THE GOING OUT OF 19--
Next morning came the really important part of commencement,--the
getting of your diploma, or, to speak accurately, the getting of
somebody's else diploma, which you could exchange for your own later.
"Let's stand in a big circle," suggested Madeline Ayres, "and pass the
diplomas round until each one comes to its owner."
It wasn't surprising that Eleanor Watson, with her newly acquired duties
as toastmistress, should keep getting outside the circle to consult
various toasters and members of the supper committee; but it did seem as
if Betty Wales might stay quietly in her place. So thought the girls who
had noticed that Carlotta Young, the last girl in the line that went up
for diplomas had not received any. Carlotta was a "prod"; it was only
because she came at the end of the alphabet that she was left out, but
thanks to Betty's fly-away fashion of running off to speak to some
junior ushers, and then calling the Blunderbuss, whose mother wanted to
see her a minute, nobody could find out positively who it was that had
been "flunked out" of 19--.
The next excitement took place when the class, strolling over to the
Students' Building to have luncheon with the alumnæ--why, they were
alumnæ themselves now!--met a bright-eyed, brown-haired little girl,
walking with a tall young man whose fine face was tanned as brown as an
Indian's.
"Don't you know me, 19--?" called the little girl gaily.
"Why, it can't be--it is T. Reed!" cried Helen Adams, rushing forward.
"And her Filipino," shrieked Bob Parker wildly.
"Of course I came. Do you think I'd have missed my own commencement?"
said T., shaking hands with four girls at once. "Frank, this is Helen
Adams, my best friend at Harding. Miss Parker, Mr. Howard. I'm sorry,
Bob, but he's not a Filipino. He's just a plain American who lives in
the Philippines."
"Have you forgotten how to play basket ball, T.?" called somebody.
T. gave a rapturous little smile. "Could we have a game this afternoon?
That's what I came for, really. We meant to get here last week, but the
boat was late. Yes, I'm sorry to have missed the play and the concert;
but it's worth coming for, just to see you all." T.'s bright eyes grew
soft and misty. "I tell you, girls, you don't know what it means to be a
Harding girl until you've been half across the world for awhile. No, I'm
not sorry _I_ left, but it's great to be back!"
Mary Brooks, arrayed in a bewitching summer toilette, stood at the door
of the Students' Building, and managed to intercept Betty and Roberta,
as they went in.
"You may congratulate me now if you like," she said calmly, leading them
off to a secluded corner behind a group of statuary, where their
demonstrations of interest wouldn't attract too much attention. The news
wasn't at all surprising, but Mary looked so pretty and so happy and
assured them so solemnly that she had never dreamed of anything of the
kind at Christmas, that there was plenty of excitement all the same.
"And of course I must have posts at my wedding," said Mary, whereat
Betty hugged her and Roberta looked more pleased than she had when Mr.
Masters called her a genius. "And bridesmaids," added Mary, with the
proper feeling for climax. "Laurie is going to be maid-of-honor, and if
you two can come and be bridesmaids and the rest of the crowd
almost--bridesmaids, in the words of the poetical Roberta----"
She never finished her sentence for the rest of the crowd had discovered
her retreat, and guessing at the news she had for them bore noisily down
upon her.
"It's so convenient that she's going to be married this summer," said
Babbie jubilantly. "We can have our first reunion at the wedding. I
simply couldn't have waited until June to see you all again."
"We couldn't any of us have waited," declared Bob. "Somebody else must
get married about Christmas time."
"Why don't you?" asked Babbie nonchalantly, while Madeline looked hard
at Eleanor and wished New York and Denver weren't so dreadfully far
apart. For how could Dick Blake, busy editor of "The Quiver," make love
to the most fascinating girl in the world when she lived at that
distance.
They had something to eat after a while, sitting on the stairs with
Mary, while Dr. Hinsdale beamed on them all and brought them salad and
ices.
"You mustn't talk about it, you know," Mary explained, "because it won't
be announced until next week, and you mustn't think of running off and
leaving us out here alone."
"All right," Katherine promised her. "We'll be the mossy bank for your
modest violet act. Only do try not to look so desperately in love or
everybody who sees you will guess the whole thing, and it will look as
if we told."
Most of the seniors spent the afternoon at the station seeing their
families off, but Betty left hers in Nan's care and went canoeing with
Dorothy King in Paradise. Dorothy was just as jolly and just as sweet as
ever. She wanted to know about everything that had happened at Harding
since she left it, and especially all about Eleanor Watson.
"You've pulled her through after all, haven't you?" she said.
"No, she pulled herself through," Betty corrected her. "I only helped a
little, and a lot of others did the same. Why even Jean helped,
Dorothy."
Dorothy laughed. "I can't imagine Jean in that rôle," she said, "but
I'll take your word for it. Let's go and see Miss Ferris."
Miss Ferris was alone and delighted to see her visitors.
"Everything has come out right, hasn't it?" she said, smiling into
Betty's radiant face.
Betty nodded. "Just splendidly. Did you know about Eleanor's being
toastmistress?"
"Yes, she came in to tell me herself. What has come over Jean Eastman,
Betty?"
"I don't know," said Betty with a tell-tale blush that made Miss Ferris
laugh and say, "I thought you were at the bottom of it."
"Dorothy used to be the person who managed things of this kind," she
went on. "Who's going to take your place, Betty?"
"According to what I hear nobody can do that," said Dorothy quickly, and
Betty blushed more than ever, until Miss Ferris took pity on her and
asked about her plans for next year.
Betty looked puzzled. "Why, I haven't any, I'm afraid. I never get a
chance to make plans, because the things that turn up of themselves take
all my time. I'm just going to be at home with my family."
"Leave out the 'just,'" advised Miss Ferris. "So many of you seem to
feel as if you ought to apologize for staying at home."
"Oh, I'm glad to hear you say that," said Betty soberly. "A lot of girls
in our class who don't need to a bit are going to teach, and Carlotta
Young said to me the other day that she thought we all ought to test our
education in some such way right off, so as to be sure it was really
worth something."
"And you are sure about yours without testing it?" asked Miss Ferris
quizzically.
Betty smiled at her happily. "I'm sure I've got something," she said.
"I'm afraid Carlotta wouldn't call it much of an education and I know I
ought to be ashamed that it isn't more, but I'm awfully glad I've got
it."
"I'm glad you have, too," said Miss Ferris so earnestly that Betty
wondered what she meant. But she didn't get a chance to ask, for
somebody knocked just then and the two girls said good-bye and hurried
off to dress for their respective class suppers.
19--'s was held in the big hall of the Students' Building. The junior
ushers had trimmed it with red and green bunting, and great bowls of red
roses transformed the huge T-shaped table into a giant flower-bed.
"I hope they haven't more than emptied the treasury for those flowers,"
said Babe anxiously, when she saw them.
"Hardly," Babbie reassured her. "Judge Watson sent the whole lot, so you
needn't worry about your treasury. He consulted me about the color.
Isn't he a dear?"
"Yes, he is," said Bob, "and he evidently thinks his only daughter is
another. Where's the supper-chart?"
"Out in the hall," explained Babbie, "with the whole class fighting for
a chance at it. But I know where we sit. Betty thought we'd better keep
things lively down at the end of the T."
"Well, I guess, we can do that," said Babe easily. "Where is Betty,
anyway?"
"Here," answered Betty, hurrying up. "And girls, please don't say
anything about it, but non-graduates don't generally come to the suppers
and the seating committee forgot about T. Reed, so she hasn't any
place."
"The idea!" cried Bob indignantly. "But she can have Eleanor's seat."
Betty hesitated. "No, because they changed the chart after they heard
about Christy's not coming. But Cora Thorne is sick, so I'm going to let
T. have my seat, right among you girls that she used to know----"
"You're not going to do anything of the kind," declared Babbie hotly.
"Shove everybody along one place, or else put in a seat for T."
"The chairs are too close together now and Cora's place is way around at
the other end. It would make too much confusion to move so many people.
Here comes T. now. I shall be almost opposite Eleanor and Katherine, and
I don't mind one bit."
So it happened that Betty Wales ate her class supper between Clara
Madison and the fat Miss Austin, and enjoyed it as thoroughly as if she
had been where she belonged, between Babbie and Roberta. The supper
wasn't very good--suppers for two hundred and fifty people seldom
are--but the talk and the jokes, the toasts and the histories, Eleanor's
radiant face at the head of the table, the spirit of jollity and
good-fellowship everywhere,--these were good enough to make up. Besides,
it was the last time they would all be together. Betty hadn't realized
before how much she cared for them all--for the big indiscriminate mass
of the class that she had worked and played with these four years. She
had expected to miss her best friends, but now, as she looked down the
long tables, she saw so many others that she should miss. Yes, she
should miss them all from the fat Miss Austin who was so delighted to be
sitting beside her to the serious-minded Carlotta Young, with her
theories about testing your education.
Katherine was reading the freshman history, hitting off the reception,
with its bewildering gaiety and its terrifying grind-book, those first
horrible midyears, made even more frightful by Mary Brooks's rumor, the
basket-ball game--when that was mentioned they made T. Reed stand on her
chair to be cheered, and then they cheered the rest of the team, who, as
Katherine said, "had marched so gallantly to a glorious defeat." As
Christy wasn't there, somebody read her letter, which explained that her
mother was better but that the twins had come down with the measles and
Christy was "standing by the ship." So they cheered the plucky letter
and then they sang to its author.
"Oh, here's to our Christine,
We love her though unseen,
Drink her down, drink her down,
Drink her down, down, down!"
When the team was finally allowed to sit down, Katherine went on to the
joys of spring-term, with its golf and tennis, its Mary-bird club and
its tumultuous packing and partings. When she had finished and been
applauded and sung to, and finally allowed to sit down and eat a very
cold croquette, Betty looked over at Emily Davis and the next minute
for no reason at all she found herself winking back the tears. She had
had such a good time that year and K. had picked out just the comical
little things that made you remember the others that she hadn't
mentioned.
Little Alice Waite was toasting the cast. Alice was no orator. She
stammered and hesitated and made you think she was going to break down,
but she always ended by saying or doing something that brought down the
house.
"I think you ought to have given this toast to somebody else," she began
innocently. "I can't act, and I can't speak either, as it happens.
Besides words speak louder than actions. No, I mean actions speak louder
than words, so I will let the cast toast themselves."
"Roast themselves, you mean," said Katherine, pushing back her chair.
And then began a clever burlesque of the casket scene in which Gratiano
played Portia's part, Shylock was Nerissa, Gobbo Bassanio, and Jessica
the Prince of Morocco. Next Alice called for the Gobbos and Portia and
the Prince of Morocco "stood forth" and went through a solemn travesty
of the scene between the father and son that left the class faint and
speechless with laughter.
Then there were more toasts and when the coffee had been served they
made the engaged girls run around the table. Betty was sorry then that
she wasn't in her own place, to help get Babbie Hildreth started. Her
friends were all sure that she was engaged and she had hinted that she
might tell them more about it at class-supper, but now she denied it as
stoutly as ever. Finally Bob settled the question by getting up and
running in her place,--a non-committal proceeding that delighted
everybody.
After that came the last toast, "Our esprit de corps." Kate Denise had
it, for no reason that Betty could see unless Christy had wanted to show
Kate that the class understood the difference between her and the other
Hill girls. And then Kate was one of 19--'s best speakers and so could
do justice to the subject.
"I think we ought to drink this toast standing," she began. "We've drunk
to the cast and the team, to our presidents, our engaged girls, our
faculty. Now I ask you to drink to the very greatest pride and honor of
this class,--to the way we've always stood together, to the way we stand
together to-night, to the way we shall stand together in the future, no
matter where we go or what we do. It's not every class that can put this
toast on its supper-card. Not every class knows what it means to be run,
not in the interest of a clique or by a few leading spirits, but by the
good-feeling of the whole big class. And so I ask you to drink one more
toast--to the girl who started this feeling of good-fellowship at a
certain class-meeting that some of us remember, and who has kept it up
by being a friend to everybody and making us all want to be friends.
Here's to Betty Wales."
When Betty heard her name she almost jumped out of her chair with
amazement. She had been listening admiringly to Kate's eloquent little
speech, never dreaming how it would end and now they were all clapping
and pushing back their chairs again, and Clara Madison was trying to
make her stand up in hers.
"Speech!" shouted the irrepressible Bob and the girls sat down again and
the big table grew still, while Betty twisted her napkin into a knot and
smiled bravely into all the welcoming faces.
"I'm sure Kate is mistaken," she said at last in a shaky little voice.
"I'm sure every girl in 19-- wanted every other girl to have her share
of the fun just as much as I did. The class cup, that we won at tennis
in our sophomore year is on the table somewhere. Let's fill it with
lemonade and sing to everybody right down the line. And while they're
filling the cup let's sing to Harding College."
It took a long time to sing to everybody, but not a minute too long.
Betty watched the faces of the girls when their turns came--the girls
who were always sung to, like Emily Davis, and the girls who had never
been sung to in all the four years and who flushed with pride and
pleasure to hear their names ring out and to feel that they too belonged
to the finest, dearest class that ever left Harding.
"Now we must have the regular stunts," said Eleanor. There was a
shuffling of chairs and she and Betty and the people who had had toasts
slipped back to their own particular crowds, leaving the top of the
table for the stunt-doers. It was shockingly late, but they wanted all
the old favorites. Who knew when Emily Davis would be back to do her
temperance lecture or how long it would be before they could hear Madame
Patti sing "Home, Sweet Home" through a wheezy gramophone?
"Was it all right?" Eleanor whispered to Betty as they hunted up their
wraps a little later.
"Perfectly splendid," said Betty with shining eyes. "The loveliest
end-up to the loveliest commencement that ever was."
"We haven't got to say good-bye yet," said somebody. "There's a class
meeting to-morrow at nine, you know."
"Half of us will probably sleep over," said Babe in a queer,
supercilious tone. Not for all the morning naps in the world would Babe
have missed that good-bye meeting.