COMMENCEMENT.
QUICKLY, far too quickly, the remaining weeks of the year had passed,
and the commencement season had come. Little had occurred to mark the
four weeks, for the work of the school had gone smoothly on to its
close, without disaster or incident to mark the every-day routine. For a
week after the spread in Osborn’s room, the school had buzzed with more
or less incorrect reports of the affair; but, except for Alex and Leon,
none of the cadets knew how near it had come to being disastrous to
careless, mischievous Max. Then it was slowly forgotten by every one but
the disgraced lads, and by Max who had gone to work in earnest, anxious
to prove to the doctor that he was worthy of his continued confidence
and friendship.
The seniors, one and all, were busy with their plans for commencement;
and although they were clinging fondly to all the old associations; yet
in spite of it all, they were eager for the coming of the great day to
which, for four long years, they had been steadily pointing. The
juniors, too, caught something of their spirit, for the hour which
transformed the senior boys into men, would in turn advance themselves
into the coveted position of seniors, to be admired and looked up to by
the whole school; so that only the lower classes were free from the
excitement which reigned at Flemming, as the June days slowly passed
away.
At last the time had come, and Hilton was filled to overflowing with the
guests, who had assembled to watch the young soldiers march past their
first milestone. The quiet village street was swarming with gray coats,
and the elaborate gowns of stately mothers, and pretty sisters and
cousins; while portly fathers gathered on the piazza of the little
hotel, to exchange confidences in regard to “my boy,” with an
ill-concealed pride.
Commencement week at Flemming always began with the anniversary sermon
in the village church which, once a year, was beautified with masses of
the pink laurel that softened the bare, barren walls of the dreary
little place. The following day was given up to the social pleasures of
the ivy-planting, and the evening hop at the doctor’s, together with the
dress-parade which came in the late afternoon.
On Sunday evening, the boys had gathered in the Arnolds’ room, for a few
minutes before “lights out.” They had been speaking of the young
clergyman who had made the annual address, a simple, earnest appeal for
a manly life, which had roused the boys to quick enthusiasm.
“I’d like to know that man,” Harry was saying; “he strikes me as being a
friend worth having.”
“Yes,” answered Max pensively, and without a thought of joking; “he must
be a pretty good man, for such a young one; for he made even me feel
sort of good.”
There was a moment of silence; then Harry said restlessly,—
“I do wish to-morrow would be over, for I’ve been dreading this
class-day circus for more than six weeks.”
“I’ve seen his old poem, though,” observed Leon; “and it really isn’t so
bad, considering Hal wrote it.”
“Thank you, my patronizing infant!” returned Harry, with a sweeping bow.
“You’d better go to bed, on the strength of that. Let’s hope ’twill be
pleasant to-morrow morning, for I don’t care to stand out in the rain
and spout my production.”
“That would be a waterspout, with a vengeance,” said Max, before Louis
could suppress him and drag him off to bed.
The next morning was pleasant enough to satisfy even Harry; and by
half-past nine o’clock, the guests had assembled in front of the
recitation hall, to await the coming of the boys. It was an attractive
sight as they marched across the familiar lawn, with the band gayly
playing at the head of the procession,—the last time that those same
boys would be marching together, under the green old elms of Flemming.
On the next day, the breaking-up must come and the friends be scattered,
some, perhaps, never to meet again.
There was an expectant hush as the seniors grouped themselves in their
places, and Jack Howard, as president of the class, made his little
address of welcome. Harry’s turn came next, and as he stood there
waiting, he glanced down into the front row of guests, where Leon had
stationed himself at his mother’s side and, back of them, Alex, moving
slightly from his place in the ranks, had taken his stand beside
Dorothy. The girl looked very delicate and pretty in her black gown, as
she gazed steadily and proudly up at her brother, then turned to speak
to the tall cadet at her side, with a perfect unconsciousness of the
envious glances cast upon her by the less favored girls in the rear.
But Harry had stepped forward and, with one anxious, troubled look down
at the little home group, as if beseeching them to be as merciful as
possible in their judgment, he began to read. As the last words were
spoken:—
“Boys of our ninety-one, now and here must we leave our boyhood,
Here at the quiet school, with the old granite hills watching o’er it.
Glorious and brave and true, and all that can honor our teaching,
This let us make our manhood,”
and Harry moved back to his place behind Jack, there was a short
silence, and then a burst of applause so enthusiastic that even modest
Harry could not forbear stealing one happy, exultant glance down at his
mother and Dorothy. Then, when all was done and the ivy planted in its
appointed place, hosts and guests scattered, to pass the time as best
they might, until four o’clock should bring them together again at the
parade-ground. In the meantime, the Wilders and their friends assembled
in the Arnolds’ room, where Harry received general congratulations for
his success of an hour before.
It was a very flushed and happy-looking Dorothy whom Alex escorted to
the parade-ground, that afternoon, after a long drive, and left in
charge of her mother, while he hurried away to change his fatigue coat
for the dress uniform which added so much to the dignity of his
appearance.
Then _assembly_ sounded, and, at the sergeants’ command, the companies
fell into line on their separate parade-grounds. As the signal ceased,
the order _Left_—FACE rang out and the cadets turned sharply in their
places before being brought to _support arms_, by order of the first
sergeant. A few moments later, the trumpets sounded the quick notes of
_adjutant’s call_, and Adjutant Sterne and Sergeant-Major Arnold, with
their markers, marched across to the regimental parade-ground, where
they took up their positions, Alex to the right, Leon on the left, while
company after company was led forward by its captain, dressed in line
and brought to _support arms_. As Lieutenant Wilde took his place, as
commanding officer, at a little distance in front of the battalion, the
adjutant ordered the captains to bring their companies to _parade rest_,
the butt of every piece fell to the ground, its barrel grasped with both
hands before the breast, and the cadets stood at _parade rest_, while
the band sounded off, marching along the line from right to left and
back again.
It was all so beautiful, with the warm June sun glowing down over the
grounds and buildings, and touching with a golden light the uniforms and
gleaming bayonets of the cadets, that the lookers-on were hushed in
admiration. Not a sound broke the stillness, but the gay notes of the
band, not a motion disturbed the absolute quiet of the ranks, but the
flutter of the stars and stripes which were softly stirred by the little
breeze that stole down from the hills. Dorothy’s eyes moved up and down
the line, rested proudly upon Leon’s slim, straight figure, then turned
to the opposite side of the parade-ground, where Adjutant Sterne stood
resting his clasped hands upon the grip of his sword.
But the band had returned to its former position, and Adjutant Sterne
stepped forward to order the ranks opened, verify the alignment of
officers and men, and bring the cadets to _present arms_, before
saluting Lieutenant Wilde, and making the report,—
“Sir, the parade is formed.”
“Take your post, Sir!” ordered Lieutenant Wilde, and Alex moved to his
place behind him and at his left, as Lieutenant Wilde drew his sword and
issued a succession of quick orders from the manual of arms.
The drill was a creditable one, both to commandant and cadets, for the
months of training had accomplished their work, and officers and men
were on their mettle to do their best, before the assembled guests. With
the precision of well-adjusted parts of a great machine, the rifles were
shifted up and down, to right, to left, then dropped to the ground in
_order arms_, as the adjutant once more advanced to receive the reports
from the first sergeants and drum major, who stepped forward to salute
and report, then fell back to position, while Adjutant Sterne saluted
Lieutenant Wilde again, before making the general report,—
“Sir! All are present or accounted for.”
Then came the concluding ceremony of the parade. At the order, _Parade
is dismissed_, the officers returned their swords to the scabbards,
marched towards the centre of the line, then forward, to halt six yards
away from the commandant and salute. For an instant they paused, with
their hands raised to their visors, while Lieutenant Wilde acknowledged
their salute; then, at the same moment, every hand fell to the side. The
officers dispersed, the first sergeants marched their companies back to
their own grounds, and ninety-one had ended its last parade.
Evening found the doctor’s rooms gay with lights and music and dainty
evening gowns. Out on the piazza overlooking the lawn, Dorothy was
holding a sort of court, surrounded by a dozen loyal admirers; for the
Wilders, one and all, had agreed in pronouncing her the prettiest girl
present. As she rested there, with the full moon shining down on her
golden hair and white gown, Alex sat on the rail at her right, Louis
stood at her left, toying with her great bouquet of white roses, and
Harry, Jack, Max and Stanley were at her feet.
“It has been a successful day,” she said, and she lingered over the
words as if they held some new, sweet meaning to her which, as yet, the
others could not know. “I wonder if any other class was ever quite so
fine as ninety-one.”
“That’s an amiable remark to make, Miss Arnold,” protested Max, from his
place on the floor at her feet. “Here you have the three finest minds of
ninety-two under your very eyes, and still you declare for ninety-one.
That’s not fair.”
“But you couldn’t expect me to forsake my allegiance to ninety-one, when
it has been giving me such a good time,” she answered contentedly. “And
besides, haven’t I a brother in this year’s class, and hasn’t he done us
all proud to-day?”
“Only wait till our turn comes next year,” said Louis, as he slyly
abstracted a rose from the great bunch in his hand.
In a moment, the eye of Max was upon him.
“No poaching on those preserves, young man,” he called. “Miss Arnold, I
advise you to look out for your bowpot, for Louis is helping himself to
it.”
“You’d better pass them around, Miss Arnold,” suggested Jack, laughing
up at Louis who was gazing sentimentally at the flower in his hand.
“That will make it even, and prevent our coming to blows later.”
Dorothy laughed, as she held out her hand for the flowers.
“Give them to me please, Mr. Keith,” she said. “Soldiers don’t usually
wear posies in their buttonholes, when they start out into battle; but I
will decorate you all, in honor of the happiest day I have ever spent.”
“What’s going on?” inquired Leon, strolling up to the group. “I demand
my share of the booty too, Dot, so pass over. What’s the meaning of this
unusual generosity?”
“Your sister is giving her colors to her true and lawful knights,”
answered Alex lightly, as, in his turn, he bent down while Dorothy fixed
the large, full-blown flower in his buttonhole.
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Leon. “Well, if that’s the order of the
day, mother’ll have to do the same by Bony, for he’s stuck to her like a
burr, all the evening, and he’s quite playing the society man. See
there!”
As he spoke, Leon pointed in at the open window, opposite which sat Mrs.
Arnold, with the young teacher at her side. Mr. Boniface was talking
with an animation and an earnestness which lent an unwonted ease to his
ordinarily stiff manner. Harry surveyed them approvingly.
“I knew ’twould be so, when I introduced him to her,” he said. “Trust my
mother for always finding out the softest side of people and getting at
it, in spite of their hard shells.”
Just then there was a general movement of the people inside the parlor,
and Mr. Boniface rose, offering his arm to the woman at his side. A
moment later, Lieutenant Wilde appeared in the doorway.
“Miss Arnold,” he said; “may I take you in to supper?”
For a moment, Dorothy’s eyes rested on him admiringly. Lieutenant Wilde
was unusually resplendent that night, for he was in full army uniform
and the lights shone out on his blue coat, and glittered and winked over
the brass buttons and epaulettes which were so becoming to the firm,
manly figure and handsome face. Then the girl rose and passed her hand
under the arm of Alex, who stood ready at her side.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Wilde,” she said gently; “but Mr. Sterne had
asked me before.”
Again, the next morning, they all gathered in the little church, for an
hour or two. Then, just as the golden noontide had come, the doctor
spoke his few last earnest words, and the class of ninety-one had
marched from quiet Flemming, out into their wider field of service.
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