."
Tears were dripping from Keren's cheeks onto the fire-breathing dragons
below. The Dowager, without comment, rose and rang the bell.
"Katie," she said, as the maid on duty appeared at the door, "some fresh
sheets for Miss Keren, please, and remake her bed. That will do for
to-night, Keren. Get to sleep as quickly as possible, and don't talk.
You mustn't disturb the other girls. We can see about changing
room-mates to-morrow."
Katie and the outraged dragons withdrew.
A silence followed, while Miss Wadsworth and Mademoiselle exchanged
glances of despair, and Miss Lord buckled on her war armor.
"You see!" she said, with a suggestion of triumph, "when they get to the
point of persecuting a poor little--"
"In my experience of school life," said Mrs. Trent judicially, "it is a
girl's own fault when she is persecuted. Their methods are crude, but to
the point. Keren is a hopeless little prig--"
"But at least you can't allow her to suffer--"
"Oh, no, I shall do what I can toward peace. To-morrow morning, Keren
can move in with Irene McCullough, and Patty and Conny and Priscilla go
back to their old rooms in the West Wing. You, Mademoiselle, are
somewhat inured--"
"I do not mind them together. They are just--what you
say?--exhilarating. It is when they are spread out that it is
difficult."
"You mean," Miss Lord stared--"that you are going to _reward_ their
disgraceful conduct? It is exactly what they have been working for."
"You must acknowledge," smiled the Dowager, "that they have worked hard.
Perseverance deserves success."
* * * * *
The next morning, Patty and Conny and Priscilla, their arms running over
with dresses and hats and sofa cushions, gaily two-stepped down the
length of "Paradise Alley" while a relieved school assisted at the
flitting. As they caught sight of Miss Lord hovering in the offing, they
broke into the chorus of a popular school song:
"We like to go to chapel
And listen to the preachers,
We are happy in our work,
And we dearly love our teachers.
Daughters of Saint Ur-su-la!"
II
The Romantic History of Cuthbert St. John
"The Dowager" had a very sensible theory that boarding-school girls
should be kept little girls, until their school life was over, and they
stepped out, fresh and eager and spontaneous, to greet the grown-up
world. Saint Ursula's was a cloister, in fact, as in name. The masculine
half of the human species was not supposed to count.
Sometimes a new girl was inclined to turn up her nose at the youthful
pastimes that contented her companions. But in the end she would be
drawn irresistibly into the current. She would learn to jump rope and
roll hoops; to participate in paper chases 'cross country; to skate and
coast and play hockey on winter afternoons, to enjoy molasses-candy
pulls and popcorn around the big open fire on Saturday nights, or
impromptu masquerades, when the school raided the trunks in the attic
for costumes. After a few weeks' time, the most spoiled little worldling
lost her consciousness of calls outside of "bounds," and surrendered to
the spirit of the youthful sisterhood.
But the girls in their teens answer readily to the call of ROMANCE. And
occasionally, in the twilight hour between afternoon study and the
dressing bell, as they gathered in the window-seat with faces to the
western sky, the talk would turn to the future--particularly when
Rosalie Patton was of the group. Pretty, dainty, inconsequential little
Rosalie was preëminently fashioned for romance; it clung to her golden
hair and looked from her eyes. She might be extremely hazy as to the
difference between participles and supines, she might hesitate on her
definition of a parallelopiped, but when the subject under discussion
was one of sentiment, she spoke with conviction. For hers was no mere
theoretical knowledge; it was gained by personal experience. Rosalie
had been proposed to!
She confided the details to her most intimate friends, and they confided
them to their most intimate friends, until finally, the whole school
knew the entire romantic history.
Rosalie's preëminence in the field of sentiment was held entirely
fitting. Priscilla might excel in basket-ball, Conny Wilder in
dramatics, Keren Hersey in geometry and Patty Wyatt in--well, in
impudence and audacity--but Rosalie was the recognized authority in
matters of the heart; and until Mae Mertelle Van Arsdale came, nobody
thought of questioning her position.
Mae Mertelle spent an uncomfortable month shaking into place in the
school life. The point in which she was accustomed to excel was
_clothes_, but when she and her four trunks arrived, she found to her
disgust that clothes were not useful at St. Ursula's. The school uniform
reduced all to a dead level in the matter of fashion. There was another
field, however, in which she might hope for supremacy. Her own
sentimental history was vivid, compared to the colorless lives of most,
and she proceeded to assert her claims.
One Saturday evening in October, half-a-dozen girls were gathered in
Rosalie's room, on piled-up sofa cushions, with the gas turned low and
the light of the hunter's moon streaming through the window. They had
been singing softly in a minor key, but gradually the singing turned to
talk. The talk, in accordance with the moonlight and flying clouds, was
in a sentimental vein; and it ended, naturally, with Rosalie's Great
Experience. Between maidenly hesitations and many promptings she retold
the story--the new girls had never heard it, and to the old girls it was
always new.
The stage setting had been perfect--a moonlit beach, and lapping waves
and rustling pine trees. When Rosalie chanced to omit any detail, her
hearers, already familiar with the story, eagerly supplied it.
"And he held your hand all the time he was talking," Priscilla
prompted.
"Oh, Rosalie! Did he?" in a shocked chorus from the newcomers.
"Y--yes. He just sort of took hold of it and forgot to let go, and I
didn't like to remind him."
"What did he say?"
"He said he couldn't live without me."
"And what did you say?"
"I said I was awfully sorry, but he'd have to."
"And then what happened?"
"Nothing happened," she was obliged to confess. "I s'pose something
might have happened if I'd accepted him, but you see, I didn't."
"But you were very young at the time," suggested Evalina Smith. "Are you
sure you knew your own mind?"
Rosalie nodded with an air of melancholy regret.
"Yes. I knew I couldn't ever love him, because, he--well, he had an
awfully funny nose. It started to point in one direction, and then
changed its mind and pointed in the other."
Her hearers would have preferred that she had omitted this detail; but
Rosalie was literal-minded and lacked the story-teller's instinct for
suppression.
"He asked if there wasn't any hope that I would change," she added
pensively. "I told him that I could never love him enough to marry him,
but that I would always respect him."
"And then what did he say?"
"He said he wouldn't commit suicide."
A profound hush followed, while Rosalie gazed at the moon and the others
gazed at Rosalie. With her gleaming hair and violet eyes, she was
entirely their ideal of a storybook heroine. They did not think of
envying her; they merely wondered and admired. She was crowned by
natural right, Queen of Romance.
Mae Van Arsdale, who had listened in silence to the recital, was the
first to break the spell. She rose, fluffed up her hair, straightened
her blouse, and politely suppressed a yawn.
"Nonsense, Rosalie! You're a silly little goose to make such a fuss over
nothing.--Good-night, children. I'm going to bed now."
She sauntered toward the door, but paused on the threshold to drop the
casual statement. "_I've_ been proposed to three times."
A shocked gasp arose from the circle at this _lèse-majesté_. The
disdainful condescension of a new girl was more than they could brook.
"She's a horrid old thing, and I don't believe a word she says!"
Priscilla declared stoutly, as she kissed poor crushed little Rosalie
goodnight.
This slight _contretemps_ marked the beginning of strained relations.
Mae Mertelle gathered her own adherents, and Rosalie's special coterie
of friends rallied to the standard of their queen. They intimated to
Mae's followers that the quality of the romance was quite different in
the two cases. Mae might be the heroine of any number of commonplace
flirtations, but Rosalie was the victim of a _grande passion_. She was
marked with an indelible scar that she would carry to the grave. In the
heat of their allegiance, they overlooked the crookedness of the hero's
nose and the avowed fact that Rosalie's own affections had not been
engaged.
But Mae's trump card had been withheld. Whispers presently spread about
under the seal of confidence. She was hopelessly in love. It was not a
matter of the past vacation, but of the burning present. Her room-mate
wakened in the night to hear her sobbing to herself. She had no
appetite--her whole table could testify to that. In the middle of
dessert, even on ice-cream nights, she would forget to eat, and with her
spoon half-raised, would sit staring into space. When reminded that she
was at the table, she would start guiltily and hastily bolt the rest of
the meal. Her enemies unkindly commented upon the fact that she always
came to before the end, so she got as much as anybody else.
The English classes at St. Ursula's were weekly drilled in the
old-fashioned art of letter writing. The girls wrote letters home,
minutely descriptive of school life. They addressed imaginary girl
friends, and grandmothers and college brothers and baby sisters. They
were learning the great secret of literary forcefulness--to suit their
style to their audience. Ultimately, they arrived at the point of
thanking imaginary young men for imaginary flowers. Mae listened to the
somewhat stilted phraseology of these polite and proper notes with a
supercilious smile. The class, covertly regarding her, thrilled anew.
Gradually, the details of the romance spread abroad. The man was
English--Mae had met him on the steamer--and some day when his elder
brother died (the brother was suffering from an incurable malady that
would carry him off in a few years) he would come into the title; though
just what the title was, Mae had not specifically stated. But in any
case, her father was a staunch American; he hated the English and he
hated titles. No daughter of his should ever marry a foreigner. If she
did, she would never receive a dollar from him. However, neither Mae nor
Cuthbert cared about the money. Cuthbert had plenty of his own. His name
was Cuthbert St. John. (Pronounced Sinjun.) He had four names in all,
but those were the two he used the most. He was in England now, having
been summoned by cable, owing to the critical condition of his brother's
health, but the crisis was past, and Cuthbert would soon be returning.
Then--Mae closed her lips in a straight line and stared defiantly into
space. Her father should see!
Before the throbbing reality of this romance, Rosalie's poor little
history paled into nothing.
Then the plot began to thicken. Studying the lists of incoming steamers,
Mae announced to her room-mate that he had landed. He had given his word
to her father not to write; but she knew that in some way she should
hear. And sure enough! The following morning brought a nameless bunch of
violets. There had been doubters before--but at this tangible proof of
devotion, skepticism crumbled.
Mae wore her violets to church on Sunday. The school mixed its responses
in a shocking fashion--nobody pretended to follow the service; all eyes
were fixed on Mae's upturned face and far-off smile. Patty Wyatt pointed
out that Mae had taken special pains to seat herself in the light of a
stained-glass window, and that occasionally the rapt eyes scanned the
faces of her companions, to make sure that the effect was reaching
across the footlights. But Patty's insinuation was indignantly
repudiated by the school.
Mae was at last triumphantly secure in the rôle of leading lady. Poor
insipid Rosalie no longer had a speaking part.
The affair ran on for several weeks, gathering momentum as it moved. In
the European Travel Class that met on Monday nights, "English Country
Seats" was the subject of one of the talks, illustrated by the
stereopticon. As a stately, terraced mansion, with deer cropping grass
in the foreground, was thrown upon the screen, Mae Mertelle suddenly
grew faint. She vouchsafed no reason to the housekeeper who came with
hot-water bottles and cologne; but later, she whispered to her room-mate
that that was the house where he was born.
Violets continued to arrive each Saturday, and Mae became more and more
_distrait_. The annual basket-ball game with Highland Hall, a near-by
school for girls, was imminent. St. Ursula's had been beaten the year
before; it would mean everlasting disgrace if defeat met them a second
time, for Highland Hall was a third their size. The captain harangued
and scolded an apathetic team.
"It's Mae Mertelle and her beastly violets!" she disgustedly grumbled to
Patty. "She's taken all the fight out of them."
The teachers, meanwhile, were uneasily aware that the atmosphere was
overcharged. The girls stood about in groups, thrilling visibly when Mae
Mertelle passed by. There was a moonlight atmosphere about the school
that was not conducive to high marks in Latin prose composition. The
matter finally became the subject of an anxious faculty meeting. There
was no actual data at hand; it was all surmise, but the source of the
trouble was evident. The school had been swept before by a wave of
sentiment; it was as catching as the measles. The Dowager was inclined
to think that the simplest method of clearing the atmosphere would be to
pack Mae Mertelle and her four trunks back to the paternal fireside, and
let her foolish mother deal with the case. Miss Lord was
characteristically bent upon fighting it out. She would stop the
nonsense by force. Mademoiselle, who was inclined to sentiment, feared
that the poor child was really suffering. She thought sympathy and
tact--But Miss Sallie's bluff common-sense won the day. If the sanity of
Saint Ursula's demanded it, Mae Mertelle must go; but she thought, by
the use of a little diplomacy, both St. Ursula's sanity and Mae Mertelle
might be preserved. Leave the matter to her. She would use her own
methods.
Miss Sallie was the Dowager's daughter. She managed the practical end of
the establishment--provided for the table, ruled the servants, and ran
off, with the utmost ease, the two hundred acres of the school farm.
Between the details of horseshoeing and haying and butter-making, she
lent her abilities wherever they were needed. She never taught; but she
disciplined. The school was noted for unusual punishments, and most of
them originated in Miss Sallie's brain. Her title of "Dragonette" was
bestowed in respectful admiration of her mental qualities.
The next day was Tuesday, Miss Sallie's regular time for inspecting the
farm. As she came downstairs after luncheon drawing on her driving
gloves, she just escaped stepping on Conny Wilder and Patty Wyatt who,
flat on their stomachs, were trying to poke out a golf ball from under
the hat-rack.
"Hello, girls!" was her cheerful greeting. "Wouldn't you like a little
drive to the farm? Run and tell Miss Wadsworth that you are excused from
afternoon study. You may stay away from Current Events this evening,
and make it up."
The two scrambled into hats and coats in excited delight. A visit to
Round Hill Farm with Miss Sallie, was the greatest good that St.
Ursula's had to offer. For Miss Sallie--out of bounds--was the funniest,
most companionable person in the world. After an exhilarating five-mile
drive through a brown and yellow October landscape, they spent a couple
of hours romping over the farm, had milk and ginger cookies in Mrs.
Spence's kitchen; and started back, wedged in between cabbages and eggs
and butter. They chatted gaily on a dozen different themes--the
Thanksgiving masquerade, a possible play, the coming game with Highland
Hall, and the lamentable new rule that made them read the editorials in
the daily papers. Finally, when conversation flagged for a moment, Miss
Sallie dropped the casual inquiry:
"By the way, girls, what _has_ got into Mae Van Arsdale? She droops
about in corners and looks as dismal as a molting chicken."
Patty and Conny exchanged a glance.
"Of course," Miss Sallie continued cheerfully, "it's perfectly evident
what the trouble is. I haven't been connected with a boarding-school for
ten years for nothing. The little idiot is posing as the object of an
unhappy affection. You know that I never favor talebearing, but, just as
a matter of curiosity, is it the young man who passes the plate in
church, or the one who sells ribbon in Marsh and Elkins's?"
"Neither." Patty grinned. "It's an English nobleman."
"What?" Miss Sallie stared.
"And Mae's father hates English noblemen," Conny explained, "and has
forbidden him ever to see her again."
"Her heart is broken," said Patty sadly. "She's going into a decline."
"And the violets?" inquired Miss Sallie.
"He promised not to send her any letters, but violets weren't
mentioned."
"H'm, I see!" said Miss Sallie; and, after a moment of thought, "Girls,
I am going to leave this matter in your hands. I want it stopped."
"In our hands?"
"The school can't be stirred up any longer; but the matter's too silly
to warrant the teachers taking any notice of it. This is a thing that
ought to be regulated by public opinion. Suppose you see what you can
do--I will appoint you a committee to bring the school back to a solid
basis of common sense. I know that I can trust you not to talk."
"I don't exactly see what we can do," said Patty, dubiously.
"You are usually not without resourcefulness," Miss Sallie returned with
a flickering smile. "You may have a _carte blanche_ to choose your own
methods."
"And may we tell Priscilla?" Conny asked. "We must tell her because we
three--"
"Hunt together?" Miss Sallie nodded. "Tell Priscilla, and let it stop at
that."
The next afternoon, when Martin drove into the village to accomplish
the daily errands, he dropped Patty and Priscilla at the florists,
empowered by the school to purchase flowers for the rector's wife and
new baby. They turned inside, their minds entirely occupied with the
rival merits of red and white roses. They ordered their flowers,
inscribed the card, and then waited aimlessly till Martin should return
to pick them up. Passing down the counter, they came upon a
bill-sticker, the topmost item being, "Violets every Saturday to Miss
Mae Van Arsdale, St. Ursula's School."
They stopped and stared for a thoughtful moment. The florist followed
their gaze.
"Do you happen to know the young lady who ordered them vi'lets?" he
inquired. "She didn't leave any name, and I'd like to know if she wants
me to keep on sending 'em. She only paid up to the first, and the price
is going up."
"No, I don't know who it was," said Patty, with well-assumed
indifference. "What did she look like?"
"She--she had on a blue coat," he suggested. As all sixty-four of the
St. Ursula girls wore blue coats, his description was not helpful.
"Oh," Patty prompted, "was she quite tall with a lot of yellow hair
and--"
"That's her!"
He recognized the type with some assurance.
"It's Mae herself!" Priscilla whispered excitedly.
Patty nodded and commanded silence.
"We'll tell her," she promised. "And by the way," she added to
Priscilla, "I think it would be nice for us to send some flowers to Mae,
from our--er--secret society. But I'm afraid the treasury is pretty low
just now. They'll have to be cheaper than violets. What are your
cheapest flowers?" she inquired of the man.
"There's a kind of small sunflower that some people likes for
decoration. 'Cut-and-come-again' they're called. I can give you a
good-sized bunch for fifty cents. They make quite a show."
"Just the thing! Send a bunch of sunflowers to Miss Van Arsdale with
this card." Patty drew a blank card toward her, and in an upright back
hand traced the inscription, "Your disconsolate C. St. J."
She sealed it in an envelope, then regarded the florist sternly.
"Are you a Mason?" she asked, her eye on the crescent in his buttonhole.
"Y--yes," he acknowledged.
"Then you understand the nature of an oath of secrecy? You are not to
divulge to anyone the sender of these flowers. The tall young lady with
the yellow hair will come in here and try to make you tell who sent
them. You are not to remember. It may even have been a man. You don't
know anything about it. This secret society at Saint Ursula's is so very
much more secret than the Masonic Society, that it is even a secret that
it exists. Do you understand?"
"I--yes, ma'am," he grinned.
"If it becomes known," she added darkly, "I shall not be responsible for
your life."
She and Priscilla each contributed a quarter for the flowers.
"It's going to be expensive," Patty sighed. "I think we'll have to ask
Miss Sallie for an extra allowance while this committee is in session."
Mae was in her room, surrounded by an assemblage of her special
followers, when the flowers arrived. She received the box in some
bewilderment.
"He's sending flowers on Wednesdays as well as Saturdays!" her room-mate
cried. "He must be getting desperate."
Mae opened the box amid an excited hush.
"How perfectly lovely!" they cried in chorus, though with a slightly
perfunctory undertone. They would have preferred crimson roses.
Mae regarded the offering for a moment of stupefied amazement. She had
been pretending so long, that by now she almost believed in Cuthbert
herself. The circle was waiting, and she rallied her powers to meet this
unexpected crisis.
"I wonder what sunflowers mean?" she asked softly. "They must convey
some message. Does anybody know the language of flowers?"
Nobody did know the language of flowers; but they were relieved at the
suggestion.
"Here's a card!" Evalina Smith plucked it from among the bristling
leaves.
Mae made a motion to examine it in private, but she had been so generous
with her confidences heretofore, that she was not allowed to withdraw
them at this interesting point. They leaned over her shoulder and read
it aloud.
"'Your disconsolate C. St. J.'--Oh, Mae, think how he must be
suffering!"
"Poor man!"
"He simply couldn't remain silent any longer."
"He's the soul of honor," said Mae. "He wouldn't write a real letter
because he promised not to, but I suppose--a little message like this--"
Patty Wyatt passing the door, sauntered in. The card was exhibited in
spite of a feeble protest from Mae.
"That handwriting shows a lot of character," Patty commented.
This was considered a concession; for Patty, from the first, had held
aloof from the cult of Cuthbert St. John. She was Rosalie's friend.