OUT OF COLLEGE AT LAST.
Two years sped rapidly away, but they were improved to the utmost by
both Gladys and Geoffrey in their efforts to secure a solid education.
They saw but comparatively little of each other during this time, for
Geoffrey was so bent upon gaining his year that he made the most he
could of every recess and vacation.
But they corresponded regularly, each hearing from the other every week,
and their letters were a source of great comfort and joy to them.
Everet Mapleson, too, worked harder during these two years than he had
ever done before.
His ambition had been fired by what Gladys had said to him that evening
at Mrs. Loring’s reception, and he had determined then that he would
bend all his energies toward securing the first honors of his class.
He was more strenuous in this, perhaps, than he would have been if
Geoffrey Huntress had not succeeded in gaining his year; for when the
juniors became seniors our young hero took his place in the class with a
record to show that he would be no mean antagonist.
Young Mapleson flushed an angry red the first time they met in the
class, and returned Geoffrey’s courteous greeting with a haughty,
supercilious nod.
They had not met until then since the evening of Mrs. Loring’s
reception, and the present year did not promise anything very pleasant
in the fact that they would be members of the same class.
During these two years Everet Mapleson had seen considerable of Gladys,
for he had resolved that he would cultivate her acquaintance upon every
possible occasion.
During his long vacations he had managed to follow the Huntresses to the
sea-shore or mountains, where, mingling in the same circles, they had
been thrown much together. His shorter recesses always found the young
Southerner in New York city, where, being a favorite in society, besides
diligently cultivating Miss Loring’s acquaintance, he managed to see a
good deal of the beautiful girl upon whom he had set his affections.
But as yet he had not succeeded in establishing himself upon very
intimate terms with her.
Gladys always treated him courteously and in a friendly way, but still
managed to hold him at a distance, and he had, as yet, never presumed to
address one word of love to her.
It chafed him that he had not been able to do so. It galled him to think
that he could not conquer her unvarying reserve, and make her yield to
the fascinations that had never failed to win wherever he had made up
his mind to win.
He still cherished his secret hatred for Geoffrey, and was always on the
alert for some way to vent it upon him; but no opportunity had presented
itself, and he was forced to conceal his feelings as best he could.
He had tried several times, when in New York, to find the flower-woman,
Margery. Indeed he never passed a flower-stand now without peering
beneath the hat or bonnet of the vender in search of that sorrowful and
wrinkled visage. But he had never seen it since that first time on
Broadway, and he began to fear that she was dead, and thus he would
never be able to learn the secret of Geoffrey Huntress’ early life.
The first of April drew near.
There were now only about three months before commencement at Yale, and
every ambitious senior was doing his best to acquit himself honorably.
Geoffrey, however, had not been obliged to work nearly so hard this year
as during the two previous ones; those had been the test of his course,
and he had strained every nerve.
It had been a little doubtful at the close of his last year about his
entering the senior class.
The professors, fearing for his health, had advised him to relinquish
his purpose to do so. Mrs. Huntress, too, was anxious about him, for he
had been losing flesh and color for several months, but Geoffrey very
quietly remarked, in the presence of the professors, that he would do
his best during the summer vacation to prepare for his examinations for
the senior class, and if he failed in them he would cheerfully remain
the extra year.
Mr. Huntress would not curtail him in any of his privileges, and so
again sent him to a pleasant spot in the country with a tutor, a boat,
and a couple of saddle-horses, and the coaching went on as faithfully as
ever.
The result was that Geoffrey passed his examinations without a
condition, and then felt that his hardest work was over; he would need
to burn no more midnight oil, and when there came a recess he would feel
at liberty to enjoy it as others did and gain a little of the rest he so
much needed.
He was not idle, however.
Gladys had told him that she would expect great things of him, and
“great things” he meant to accomplish, if it were possible, for her
sake.
At the beginning of the year Huntress and Mapleson were dubbed “the
twins” of their class, and not long afterward it was whispered that they
stood about equal in the race for first honors. Some were inclined to
think that Huntress would win the day, others that Mapleson would be the
favored one.
When the verdict was finally rendered in favor of Geoffrey, Everet
Mapleson swore an angry oath, although his own name stood second on the
list.
“He has seemed like some bad spirit pursuing me with some evil purpose
in view, ever since he entered college,” he muttered, distorting facts
that would have seemed just the reverse to any one else. “If I could
only find out the secret of his life I might ruin him, even now, before
the year is ended. I’d give half of my expectations if I could find that
old woman; but I’m afraid she’s dead, and all that mystery buried with
her.
“Well, I must calmly submit to his good fortune in excelling all his
competitors,” he continued. “I’ve done my best to win and I stand next,
which is some comfort. If I could have stood first I would have gone to
Gladys and told her that I worked for her sake, and perhaps she might
have listened to me. I wonder if she will stand first in her class. I
must run up to Poughkeepsie to see the little lady graduate; the
commencement there comes a few days earlier than ours this year.”
However much Everet Mapleson inwardly regretted the loss of the first
honors, he betrayed it to no one else—he appeared to take the
appointments as a matter of course, and spared no pains to make his own
oration worthy and brilliant. But underneath all this outward calm there
lay a relentless purpose to some day have ample revenge upon his rival
for his disappointment.
As soon as Geoffrey learned of his good fortune he hastened to telegraph
the news to Gladys.
“I shall not disappoint you—the first honor is mine,” were the words
which went flying over the wires to the beautiful girl at Vassar.
Gladys had just come in from a walk when she received it, and the
principal, as he handed it to her, marveled at her exceeding beauty.
The rich glow of perfect health, deepened a little by exercise, was on
her cheeks; a happy smile wreathed her lips. Her hair had been tossed
about a trifle by the breeze, and lay in a light, fluffy network low on
her brow, which gleamed white as ivory beneath it.
Her hand trembled a little as she took the telegram and opened it, but
as she caught sight of the cheering words within she seemed almost
transfigured.
Her eyes lighted and sparkled with unusual brilliancy; the vivid color
ran swiftly up to her temples and she laughed a clear, musical, happy
laugh, that rang through the great hall like some sweet silver bell.
“You evidently have some good news, Miss Huntress,” the principal
remarked, his usually grave face involuntarily relaxing into a
sympathetic smile at her delight.
“Indeed, I have, sir;” she returned. “My—a friend has taken the first
honors for this year at Yale.”
She flushed again, for she had almost forgotten to whom she was
speaking, and nearly said, “My dear old Geoffrey,” but checked herself
and called him a friend.
“You need not have corrected yourself,” replied the professor, with a
twinkle of his eyes. “If the ‘friend’ is your brother you should not
allow your modesty to prevent your acknowledging it.”
Gladys’ eyes drooped half guiltily at this.
She could not explain that Geoffrey was not her brother, but something
far dearer, and yet her sense of truthfulness made her shrink from
giving a wrong impression.
“You will be able to send him as pleasant tidings in return, will you
not? You have also been appointed valedictorian, I believe?” the
gentleman continued.
“Yes, sir.”
“I am almost inclined to think that two valedictorians out of one
household are more than a fair allowance, especially for one year; your
parents must be very proud over two such brilliant children. Are there
any more of you to keep up the credit of the family?” the principal
inquired, laughing.
“No, sir, Geoffrey and I are all there are,” Gladys answered, and then
tripped away to reply to Geoffrey’s telegram with a jubilant letter.
“I am delighted with you, dear Geoff,” she wrote. “Your telegram has
made me the happiest girl at Vassar, though my heart failed me a
trifle before I opened it, fearing that it might contain bad news. How
proud I am of you! for you have climbed mountains of difficulties to
attain your goal.
“Now let me whisper a little bit of news in your ear. I have won my
spurs, too—if I may be allowed to use that expression—and as I shall
graduate a few days before you take your degree, can’t you come to
Vassar to honor the occasion with your presence? Papa and mamma will
be here, but the day will not be complete without you.”
Geoffrey replied that nothing should keep him away; that he would be
with her bright and early on commencement day, but would have to return
to New Haven at three in the afternoon, as he still had much to do to
prepare for the final exercises of his own class.
But notwithstanding his promise, the train on which he left New Haven
was delayed two hours, and he did not arrive at Vassar until after the
exercises were opened, and so had no opportunity to see Gladys before,
as he intended to do.
An usher led him into the crowded room, but the only available seat was
far in the rear, and so situated that he could scarcely see or be seen.
One of the graduating class was singing as he entered, and for a few
moments his attention was arrested by the young amateur who gave promise
of becoming something more by and by.
But presently his eyes began to wander about in search of Gladys, for
she, of course, was the center of attraction for him.
She was sitting near one end of the platform, at the head of her class,
and looking fairer than he had ever seen her, in her virgin white.
Her dress was of finest Indian mull, sheer and fleecy as a summer cloud.
It was very simple, yet daintily made, one gauzy thickness alone shading
her snowy neck and rounded arms, which gleamed fair as alabaster
beneath.
She wore no ornaments save a string of costly pearls around her neck and
a bunch of snowballs in her silken belt.
Her face was slightly flushed, her eyes glowed with excitement, and her
lips were like polished coral.
Ever and anon her eyes wandered wistfully over the sea of faces before
her, as if in search of some one.
All at once they rested upon a familiar face and form. She gave a slight
start, her countenance lighted for an instant, then she gave utterance
to a sigh of disappointment, although a little smile curved her lips and
she bowed in a friendly way to some one in the audience.
She had seen Everet Mapleson, and at the first glance had thought he was
Geoffrey, but catching his eager look of recognition, she realized her
mistake, and felt almost angry with him for being there, while she
feared that Geoffrey would not come at all.
She did not catch sight of her lover until just a moment before she was
called up to deliver the farewell address to class and faculty.
Geoffrey saw that she was anxiously looking for him, and shifting his
position he leaned forward and fixed a fond, magnetic look upon her.
She seemed to feel it, and turning her glance in that direction, their
eyes met; a rosy flood swept up to her brow, a brilliant smile wreathed
her lips with one glad look of welcome, and the next moment she was
standing before the audience, her whole being thrilling with delight,
and with the determination to do her best for Geoffrey’s sake.
And she did; her effort was the crowning achievement of the day. The
rapt and breathless attention of the hundreds before her testified to
that, and when she concluded a perfect storm of applause showed their
appreciation and how completely she had swayed them by her eloquence.
More than this, numerous floral tributes were borne forward and laid at
her feet. These she acknowledged with blush, and smile, and bow; but
when at the very last an exquisite bouquet of lilies of the valley
followed the more pretentious offerings, she eagerly stretched forth her
white-gloved hand and took it from the bearer.
They were her favorite flowers, and she knew that Geoffrey had sent
them, even without the evidence of the tiny note that lay twisted in
their midst and concealed from every eye but hers.
Everet Mapleson’s card was attached to an elaborate basket of japonicas,
roses, and heliotrope. Mr. Huntress had sent up a harp of pansies and
smilax, and two or three of Gladys’ admiring classmates had contributed
lovely bouquets, but her little bunch of lilies, tied with snow-white
ribbon, was prized above them all.
It was all over at last; diplomas were presented, the usual remarks made
and advice given, and then admiring friends crowded about to offer
congratulations and express their pride and pleasure in their loved
ones.
In the midst of this confusion Gladys stepped aside a moment to
ascertain what her little billet contained.
“My darling,” she read. “I would not have missed this hour to have
secured a fortune, and yet I came very near it. I will be in the
reception-room below after the exercises are over. Come and receive my
verdict there.
GEOFF.”