A SENIOR CLASS-MEETING
It was great fun exercising all the new senior privileges. One of the
first and most exciting was occupying the front seats at morning chapel.
"Although," complained Betty Wales sadly, "you don't get much good out
of that, if your name begins with a W. Of course I am glad there are so
many of 19--, but they do take up a lot of room. Nobody could tell that
Eleanor and I were seniors, unless they knew it beforehand."
"And then they wouldn't believe it about you," retorted Madeline, the
tease.
Madeline, being an A, was one of the favored front row, who were near
enough "to catch Prexy's littlest smiles," as Helen Adams put it, and
who were the observed of all observers as they marched, two and two,
down the middle aisle, just behind the faculty. Madeline, being tall and
graceful and always perfectly self-possessed, looked very impressive,
but little Helen Adams was dreadfully frightened and blushed to the
roots of her smooth brown hair every morning.
"And yet I wouldn't give it up for anything," she confided to Betty. "I
mean--I'll exchange with you any time, but I do just love to sit there,
although I dread walking out so. It's just the same when I am talking to
Miss Raymond or Miss Mills. I wish I weren't such a goose."
"You're a very dear little goose," Betty reassured her, wondering why in
the world the clever Helen Adams was afraid of people, while she, who
was only little Betty Wales, without much brains and with no big talent,
felt perfectly at home with Dr. Hinsdale, Miss Raymond, and even the
great "Prexy" himself.
"I suppose that is my talent," she decided at last,--"not being afraid,
and just plunging right in. Well, I suppose I ought to be glad that I
have anything."
Another senior privilege is the holding of the first class-meeting.
Fresh indeed is the freshman class which neglects this order of
precedence, and in deference to their childish impatience the seniors
always hold their meeting as early in the term as possible. Of course
19--'s came on a lovely afternoon,--the first after an unusually long
and violent "freshman rain."
"Coming, Madeline?" asked Betty, passing Madeline's single on her way
out.
"Where?" inquired Madeline lazily from the depths of her Morris chair.
"To the class-meeting of course," explained Betty. "Now don't pretend
you've forgotten and made another engagement. I just heard Georgia Ames
telling you that she couldn't go walking because of an unexpected
written lesson."
Madeline wriggled uneasily. "What's the use?" she objected. "It's too
nice a day to waste indoors. There'll be nothing doing for us. We
elected Rachel last year, and none of the rest of the crowd will do for
class officers."
"What an idea!" said Betty loftily. "I'm thinking of nominating Babe for
treasurer. Besides Rachel is going to wear a cap and gown--it's a new
idea that the council thought of, for the senior president to wear
one--and Christy and Alice Waite are going to make speeches about the
candidates. And I think they're going to vote about our ten thousand
dollars."
Madeline rose despondently. "All right then, for this once. By the way,
whom are they going to have for toastmistress at class-supper? They
elect her to-day, don't they?"
"I suppose so. I know the last year's class chose Laurie at their first
meeting. But I haven't heard any one mentioned."
"Then I'm going to nominate Eleanor Watson," declared Madeline. "She's
never had a thing from the class, and she's by far the best speaker we
have except Emily Davis."
"And Emily will be class-day orator of course," added Betty. "Oh,
Madeline, I'm so glad you thought of Eleanor. Won't it be splendid to
have a 'Merry Heart' for toastmistress?"
Madeline nodded carelessly. She was thinking more about a letter from
home, with news that her father and mother were to sail at once for
Italy, than about matters of class policy. She loved the Italian sea and
the warm southern sunshine; and the dear old "out-at-elbows" villa on
the heights above Sorrento was the nearest thing she had known to a
home. Father had told her to come along if she liked--ever since she
could remember she had been allowed to make her own decisions. But then,
as Babbie had said, there was only one 19--, and with plenty of "passed
up" courses to her credit she could work as little as she pleased this
year and never go to a class-meeting after to-day.
"Let's stop for the B's," she suggested, as they went out into the
September sunshine. "Bob hates meetings as much as I do. I'm not going
to be the only one to be disciplined."
Before they had reached the Westcott, the B's shouted to them from their
hammocks in the apple-orchard, which they reluctantly abandoned to go to
the meeting. Bob had just had an exciting runaway--her annual spills
were a source of great amusement to her friends and of greater terror to
her doting parents--and she was so eager to recount her adventures and
display her bruises, that nothing more was said about Madeline's plan
for Eleanor.
The class-meeting was large and exciting. The election of a senior
president is as thrilling an event at Harding as the coronation of a
Czar of all the Russias to the world at large. It was a foregone
conclusion that Marie Howard would be the unanimous choice of the class,
but until the act was fairly consummated--and indeed until Marie had
been dined at Cuyler's and overwhelmed with violets to the satisfaction
of her many friends--the excitement would not abate. There was a
pleasant uncertainty about the other class officers. Six avowed
candidates for the treasurership quarreled good naturedly over their
respective qualifications for the position, each one in her secret soul
intending to withdraw in favor of her dearest friend among the other
five. In another corner of the room an agitated group discussed the best
disposition of the ten thousand dollar fund.
"I don't think we ought to dispose of it hastily," Christy Mason was
saying. "It's a lot of money and we ought to consider very carefully
before we decide."
"Besides," added Emily Davis flippantly, "as long as we delay our
decision, we shall continue to be persons of importance in the eyes of
the faculty. It's comical to see how deferential they all are. I took
dinner at the Burton Sunday, and afterward Miss Raymond invited a few of
us into her room for coffee. She didn't mention the money,--she's too
clever for that,--but she talked a lot about the constant need for new
books in her department. 'You can't run an English department properly
unless you can give your pupils access to the newest books'--that was
the burden of her refrain. Marion Lustig was quite impressed. I think
she means to propose endowing an English department library fund."
"Dr. Hinsdale wants books for his department, and a lot of psychological
journals--all about ghosts and mediums--that college professors look up
about, you know," Nita Reese ended somewhat vaguely.
"And Miss Kent is hoping we'll give the whole sum to her to spend for
another telescope," added Babe, whose specialty, if one might dignify
her unscholarly enthusiasms by that name, was astronomy.
"Every one of the faculty wants it for something," said Christy.
"Naturally. They're all human, aren't they?" laughed Emily Davis, just
as Rachel appeared in the doorway, looking very dignified and
impressive in a cap and gown.
"Is the tassel right?" she whispered anxiously, as she passed a group of
girls seated near the platform steps.
"No, put it the other side--unless you're a Ph. D.," returned Roberta
Lewis in a sepulchral whisper. "Father has one. He lectures at Johns
Hopkins," she added, in answer to nudges from her neighbors and
awestruck inquiries as to "how she knew."
Then Rachel called the meeting to order. She thanked the class for the
honor they had done her, and hoped she had not disappointed them.
"I've tried not to consider any clique or crowd," she said--"not to
think anything about the small groups in our class, but to find out what
the whole big, glorious class of 19-- wanted"--Rachel's voice rang out
proudly--"and then to carry out its wishes. I believe in public
sentiment--in the big generous feeling that makes you willing to give up
your own little plans because they are not big and fine enough to suit
the whole class. I hope the elections to-day may be conducted in that
spirit. We each want what we all want, I am sure. We know one another
pretty well by this time, but perhaps it will help us in choosing the
right persons for senior officers if some of the candidates' friends
make brief nominating speeches. It is now in order to nominate some one
for the office of senior president."
Christy was on her feet in an instant, nominating Marie Howard, in a
graceful little speech that mentioned her tact and energy and class
spirit, recalled some of the things she had done to make the class of
19-- proud of her, and called attention to the fact that she had never
had an important office before.
"And she wouldn't be having one now if we hadn't succeeded in throwing
off the rule of a certain person named Eastman and her friends,"
muttered Bob sotto voce.
Alice Waite seconded the nomination.
"I can't make a real speech like Christy's," she stammered, blushing
prettily, "but I want to call attention to Marie's--I mean to Miss
Howard's sparkling sense of humor and strong personal magnetism.
And--and--I am sure she'll do splendidly," ended little Alice,
forgetting her set phrases and sitting down amidst a burst of amused
applause.
Rachel called for other nominations but there were none, so Marie was
elected unanimously, and with tremendous enthusiasm.
After she had assumed the cap and gown, taken the chair, and thanked her
classmates, Barbara Gordon, one of Christy's best friends, was made
vice-president. Babe, to her infinite annoyance, found herself the
victor in the treasurer's contest, and Nita Reese was ensconced beside
Marie in the secretary's chair.
"And you said none of 'The Merry Hearts' would do for officers," Betty
whispered reproachfully to Madeline.
"Well, will they think we are office-grabbers, if I put up Eleanor?"
asked Madeline.
"Oh, no," declared Betty eagerly. "You see Babe's such a general
favorite--she's counted into half a dozen crowds; and Nita is really a
Hill girl, only she never would go to class-meetings when she was a
freshman and so she was never identified with that set. You will propose
Eleanor, won't you?"
"Honor bright," promised Madeline, and returned once more to the pages
of a new magazine which she had insisted upon bringing, "in case things
are too deadly slow."
"The next business," said Marie, consulting the notes that Rachel had
handed her with the cap and gown, "the next business is to dispose of
our ten thousand dollars."
Instantly a dozen girls were on their feet, clamoring for recognition.
Marion Lustig urged the need of books for the English department. Clara
Madison, who after two years of amazement at Harding College in general
and hatred of the bed-making it involved in particular, had suddenly
awakened to a tremendous enthusiasm for microscopic botany, made a funny
little drawling speech about the needs of her pet department. Two or
three of Miss Ferris's admirers declared that zoölogy was the most
important subject in the college curriculum, and urged that the money
should be used as a nest egg for endowing the chair occupied by that
popular lady. The Spanish and Italian departments, being newly
established, were suggested as particularly suitable objects for
benevolence. Dr. Hinsdale's department, the history and the Greek
departments were exploited. 19-- was a versatile class; there was
somebody to plead for every subject in the curriculum, and at least half
a dozen prominent members of the faculty were declared by their special
admirers to stand first in 19--'s affections.
"Though that has really nothing to do with it," said Jean Eastman
testily, conscious that her plea for the modern language departments had
fallen on deaf ears. "We're not giving presents to the faculty, but to
the college. I like Miss Raymond as well as any one----"
"Oh, no, you don't," muttered Bob, who had caught Jean in the act of
reading an English condition at the end of Junior year.
Jean heard, understood, and flashed back an acrimonious retort about
Miss Ferris's partiality for Bob's work.
The newly elected president, whose tact had been extolled by Emily
Davis, found it speedily put to the test. "Don't you think," she began,
"that we ought to hear from the girl who had most to do with our getting
this money? Before we act upon the motion to refer the matter to a
committee who shall interview the president and the faculty and find out
how the rest of the money is to be spent and where ours seems to be most
needed, I want to ask Miss Betty Wales for an expression of her
opinion."
Betty gave a little gasp. Parliamentary law was Hebrew to her, and
speech-making a fearful and wonderful art, which she never essayed
except in an emergency. But she recognized Marie's distress, and rose
hesitatingly, to pour oil on the troubled waters if possible.
"I certainly think there ought to be a committee," she began slowly.
"And I'm sure I know less than any one who has spoken about the needs of
the different courses. I'm--well, I'm not a star in anything, you see. I
agree with Jean that we ought not to make this a personal matter, and
yet I am sure that the head of whatever department we give the money to
will be pleased, and I don't see why we shouldn't consider that and
choose somebody who has done a lot for 19--. But there are so many who
have done a lot for us." Betty frowned a perplexed little frown. "I wish
too," she went on very earnestly, "that we could do something that is
like us. You know what I mean. We stand for fair play and a good time
for everybody--that was why we had the dresses simple, you know." The
frown vanished suddenly and Betty's fascinating little smile came into
view instead. "I wonder--of course Prexy is always saying the college is
poor, and the faculty are always talking about not having books enough,
but I haven't noticed but that they find enough to keep us busy looking
up references." ("Hear, hear!" chanted the B's.) "It seems to me that
Harding College is good enough as it is," went on Betty, looking
reproachfully at the disturbers. "The thing is to let as many girls as
possible come here and enjoy it. Do you suppose the man who gave the
money would be willing that we should use our share of it for
scholarships? Four one hundred dollar scholarships would help four girls
along splendidly. Of course that isn't a department exactly,--and
perhaps it's a silly suggestion." Betty slipped into her seat beside
Madeline, blushing furiously, and looking blankly amazed when her speech
brought forth a round of vigorous applause, and, as soon as
parliamentary order would permit, a motion that 19-- should, with the
consent of the unknown benefactor of the college, establish four annual
scholarships.
"I name Miss Wales as chairman of the committee to interview the
president," said Marie, beaming delightedly on her once more harmonious
constituents. "The other two members of the committee I will appoint
later. The next and last business of this meeting is to elect a
toastmistress for our class-supper. She is always chosen early, you
know, so that she can be thinking of toasts and getting material for
them out of all the events of the year. Nominations are now in order."
"I nominate Eleanor Watson," said Madeline promptly, reluctantly closing
her magazine and getting to her feet. "I needn't tell any of you how
clever she is nor how well she speaks. Next to one or two persons whose
duties at commencement time are obvious and likely to be
arduous"--Madeline grinned at Emily Davis, who was sure to be
class-orator, and Babe leaned forward to pat Marion Lustig, who was
equally sure to be class-poet, on the shoulder--"next to these one or
two geniuses, Eleanor is our wittiest member. Of course our
class-supper will be the finest ever,--it can't help being--but with
Eleanor Watson at the head of the table, it will eclipse itself. To
quote the great Dr. Hinsdale, do you get my point?"
Kate Denise seconded the nomination with a heartiness that made Eleanor
flush with pleasure. Betty watched her happily, half afraid she would
refuse the nomination, as she had refused the Dramatic Club's election;
but she only sat quite still, her great eyes shining like stars. She was
thinking, though Betty could not know that, of little Helen Adams and
her "one big day" when she was elected to the "Argus" board.
"I know just how she felt," Eleanor considered swiftly. "It's after
you've been left out and snubbed and not wanted that things like this
really count. Oh, I'm so glad they want me now."
"Are there any other nominations?" asked Marie. There was a little
silence, broken by a voice saying: "Let's make it unanimous. Ballots
take so long, and everybody wants her."
Then a girl got up from the back row,--a girl to whom Katherine
Kittredge had once given the title of "Harding's champion blunderbuss."
She could no more help doing the wrong thing than she could help
breathing. She had begun her freshman year by opening the door into Dr.
Hinsdale's recitation-room, while a popular senior course was in
session. "I beg your pardon, but are you Miss Stuart?" she had asked,
looking full at the amazed professor, and upon receiving a gasping
denial she had withdrawn, famous, to reappear now and then during her
course always in similar rôles. It happened that she had never heard of
Eleanor Watson's stolen story until a week before the class-meeting,
when some one had told her the unvarnished facts, with no palliation and
no reference to Eleanor's subsequent change of heart or renunciation of
one honor after another. Virtuous indignation and pained surprise
struggled for expression upon her pasty, immobile face.
"Madam president," she began, and waited formally for recognition.
"Oh, I say, it's awfully late," said somebody. "I've got five
recitations to-morrow."
This speech and the laugh that followed it put new vigor into the
Champion's purpose. "I hope I am not trespassing on any one's time
unduly," she said, "by stating that--I dislike to say it here, but it
has been forced upon me. I don't think Miss Watson is the girl to hold
19--'s offices. Miss Wales said that we stood for fair play." The
Champion took her seat ponderously.
The room was very still. Marie sat, nonplused, staring at the Champion's
defiant figure. Madeline's hands were clenched angrily. "I'd like to
knock her down, the coward," she muttered to Betty, who was looking
straight ahead and did not seem to hear.
Hardly a minute had gone by, but more slowly than a minute ever went
before, when Eleanor was on her feet. She had grown suddenly white, and
her eyes had a hunted, strained look. "I quite agree with Miss
Harrison," she said in clear, ringing tones, her head held high. "I am
not worthy of this honor. I withdraw my name, and I ask Miss Ayres, as a
personal favor, to substitute some one's else."
Eleanor sat down, and Marie wet her lips nervously and looked at
Madeline. "Please, Miss Ayres," she begged.
"As a personal favor," returned Madeline slowly, "because Eleanor Watson
asks me, I substitute"--she paused--"Christy Mason's name. I am sure
that Miss Mason will allow it to be used, as a personal favor to every
one concerned."
"Indeed I----" began Christy impetuously. Then she met Eleanor's
beseeching eyes. "Very well," she said, "but every one here except Miss
Harrison knows that Miss Watson would be far better."
It took only a minute to elect Christy and adjourn the ill-fated
meeting.
"I thought she'd feel like hurrying home," said Katherine sardonically,
as the Champion, very red and militant, rushed past her toward the door.
Betty looked wistfully after the retreating figure. "I would rather have
left college than had her say that. It doesn't seem fair--after
everything."
"Serves me right, anyhow," broke in Madeline despondently. "I was
dreaming about castles in Italy instead of tackling the business in
hand. If I had thought more I should have known that some freak would
seize the opportunity to rake up old scores. Don't feel so bad, Betty.
It was my fault, and I'll make it up to her somehow. Come and help me
tell Christy that she's a trump, and that I truly wanted her, next to
Eleanor."
When they had pushed their way through to Christy's side, Eleanor, still
white but smiling bravely, was shaking hands. "It was awfully good of
you not to mind the little awkwardness," she was saying. "The girls
always want you--you know that." She turned to find Betty standing
beside her, looking as if her heart was broken.
"Why, Betty Wales," she laughed, "cheer up. You've made the speech of
the day, and three of your best friends are waiting to be congratulated.
Tell Christy how pleased you are that she's toastmistress and then come
down town with me."
Once out of the crowded room Eleanor grew silent, and Betty, too hurt
and angry to know what to offer in the way of comfort, left her to her
own thoughts. They had crossed the campus and were half way down the
hill when Eleanor spoke.
"Betty," she said, "please don't care so. If you are going to feel this
way, I don't think I can bear it."
Betty stared at her in astonishment. "Why Eleanor, it's you that I care
about. I can't bear to have you treated so."
Eleanor smiled sadly. "And can't you see--no, of course you can't, for
you never did a mean or dishonorable thing in your life. If you had, you
would know that the worst part of the disgrace, is that you have to
share it with your friends. I don't mind for myself, because what Miss
Harrison said is true."
"No, it's not," cried Betty hotly. "Not another girl in the whole class
feels so."
"That," Eleanor went on, "is only because they are kind enough to be
willing to forget. But to drag you in, and dear old Madeline, and all
'The Merry Hearts'! You'll be sorry you ever took me in."
"Nonsense!" cried Betty positively. "Everybody knows that you've
changed--everybody, that is, except that hateful Miss Harrison, and some
day perhaps she'll see it."
That evening Betty explained to Helen, who had never heard a word of the
"Argus" matter, why Eleanor had not been made an editor.
"Do you think there were any others to-day who didn't want her?" she
asked anxiously.
Helen hesitated. "Ye-es," she admitted finally. "I think that Miss
Harrison has some friends who feel as she does. I heard them whispering
together. And one girl spoke to me. But I am sure they were about the
only ones. Most of the girls feel dreadfully about it."
"Of course no one who didn't would say anything to me," sighed Betty.
"Oh, Helen, I am so disappointed."
"Well," returned Helen judicially, "it can't be helped now, and in a way
it may be a good thing. Eleanor will feel now that everybody who counts
for much in the class understands, and perhaps there will be something
else to elect her for, before the year is out."
Betty shook her head. "No, it's the last chance. She wouldn't take
anything after this, and anyway no one would dare to propose her, and
risk having her insulted again."
"I guess we shan't any of us be tempted to do anything dishonest," said
Helen primly. "Doesn't it seem to you as if the girls were getting more
particular lately about saying whether they got their ideas from books
and giving their authorities at the end of their papers?"
"Yes," said Betty, "it does, and I think it's a splendid thing. I went
to a literary club meeting with Nan last Christmas and one of the papers
was copied straight out of a book I'd just been reading, almost word for
word. I told Nan and she laughed and said it was a very common way of
doing. I think Harding girls will do a good deal if they help put a stop
to that kind of thing. But that won't be much comfort to Eleanor."
When Helen had gone, Betty curled up on her couch to consider the day.
"Mixed," she told the little green lizard, "part very nice and part
perfectly horrid, like most days in this world, I suppose, even in your
best beloved senior year. I wonder if Prexy will like the scholarship
idea. I straightened out one snarl, and then I helped make a worse one.
And I shall be in another if I don't set to work this very minute,"
ended Betty, reaching for her Stout's Psychology.