A HOOP-ROLLING AND A TRAGEDY
19-- was having its hoop-rolling. This is the way a senior hoop-rolling
is managed: custom decrees that it may take place on any afternoon of
senior week, which is the week before commencement when the seniors'
work is over though the rest of the classes are still toiling over their
June exams. Some morning a senior who feels particularly young and
frolicsome suggests to her friends at chapel that, as the time-honored
official notice puts it,
"The day has come, the seniors said,
To have our little fling.
Let's buy our hoops and roll them round,
And laugh and dance and sing."
If her friends also feel frolicsome they pass the word along, and unless
some last year's girls have bequeathed them hoops, they hurry down-town
to buy them of the Harding dealer who always keeps a stock on hand for
these annual emergencies. The seniors dress for luncheon in "little
girl" fashion, skirts up and hair down, and the minute the meal is over
they rush out into the sunshine to roll hoop, skip rope, swing in the
long-suffering hammocks under the apple trees, and romp to their hearts'
content. Freshmen hurrying by to their Livy exam, turn green with envy,
and sophomores and juniors "cramming" history and logic indoors lean out
of their windows to laugh and applaud, finally come down to watch the
fun for "just a minute," and forget to go back at all.
19-- had its hoop-rolling the very first day of senior week. As Madeline
Ayres said when she proposed it, you couldn't tell what might turn up,
in the way of either fun or weather, for the other days, so it was best
to lose no time. And such a gay and festive hoop-rolling as it was!
First they had a hoop-rolling parade through the campus, and then some
hoop-rolling contests for which the prizes were bunches of daisies,
"presented with acknowledgments to Miss Raymond," Emily Davis explained.
When they were tired of hoops they ran races. When they were out of
breath with running they played "drop the handkerchief" and "London
Bridge." After that they serenaded a few of their favorite faculty. Then
they had a reformed spelling-match, to prove how antiquated their
recently finished education had already become.
Finally they sat down in a big circle on the grass and had "stunts."
Babbie recited "Mary had a little lamb," for possibly the thousandth
time since she had learned to do it early in her junior year. Emily
Davis delivered her famous temperance lecture. Madeline sang her French
songs, Jane Drew did her ever-popular "hen-act," and Nancy Simmons gave
"Home, Sweet Home," as sung into a phonograph by Madame Patti on her
tenth farewell tour.
Most of these accomplishments dated back as far as 19-- itself, and half
the girls who heard them knew them by heart, but they listened to each
one in breathless silence and greeted its conclusion with prolonged and
vigorous applause. It was queer, Alice Waite said, but some way you
never, never got tired of seeing the same old stunts.
When the long list of 19--'s favorites was finally exhausted and Emily
Davis had positively refused to give the temperance lecture for a third
time, the big circle broke up into a multitude of little ones. Bob
Parker and a few other indefatigable spirits went back to skipping rope;
the hammocks filled with exclusive twos and threes; larger coteries sat
on the grass or locked arms and strolled slowly up and down the broad
path that skirted the apple-orchard.
Betty, Helen and Madeline were among the strollers.
"One more of the famous last things over," said Madeline with a
regretful little sigh. "I'm glad we had it before the alums, and the
families begin to arrive and muddle everything up."
"Did I tell you that Dorothy King is coming after all?" asked Betty,
who, in a short white sailor suit, with her curls flying and her hoop
clutched affectionately in one hand, looked at least eight years too
young to be a senior, and supremely happy.
"Has she told you, Helen?" repeated Madeline dramatically. "She tells me
over again every time I see her. When is Mary Brooks scheduled to
arrive?"
"Thursday," answered Betty, "so that she can see the play all three
times."
"Not to mention seeing Dr. Hinsdale between the acts," suggested
Madeline. "What do you two say to a picnic to-morrow?"
Helen said, "How perfectly lovely!" and Betty decided that if Helen and
Madeline would come to the gym in the morning and help with the last
batch of costumes for the mob, she could get off by three o'clock in the
afternoon.
"That reminds me," she added, "that I promised Nerissa to ask Eleanor if
she has any shoes to match her blue dress. The ones we ordered aren't
right at all by gas-light."
"There's Eleanor just going over to the Hilton," said Helen.
"Find out if she can go to the picnic," called Madeline, as Betty
hurried off, shouting and waving her hoop. "We'll be asking the others."
"El-ea-nor!" cried Betty shrilly, making frantic gestures with her hoop.
But though Eleanor turned and looked back at the gay pageant under the
trees, she couldn't single out any one figure among so many, and after
an instant's hesitation she went on up the Hilton House steps.
So Betty stepped across the campus alone, and being quite out of breath
by the time she got indoors went slowly up-stairs and down the long hall
to Eleanor's room. The house was very still--evidently its inmates were
all out watching the hoop-rolling. Betty found herself walking softly,
in sympathy with the almost oppressive silence. Eleanor's door was ajar,
so that Betty's knock pushed it further open.
"May I come in?" she asked, hearing Eleanor, as she supposed, moving
about inside. Without waiting for an answer she walked straight in and
came face to face with--not Eleanor, but Miss Harrison, champion
Blunderbuss of 19--.
"Why, what are you doing here?" she asked, her voice sharp with
amazement. "I beg your pardon," she added laughingly, "but I thought of
course it was Eleanor Watson. She came into the house just ahead of me."
"She hasn't been in here yet," said the Blunderbuss. She had been
standing when Betty first caught sight of her. Now she dropped hastily
into a chair by the window. "I was sure she'd be back soon and I wanted
to speak to her for a minute. But I guess I won't wait any longer. I
shall be late to dinner."
"Why, no, you won't," said Betty quickly. "It isn't anywhere near
dinner-time yet." She didn't care about talking to the Blunderbuss while
she waited for Eleanor, but she had a great curiosity to know what the
girl could want with Eleanor. "And I don't believe Eleanor will have any
more idea than I have," she thought.
But the Blunderbuss rose nervously. "Well, anyway, I can't wait," she
said. "I guess it's later than you think. Good-bye."
Just at that minute, however, somebody came swiftly down the hall. It
was Eleanor Watson, carrying a great bunch of pink roses.
"Oh, Betty dear," she cried, not noticing the Blunderbuss, who had
stepped behind a Japanese screen, "see what daddy sent me. Wasn't it
nice of him? Why, Miss Harrison, I didn't see you." Eleanor dropped her
roses on a table and came forward, looking in perplexity first at Miss
Harrison and then around the room. "Betty," she went on quickly, "have
you been hunting for something? I surely didn't leave my bureau drawers
open like this."
Betty's glance followed Eleanor's to the two drawers in the chiffonier
and one in the dressing table which were tilted wide open, their
contents looked as if some one had stirred them up with a big spoon. She
had been too much engrossed by her encounter with Miss Harrison to
notice any such details before.
"No, of course I haven't been hunting for anything," she answered
quickly. "I shouldn't think of doing such a thing when you were away."
"I shouldn't have minded a bit." Eleanor turned back to Miss Harrison.
"Did you want to see me," she asked, "or did you only come up with
Betty?"
The Blunderbuss wet her lips nervously. "I--I wanted to ask you about
something, but it doesn't matter. I'll see you some other time. You'll
want to talk to Miss Wales now."
She had almost reached the door, when, to Eleanor's further
astonishment, Betty darted after her and caught her by the sleeve. "Miss
Harrison," she said, while the Blunderbuss stared at her angrily, "I'm
in no hurry at all. I can wait as well as not, or if you want to see
Eleanor alone I will go out. But I think that you owe it to Eleanor and
to yourself too to say why you are here."
The Blunderbuss looked defiantly from Betty's determined face to
Eleanor's puzzled one. "I didn't know it was Miss Watson's room until
you came in and asked for her," she vouchsafed at last.
"You didn't know it was her room?" repeated Betty coldly. "Why didn't
you tell me that long ago? Whose room did you think you were in?"
"I thought--I didn't know whose it was."
"Then," said Betty deliberately, "if you admit that you were in here
without knowing who occupied the room you must excuse me if I ask you
whether or not you were looking through Eleanor's bureau drawers just
before I came in."
There was a strained silence.
"You can have all the things back," said the Blunderbuss at last, as
coolly as if she were speaking of returning a borrowed umbrella; and out
of the pockets of the child's apron which she still wore she pulled a
gold chain and a bracelet and held them out to Eleanor. "I don't want
them," she said when neither of the others spoke. "I don't know why I
took them. It just came over me that while all the others were out there
playing it would be a good chance for me to go and look at their pretty
things."
"And to steal the ones you liked best," added Betty scornfully.
The Blunderbuss gave her a vaguely troubled look. "I didn't think of it
that way. Anyway it's all right now. Haven't I given them right back?"
"Suppose we hadn't come in and found you here," put in Eleanor.
"Wouldn't you have taken them away?"
"I--I presume so," said the Blunderbuss.
"So you are the person who has been stealing jewelry from the campus
houses all through this year." Betty's voice grew harder as she
remembered the injustice she had so nearly done Georgia and Miss
Harrison's self-righteous attack on Eleanor in that dreadful
class-meeting.
The Blunderbuss accepted the statement without comment. "They could have
had the things back if they'd asked for them," she said. "I couldn't
very well give them back if they didn't ask."
"Will you give them back now?" asked Betty, astonishment at the girl's
strange behavior gaining on her indignation.
The Blunderbuss nodded vigorously. "Certainly I will. I'll bring them
all here to-night. I don't want them for anything. I never wanted them.
I'm sure I don't know why I took them. Oh, there's just one thing," she
added hastily, "that I can't bring. It isn't with the rest. But I've got
everything else all safe and I'll come right after dinner. Good-bye."
[Illustration: THE GIRLS WATCHED HER IN BEWILDERMENT]
The girls watched her go in a daze of bewilderment. Just outside the
door she evidently bumped into some one, and her clattering laugh and
loud, "Goodness, how you scared me!" sounded as light-hearted and
unconcerned as possible.
"How did you ever guess that she was the one?" Eleanor asked at last.
"It just came over me," Betty answered. "But, why, she doesn't seem to
care one bit!"
"About running into me?" asked Jean Eastman, appearing suddenly in the
doorway. "Has she been doing damage in here, too?" No one answered and
Jean gave a quick look about the room, noticing the rummaged drawers,
the girls' excited, tragic faces, and the jewelry that Eleanor still had
in her hand. Then she made one of her haphazard deductions, whose
accuracy was the terror of her enemies and the admiration of her
followers.
"Oh, I see--it's more college robber. So our dear Blunderbuss is the
thief. I congratulate you, Eleanor, on the beautiful poetic justice of
your having been the one to catch her."
"Yes, she's the thief," said Betty, before Eleanor could answer. She had
a sudden inspiration that the best way to treat Jean, now that she
guessed so much, was to trust her with everything. "And she acts so
strangely--she doesn't seem to realize what she has done, and she
doesn't care a bit that we know it. She said----" And between them they
gave Jean a full account of their interview with Miss Harrison.
Jean listened attentively. "It's a pathetic case, isn't it?" she said at
last, with no trace of her mocking manner. "I wonder if she isn't a
kleptomaniac."
Betty and Eleanor both looked puzzled and Jean explained the long word.
"It means a person who has an irresistible desire to steal one
particular kind of thing, not to use, but just for the sake of taking
them, apparently. I heard of a woman once who stole napkins and piled
them up in a closet in her house. It's a sort of insanity or very nearly
that. Of course jewelry is different from napkins, but Miss Harrison has
taken so much more than she can use----"
"Especially so many pearl pins," put in Betty, eagerly. "Haven't you
noticed what a lot of those have been lost? She couldn't possibly wear
them all."
"Perhaps she meant to sell them," suggested Eleanor.
"But her family are very wealthy," objected Jean. "They spend their
summers where Kate does, and she says that they give this girl
everything she wants. She never took money either, even when it was
lying out in plain sight, and her being so ready to give back the things
seems to show that she didn't take them for any special purpose."
"Then if she's a----" began Betty.
"Kleptomaniac," supplied Jean.
"She isn't exactly a thief, is she?"
"No, I suppose not," said Jean doubtfully.
"But she isn't a very safe person to have around," said Eleanor.
"I'll tell you what," said Betty, who had only been awaiting a favorable
opening to make her suggestion. "It's too big a question for us to try
to settle, isn't it, girls? Let's go and tell Miss Ferris all that we've
found out so far, and leave the whole matter in her hands."
Then Jean justified the confidence that Betty had shown in her. "You
couldn't do anything better," she said, rising to leave.
"I wish I'd known her well enough to talk things over with her,--not
public things like this, I mean, but private ones. Betty, here's a note
that Christy Mason asked me to give you. That's what I came in for,
originally. Of course this affair of Miss Harrison is yours, not mine,
and I shan't mention it again, unless Miss Ferris decides to make it
public, as I don't believe she will. By the way, I wonder if you know
that Miss Harrison can't graduate with us."
"You mean that she has been caught stealing before?" asked Eleanor.
"Oh, no, but she couldn't make up the French that she flunked at
midyears, and she must be behind in other subjects, too. I heard rumors
about her having been dropped, and last week I saw the proof of our
commencement program. Her name isn't on the diploma list."
"Oh, I believe I'm almost glad of that," said Betty softly. "It's
dreadful to be glad that she has failed in every way, but I can't bear
to think that she belongs in our class."
So it was Miss Ferris who met the Blunderbuss in Eleanor's room that
night, who managed the return of the stolen property to its owners,
with a suggestion that it would be a favor to the whole college not to
say much about its recovery, and she who, finding suddenly that the
noise of the campus tired her, spent the rest of the term at Miss
Harrison's boarding place on Main Street, where she could watch over the
poor girl and minimize the risk of her indulging her fatal mania again
while she was at Harding. She was nonchalant over having been caught
stealing, but her failure in scholarship had almost broken her heart.
She had worked so hard and so patiently up to the very last minute in
the hope of winning her diploma that, on the very morning of the
hoop-rolling, she had been granted the privilege of staying on through
commencement festivities and so keeping her loss of standing as much as
possible to herself. After listening to Betty's and Eleanor's stories
and talking to Miss Harrison herself, Miss Ferris was fully convinced
that the Blunderbuss was not morally responsible for the thefts she had
committed, and so she was unwilling to send her home at once and thus
expose her to the double disgrace that her going just then would
probably have involved. So she found her hands very full until the
girl's mother could be sent for and the sad story broken to her as
gently as possible.
It was the one unrelieved tragedy in 19--'s history; there seemed to be
absolutely no help for it,--the kindest thing to do was to forget it as
soon as possible.