A college for women is generally looked upon by the outside world and
the visiting preachers as a haven of rest, a sort of oasis in the desert
of life, a Paradise with a large and flourishing Tree of Knowledge of
which one is commanded to eat, and where one is happily ignorant of the
“struggle for life,” and the woes and evils of the world.
Such views have been so often expressed and inculcated that it appears a
little ungracious and stubborn to insist that the bishop who comes out
and delivers a sermon once a year, or the brilliant young graduate from
a neighboring seminary--who is sent because the dean has been suddenly
called away and who is quaking with fear at the ordeal--cannot possibly
know all about a girl’s college life and its temptations and its trials
and its vanities.
When the heterogeneous mass of humanity which makes up a big college is
got together and in close relation for ten months at a time, there is
bound to be action and reaction. When New York society girls and
missionaries’ daughters from India, and Boston Latin-school girls and
native Japanese, and Westerners and Georgians and Australians and
“Teacher Specials,” and very young preparatory-school girls, are all
mixed up together, it inevitably happens that there is some friction and
many unexpected and interesting results. One of these is that it not
infrequently happens that a young woman leaves college an entirely
different person from the girl who took her entrance examinations, and
sometimes the change is for the better and sometimes for the worse, or
it may be unimportant and relate only to the way she has got to wearing
her hair, or the amount of extra money she considers necessary. At any
rate, a noticeable change of some sort always operates in a girl during
her four or five years’ stay at a college, and when she goes home “for
good” her friends will criticise her from their different points of
view, and will be sure to tell her whether she is improved or not.
When Miss Eva Hungerford returned for her senior year at college, having
been greatly disappointed in one of her friends, she determined to make
no new ones, but to work very hard and keep a great deal to herself. She
succeeded so well in her efforts that, after she had been there three
months, she became aware that she knew absolutely none of the new
students. They were an indistinguishable mass to her, with the exception
of two or three noticeably pretty, and about the same number of
extremely homely young women whose physique rendered them conspicuous.
To her uninterested gaze the large majority seemed to be distressingly
like all previous freshman classes, and endowed with the same modest
amount of good looks and intellectual foreheads.
But in college life it is a strange fact that while upper classes find
it rather difficult to become acquainted among the lower ones, owing, of
course, to the unwritten code which prevents a senior from appearing
interested in any but those of her own class, yet the incoming students
are allowed and take every opportunity of ingratiating themselves with
upper-class girls, without injury to their dignity. But Miss Hungerford,
who had surrounded herself with quite an impenetrable air of seniority,
and who was so extremely handsome and distant-looking, by her appearance
and bearing had exercised a rather chilling influence on young aspirants
for an introduction, and was secretly very much looked up to and feared.
She was not entirely unconscious of the effect she produced, and was
therefore decidedly surprised one day to receive a call from a freshman
who lived only a few doors from her, but of whose existence she had not
been aware. She thought the child--she was very young, not more than
sixteen--uninteresting, and that it was an evidence of extremely bad
taste, and unconventionality on her part to call in that unprovoked way.
But she was very polite to her uninvited guest, and asked her the usual
questions, and the girl, who was very naïve, replied with a loquacity
quite trying to her hostess.
Miss Hungerford was rather indignant after her visitor had gone, and
wondered why she had had to be interrupted in an analytical study of
“Prometheus Unbound,” to listen to a child tell her that she had never
been out of Iowa before, and that her mother had not wanted her to come
to college, but that her father had always said she should have “a
higher education,” and so, after presumably much domestic wrangling, she
was there. Miss Hungerford could not remember much else of what the
young girl had told her, having listened rather absently to her replies,
but she had a distinct impression that her visitor was not at all
good-looking, with only a fine pair of eyes to redeem her pale face, and
that her clothes were atrocious, and that she was
[Illustration: A RATHER CHILLING INFLUENCE]
_gauche_ and decidedly of a social class that Miss Hungerford was not in
the habit of mingling with away from college. For even in a very
democratic college there are social grades, and although it is the thing
to meet in a most friendly way at all class functions, still, a narrow
line of distinction may be perceived on social occasions.
Altogether Miss Hungerford felt rather aggrieved and hoped she would not
be bothered again. But she was. Miss Betty Harmon, of Sioux City, Ia.,
had had a fearful struggle with her timidity and retiring nature, when
she called on Miss Hungerford, and having gained a victory over herself,
she had no intention of resigning the benefits. So she would smile first
when they met in the corridors, and was not above showing how much she
appreciated a few words from Miss Hungerford in praise of her tennis
serve, and that young woman was even uncomfortably conscious that her
youthful admirer had more than once followed her to the library, where,
under pretence of reading, she had stolen furtive glances at her. Later
there were notes, and roses, and requests to go boating.
Miss Hungerford strongly objected to such proceedings, not only because
she did not wish to be rendered ridiculous by an insignificant freshman
from Iowa, but also because she was a very sensible girl, and entirely
disapproved of the “eclectic affinity” business, and she had no
intention of allowing the young girl’s admiration for herself to develop
into that abnormal sort of attraction that exists between girls in so
many schools and colleges.
The temptation to exalt some upper-class girl into an ideal and lavish
upon her an affection which in society would naturally fall to the lot
of some very unideal boy, or man, is one of the greatest ordeals a
college girl goes through, and one who successfully resists all
inducements to become a “divinity student,” or who gets out of the
entanglement without damage to herself, is as successfully “proven” as
was Lieutenant Ouless after his little affair with Private Ortheris.
Even the least romantic girl is apt to find unexpected possibilities in
her nature in the way of romantic devotion, so that it was not
surprising that Miss Betty Harmon, unimaginative and unsentimental as
she was, should have admired so extravagantly as handsome and
interesting a girl as Eva Hungerford. The crude Western girl found
something extremely attractive in the senior--grace, a social ease and
distinction, and that indefinable magnetism which a wealthy, consciously
beautiful girl possesses.
[Illustration: SHE HAD STOLEN FURTIVE GLANCES AT HER]
But Miss Hungerford, who had no notion of getting herself talked about,
and whose Eastern sensitiveness and prejudices were continually being
shocked by the younger girl’s crudities, so persistently frowned down
upon and ignored her under-class admirer, that even Miss Harmon’s
devotion paled, and the roses and notes and boating excursions ceased.
She began to perceive that the faint line of social distinction, so
rarely perceptible in the college, had been drawn in her case.
During the last semestre of the year Miss Hungerford, who was very tired
and busy, seemed almost oblivious of the young girl’s existence, and
even forgot to smile at her when they met on the campus. And when on her
Baccalaureate Sunday a box of white roses--the last mute expression of
Miss Harmon’s expiring affection--was handed her without any card, she
wondered who had sent them and concluded they must have been ordered by
a man she knew.
* * * * *
Three years after leaving college Miss Hungerford married, much to her
friends’ surprise, and a year after that she and her husband went
abroad. Of course they went to Paris, where Mrs. Stanhope, who had spent
much time there after leaving college, had a great many friends, and
innumerable dinners were given to them and they enjoyed themselves very
much, until it got so cold that Mrs. Stanhope said she must go to
Cannes. Of course it immediately struck Stanhope, who adored his wife,
that it was entirely too cold to stay in Paris, and so they went south,
though their friends made a great fuss over their departure.
They stayed away much longer than they had intended, having been enticed
into going to Malta by some American acquaintances, and when they got
back to Paris hundreds of interesting things seemed to have happened in
their absence, and a great many people and events were being talked
about of which they knew nothing. But the wife of the American minister,
who was an old friend, went to see Mrs. Stanhope immediately to invite
her to an informal dinner the next evening, and stayed the entire
afternoon, telling her of everything that had happened and who all the
new people were--the New American Beauty for instance. She could not
believe that her friend had not heard of nor seen _the_ New Beauty.
“Why, haven’t you ever seen her pictures--and the notices of her?”
Mrs. Stanhope was slightly aggrieved. She knew absolutely nothing about
her.
“And I am completely astonished that they aren’t talking of her at
Cannes.”
Mrs. Stanhope reminded her friend that she had been immured at Malta
since leaving the Riviera.
“Oh, well, of course her fame has reached there by this time. Why, all
Paris is talking about her--and you know yourself”--observed that astute
lady, impressively--“how much it takes to make Paris stop and look at
you.” Mrs. Stanhope said “Yes,” and wanted to know who The Beauty’s
people were, and where she had come from.
“Oh, I don’t know,” declared her friend. “No one seems to inquire. She
is so beautiful and sufficient in herself that one does not care much
for the rest. They are immensely rich--recently, I believe--though you
would never know it from her manner. She is charming and thoroughly
well-bred. Her father, I hear, is a typical American business man--not
much _en évidence_, you know. He leaves that to his daughter, and she
does it very well. He is a Senator--or something--from the West, and
made such a name for himself at Washington that they thought he was too
bright to stay there, so they sent him over here to help settle that
international treaty affair--you know perhaps--I don’t, I only pretend
to.”
“How did she do it?” demanded Mrs. Stanhope, in that simply
comprehensive way women have when talking about another woman.
“Oh, she just started right in. Courtelais raved over her, and her
father paid him twenty thousand dollars to have her painted. The Colony
took her up, and the rest just followed naturally. The portrait is
really charming, though she was dressed--well, I don’t think any French
girl would have sat in that costume.”
“Is she really so beautiful?”
“Well--not regularly beautiful, perhaps--but charming and fascinating,
and awfully clever, they say--so clever that very few people suspect her
of it, and--oh! well, you can judge for yourself to-morrow evening. By
the way, everyone says she is engaged already--Comte de la Tour. You
used to know him, I think.” She rose to go. “He is very much in love
with her, that is evident.” She thought it best to let Mrs. Stanhope
have that piece of news from herself. She did not wish her friend to be
taken at a disadvantage, especially in her own house.
Mrs. Stanhope felt the least bit startled. She had known the Comte de la
Tour very well indeed in Paris, several years before, and he had been
very much in love with her, and had appeared quite genuinely
broken-hearted when she refused him. She had not seen him--he had not
been in Paris when she was there during the earlier part of the
season--but with the comforting faith of people who have never been in
love, she had always believed that he would get over his devotion to
her, though she felt a rather curious sensation on hearing that her
expectations had been so fully realized, and she felt a pardonable
curiosity to see the girl who had made him forget her.
She dressed very carefully for the American Minister’s the next evening,
and looked a little more than her usual handsome self, when her carriage
turned rapidly into the Avenue Hoche. She was somewhat late, and
although the Minister and his wife were old friends, she felt worried
with herself, for she had made it a rule to be punctual at all social
functions, and when she entered the rooms she could see that the guests
wore that rather expectant air which signifies that dinner is already
slightly behind time. She hurried forward and denounced herself in
polite fashion, but her hostess assured her that several others had not
yet arrived, and, much relieved, she turned to speak to a bright
newspaper man, an old acquaintance, who had arrived in Paris during her
absence.
“I am so glad to find you again,” he murmured in his drawl; “they tell
me you have been to Malta. How fortunate for you! I suppose now you have
been happy in an idyllic, out-of-the-world way, and have not heard a
word about Brice’s accident, nor the newspaper duel, nor the New
Beauty----”
“But I am not happy, and shall not be until I see your Beauty,”
protested Mrs. Stanhope. “I’ve heard about her until I have an
all-devouring curiosity to behold her. I haven’t even seen _the_
portrait, or a photograph!”
He fell away from her in mock surprise and despair, and was about to
reply, when the portières were drawn aside and Mrs. Stanhope saw coming
into the room a very beautiful young girl, with a rather childish,
mobile face, and magnificent eyes. She seemed to know everyone, and
bowed and smiled right and left in an easy, bright sort of way. Mrs.
Stanhope would have known this was The Beauty, even if her entrance had
not been accompanied by that significant hush and rather ridiculous
closing up of the men in her wake. There was a special charm about the
soft contour of her face, and the heavy white satin of her gown, though
rather old for such a young girl, set off her beauty admirably.
“Looks just like one of Goodrich’s girls, doesn’t she?” murmured the
man at Mrs. Stanhope’s elbow. But that lady was not paying any attention
to his remarks. She was looking in a puzzled fashion at the girl’s face,
and wondering what there was about it so familiar.
“Isn’t she deliciously beautiful?” he insisted, “and clever! I found it
out quite by accident. She’s very careful about letting people know how
well informed she is. She’s been to a college somewhere,” he ran on.
Mrs. Stanhope was not listening. She was still looking, in a rather
abstracted way, at the young girl who was holding a little court on the
other side of the room. Her hostess rustled up.
“I am going to send my husband to bring The Beauty to you,” she said,
laughingly, and swept across the room. In a moment Mrs. Stanhope saw the
girl take the Minister’s arm, and, followed on the other side by the
Comte de la Tour, start toward her. For some inexplicable reason she
felt annoyed, and half wished to avoid the introduction. The newspaper
man was interested. Mrs. Stanhope had never posed as a professional
beauty, and she was too noble a woman to have her head turned by
flattery, but that did not alter the fact that she had been considered
the handsomest woman in the American colony at Paris, and, of course,
she knew it. He thought it would be interesting to see how the
acknowledged beauty received the younger one.
When the two women were within a few feet of each other, and before the
American Minister could say “Mrs. Stanhope,” they each gave a little cry
of recognition, and it was the younger one who first regained her
composure and extended her hand. She stood there, flushed and smiling,
the lights falling on her dark hair and gleaming shoulders, making of
her, as the newspaper man had said, one of “Goodrich’s girls.” The
childish look had gone out of her eyes, and a little gleam of conscious
triumph was in them. There was just a shade of coldness, almost of
condescension, in her manner. While the Comte was looking from one to
the other, in a rather mystified way, and the American Minister was
saying, “Why, I didn’t know--I thought--” Mrs. Stanhope’s mind was
running quickly back to her first meeting with the girl before her, and
she could only remember, in a confused sort of way, what this girl had
once been like. And so they stood for a moment--it seemed an
interminably long time to the men--looking a little constrainedly at
each other and smiling vaguely. But the older woman quickly recovered
herself. She had no notion of being outdone
[Illustration: WHEN THE TWO WOMEN WERE WITHIN A FEW FEET OF EACH
OTHER]
by the girl before her, and spoke brightly.
“I did not recognize you! How stupid of me! But you see the ‘Beatrice’
confused me, and then the French way everyone has of pronouncing
H-a-r-m-ö-n completely put me off the track!”
She tried to be very friendly, and the young girl smiled and looked
easily--the newspaper man thought almost defiantly--at her, but it was
plain to the three onlookers that in some inscrutable way the meeting
had been unfortunate, and they each felt relieved, in an inexplicable
fashion, when dinner was announced and the snowy, gleaming length of
damask and silver and wax lights stretched between the two women.
* * * * *
That night the Comte thought a good deal about the reception of his
_fiancée_ by the woman he had once loved, and decided that the American
woman was a trifle _exigeante_, and wondered whether Mrs. Stanhope had
really expected him never to marry.
The American Minister confided to his wife that he was disappointed in
Eva Stanhope, and that she had always appeared so free from vanity and
so superior to the little meannesses of women that he was very much
surprised at the way she had acted.
The newspaper man, being exceedingly wise in his generation, smoked
three cigars over it on the way to his hotel, and then--gave it up.