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CHAPTER XIV

Proserpina had returned to earth again. The evidence of her visit was everywhere. The campus had turned into green velvet; the pussy willows were soft as chinchillas; the apple trees were in leaf, and just about to blossom. These were the signs of spring everywhere. In addition to these, the seminary had a sign which appealed to it alone. The man with the ice-cream cart had appeared. For several days, his cart had been backed against the curb of the campus and the sound of his bell was like the music of the hand-organ to the girls. It was a bluebird and a robin – the harbingers of spring to them.

May came and was quickly passing. The girls were talking caps and gowns and diplomas. The seniors went about with a superior air; the juniors were little better for they had a classday at least. The freshmen and sophomores, in the plans for commencement week, were but the fifth wheel to a wagon. They were ignored. If they offered suggestions they were snubbed, and informed, not too gently, that they could not be expected to know anything about such matters – being new to the ways of commencement.

Though they had neither commencement, class day, nor play, the freshmen and sophomores did not lose spirit. What was not theirs by rights, they meant to make theirs by foul means and strategy.

It had long been the custom of the seniors to follow the commencement proper with a banquet. This included only members of the senior class. The Alumnæ banquet took place later and was in the hands of old students who had long since left the seminary. Among these were the wives of judges, physicians, bankers – people with whom the freshmen and sophomores dare not interfere, though it would have been an easy matter to have taken this Alumnæ Banquet, for there was no one on hand to guard it. The menu and serving were wholly in the hands of a caterer from the city.

Knowing that the affairs of the Alumnæ must not be tampered with, the freshmen turned all their energies toward the seniors and juniors.

The juniors were to give a play. The costumes were to be rented for the occasion. The play itself was zealously guarded lest it be stolen. Erma, whose talent lay in a histrionic direction, had charge of the copies of the drama. Erma had talent but no forethought. She put the pamphlets in the place most suited to them. Hester, who had been sent out by her class as a scout to find what she could of the plans of the juniors, discovered the books the first day; and not only the books but the names of the juniors and the parts which each was to take. Hester reported immediately the results of her investigation. The following day, while Erma was engaged elsewhere the play disappeared, was hurriedly copied by the freshmen and replaced. Not a member of the junior class, so the freshmen believed, was aware of what took place and was not the wiser that the freshmen had begun the preparation of the same play.

"We can outdo them," said Louise at the class-meeting. "The play is booked for Tuesday evening. Monday evening is the band concert and promenade from seven o'clock until eight-thirty. After that, the freshmen class will have the floor and we'll give the play before the juniors. Their efforts will fall flat on Tuesday evening."

"But the costumes!" exclaimed Hester. "What will we do for them?"

"Borrow them from the juniors when they are from their rooms. We will need them but one evening. We'll return them as fresh as ever the following morning."

"Will they lend them?" It was a little first term girl who asked the question.

"No, you dear little freshie, they will not lend them if they can help themselves. We will ask them Tuesday morning and use them Monday. It is the safest way," said Emma, who was exceedingly enthusiastic over this part of school life. While at home, she had read volumes on the subject of life at a boarding school. From the impression left by those books, life at school was one succession of receptions, public meetings, and practical jokes. Discipline and lessons were in the undercurrent of life. Life at Dickinson had been wholly different from what Emma had anticipated. This stealing of the junior play and presenting it before the juniors had the opportunity, appealed to Emma. This was more in the order of the books she had read.

Louise sat up on the rostrum, appointing the students to their parts. She looked at Emma quizzingly, "About your part, Emma," she began.

"I know what I want to be. Let me be queen. I'd dearly love to put my hair up and wear a train."

"You! The queen!" the girls laughed in scorn. "You never would have dignity enough for that. What you should be is a Dutch doll that moves with a spring."

"I could do the queen part – ," she began.

"Hush, hush. You are talking too loud. Some one is coming."

Footsteps were heard along the stair. The door opened and Renee put her head in.

"Are you there, Louise?" she asked. "Do you object to my taking your umbrella? My roommate has gone off leaving mine locked in the closet, and I've permission to go down town."

"Yes, yes, take it," cried Louise. Renee closed the door and disappeared.

"I'm suspicious of that umbrella," said Edna. "I think Renee was sent up here to see what we were about."

"No, I'd be suspicious of any one but Renee. She wished the umbrella. I am sure of that."

"But why should she need it this afternoon. There is not the slightest suggestion of rain and the sun is not bright."

"Because, she couldn't go without borrowing something," said Louise. "It wouldn't be Renee if she could. I suppose she looked about and an umbrella was the only thing she did not have at hand, so that was the only thing she could borrow."

Eventually the parts were given out and partly learned. The girls had planned for a rehearsal the first week in June. The fact that everything had to be done under cover from the juniors, made the practice drag. They could assemble only at such hours when the juniors were in class, and the chapel vacant.

The sophomores, confident that the freshmen alone would be able to manage the juniors, turned their attention to the seniors. Their plan was to divert the banquet from the dining-hall to one of the society halls, and feast upon it while the seniors went wailing in search of it.

Their plans were developing nicely when the weather saw fit to interfere. The last day of May, which fell on Tuesday, set in with a soft, fine rain. This was nothing alarming in itself, had it performed its work and gone its way. But it lingered all day, all night and when Wednesday morning broke dull and gray, the volume of water had increased, and was coming steadily down. Thursday was but a repetition of Wednesday. The rain did not cease for an instant. The sun never showed his face.

The river had crept up gradually until the water was licking the trunks of the apple trees; but this was not alarming. The ice flood had been higher; and further back on the campus were the marks of the flood of '48, the highest flood ever known along the river. Even then the water had not touched the building. There was nothing at all to be alarmed by the river's rising.

After the afternoon's recitations, the girls went down to the river's edge, although the rain poured down upon them. They were learning the tricks of the old river men. They stuck sticks in the edge of the water to mark the rise or fall.

"It's risen over a foot since lunch time," cried Erma. "See, there is my marker. You can just see it. Think of it – a foot. What will become of us?"

"It will rise twenty feet before we need give it a thought," said Hester. She had been reared along the river and had no fear of it. She loved it in any form it could assume – tranquil and quiet – frozen and white – rolling and bleak and sullen. In every form, she recognized only the beautiful and knew no reason to fear.

"But if it should rise twenty-five?" cried Erma. She was running about excitedly like a water-sprite. Her red sweater gleamed in the sullen gray light. The rain was trickling from her Tam-o-Shanter; but she was oblivious of all, save the far remote danger.

"Oh, what if it should come up twenty-five feet!" she continued asking as she ran along the shore.

"Oh, what if the world should come to an end!" retorted the girls in derision.

The gong in the main hall sounded.

"I knew it," cried Emma. "I knew Doctor Weldon would not allow us to be out long. She's dreadfully careful of us. Now, what harm can a little bit of water do to anyone?" Emma shook her bushy, curly locks.

"Nothing, when one's hair curls naturally. But it can do a lot when one's hair is straight. Look at mine." Mame sighed dismally. "Did you ever see such locks? Every one as straight as a poker. I wish, just for once, I could look like other girls."

Josephine was standing in the hall, waiting when the little group of girls entered.

"Have you been in all the time?" asked Hester. "How could you? The river is fine and getting higher and higher each moment. You shouldn't miss such a sight as this."

"I have not missed it," was the reply, given while the speaker's eyes took a soulful upward glance. "I cannot enjoy nature with people laughing and talking about me. I must be alone and commune with it. I have stood here watching from the window. What a beautiful and yet a terrible scene it is. I feel uplifted."

"I wish I felt the same way – uplifted to the extent of two flights of stairs," said Hester. She had not meant to be funny, but the girls laughed. Josephine turned upon her a hurt, aggrieved look. But just for a moment, then she smiled and said gently, "Hester, you little water-sprite! How can you jest when nature is at war?"

Edna Bucher was another student who would not brave the elements. She stood at the hall window where the stairway makes a turn. She was dressed in very somber clothes, guiltless of curves or graces. She did not look with favor upon girls' trudging out in the storm. It had in it the element of tom-boyism upon which Miss Bucher looked with alarm.

"No, I did not go," she said meekly and apologetically. "I was brought up to think it wasn't ladylike to go out in all kinds of weather; ladies don't do it. It is just what you would expect of a man."

The hearers replied not a word. They did not so much as shrug their shoulders or glance at each other. But each girl resolved at that minute, if being hearty and hale and fearless were unladylike, from that moment they would be that very thing.

The weather soon had its effect upon the spirits of the girls. Gayety in the dormitories and parlors was reduced to the minimum. Pupils stood silent at windows, gazing out at the steady downpour. Where they did gather in groups of three or four, there was no laughing or bright talk. Just a word now and then, and a low reply. At intervals, someone grew intolerant and expressed herself. "Will this rain never stop?" "I was hoping it would clear so that we might go into town."

Their hopes were doomed to disappointment. The rain never ceased for one instant during the night and all day Friday.

At lunch time Friday, the girls ran out on the campus to see what had become of their markers of the evening before. They were gone. The water had come over them and moved up in the campus until it touched the cannae-beds.

"The flowers will be ruined!" cried the girls. As though to prove the truth of the statement, a tongue of water curled itself softly about the plants, sucked deep into the roots, and when it went its way, the cannaes went with it, and only a hollow was left in the great bed, and this was quickly filled with water.

"It has risen three feet since last evening," said Hester, who had been standing silent, estimating the distance. There were exclamations of wonder, surprise, and fear. To many, three feet of a rise in water meant no more than a Greek syllable. They had not been reared near a river, and knew nothing of what might be expected in the way of floods.

"Three feet is nothing," said Hester with the air of one who knew all there was to know of such matters. "Why, a June flood is generally seven feet at home. We do not think much about it. And September floods – we do not always have them, but we wouldn't think of calling it a flood unless the river rose at least five feet. Three feet since yesterday! That is really nothing at all. I hope it will go five feet higher before night."

It was all braggadocio on her part; but it had the desired effect. Erma screamed in terror; Emma's eyes grew big; Mame scolded her soundly for expressing such a wish. For a while she had a hornet's nest about her ears.

Early Friday afternoon, a change came. Before, the rain had come down steady and constant. Now it came in a stream, as though the floors from a great reservoir had given way and the water had fallen in one great body.

There was no going out in this. An umbrella was no protection whatever, for the rain came through as water through a sieve. After dinner, the girls stood in the windows which overlooked the river and watched the water as it crept up, so slowly the eye could not recognize its advance.

The trunks of the apple trees were hidden from view. The water was muddy and foaming. The current had increased until the velocity was ten times that of normal. There was a sullen roar, and tearing as though the banks were giving way. Some logs were running, but not many. The breast of the water was covered with drift. At intervals, large branches of trees went down. Once a great oak, roots, trunk and all, sailed close to the apple tree and almost tore it from the earth. A walk, a piece of fence, a chicken coop, or a dog-kennel went bobbing along their watery way. Some distance below, yet in sight of the school, was the county bridge. It had been built in the early history of the country. It was a big, clumsy-looking affair of wood with a shingled roof and board sides. Now, entrances were cut off by a wide stream. It stood alone, like an isolated being; its weather-beaten sides, looking gray against the brown of the muddy water.

The sight of the river was growing awful, yet it attracted and held the girls. The study bell rang unheeded. Miss Burkham came from her room to call their attention to the study hours.

As the girls from the east wing crossed the main hall in order to reach their rooms, they saw Doctor Weldon in earnest conversation with Marshall, the office boy; Belva, the man-of-all work, and Herman who acted as night-watchman.

"I do not anticipate a bit of trouble," she was saying. "But telegrams came into the city from Reno, thirty miles above, that there was a twenty-foot flood there and still rising. They've sent warning all down the river.

"I have heard that alarm sounded ever since I have been at the seminary. It is always a twenty-foot flood and the word always comes from Reno. Either those people have no idea of a foot measure or their imaginations have been over stimulated." She spoke slowly yet with conviction, as one who has been accustomed to having their slightest word obeyed. The three men had been at the seminary and in her service for ten years. They adored her and accepted her word as final.

"However, Herman, you keep a close watch. Do not let the water reach the drive without warning us. We will not run any risks. If you wish to have Belva and Marshall with you, well and good. I shall ask the matron to have a lunch prepared for you."

There was little possibility of danger. Should the water creep up from the river, even to the west side of the dormitory, a great wing extended to the east and avenues of escape would remain open.

The girls overheard Doctor Weldon's words. They were not alarmed. They understood the conditions perfectly. Should the water come near the west wing, a thing which had never yet occurred even in the famous flood of '48, there could be no immediate danger. They were excited with the prospect of the unusual happening. Since it had rained for five days against their express wishes, they would feel themselves aggrieved if no compensation, in the form of an unusual experience, was offered them.

The fact that it was Friday night, and that the week had been one which had been void of relaxation or amusement in any way, moved the preceptress to shorten the study hour and lengthen the time for recreation.

But the students would not get away from the weather and the flood. Little groups of four and six came together and discussed floods, from the Noachean down to the one of '48. The girls had no personal knowledge of any high water, but they handed down the folk-lore as it had come to them.

Some were particularly fine in giving detail, and making weird, strange scenes so real that their hearers were deeply affected. Erma had this power in a great measure, and Hester, to some extent. By the time they had related several stories, the girls in Sixty-two were shivering with nervous fear.

"Oh, you silly little geese!" cried Erma. "Why, you are actually shivering over something which happened in my great-grandfather's time!"

"But you make it so real! You and Hester talk as if it happened but yesterday," said Mellie.

"Certainly, that is what we try to do," Erma laughed, and seizing Mellie by the hand, drew her up from the floor where she had been sitting. "That is what will make us famous. I shall be a great actress and Hester a great writer."

Hester heard and blushed. She wondered how Erma knew of her day-dreams for she had mentioned them to no one.

"Come, peaches," cried Erma. "I'll take you back to your rooms. If I do not, you all will have nervous prostration, sitting here listening to such stories."

"I do not know when Erma is complimenting me," said Mellie as she followed. "Sometimes I am 'silly goose' and sometimes I am 'peaches.' Now when am I which, and why?"

Erma laughed again. "Oh, you silly goose, don't you know you're peaches all the time with me?"

The girls departed. It was yet early, yet Helen and Hester prepared for bed. Each was deliberately slow. Their paths crossed and recrossed as they moved from one part of the room to the other, yet not a word was said until Hester reached to turn off the light. Then came the customary good-night.

CHAPTER XV

There was no danger of the river rising to such an extent that the building would be surrounded and communication cut off. Such a thing would be impossible! But Doctor Weldon had forgotten to reckon with the creek which flowed on the opposite side of town and joined the river at the east end. It had risen as rapidly as the river and had come over the banks and was creeping in upon them.

Hester awakened suddenly. It was early morning for the gray lights were shining in at the windows. The rain had ceased. The first thought which came to her was that of thankfulness. Now they could have a clear Saturday and be out of doors without being drenched to the skin.

It was not raining but there was a peculiar gurgling sound of water. Helen also heard it and sat up in bed.

"Do you hear that, Hester? What is it?"

"It is something outside, I'll see." As she spoke she had left her bed and hurried to the window. Her exclamation brought Helen to her. There was no need to ask for explanation. Beech Creek had backed in from a mile beyond, and was lapping against the stone foundation. The water was moving over the campus. Nowhere was it more than an inch deep; but on each side lay the greater depths of the river and the creek.

"Let us get dressed at once!" cried Hester.

"Yes, let us go downstairs," replied Helen. She was not so excited as Hester, yet she was more afraid. Hester knew the river and loved it. Now her excitement did not spring from fear, but from a kind of enjoyment.

They slipped into their clothes and made themselves as presentable as possible and hurried downstairs. At the front entrance was a group of girls. Some were standing on the lower step, which was a single piece of granite. The water was lapping but a few inches below. While they talked and laughed, some hysterically, the water crept up and lapped upon the lower step. The girls moved higher. Five steps led to the entrance, which was on the level of the first floor. Then the breakfast bell sounded and the girls reluctantly went into the dining-room.

While they were standing with their hands on the back of their respective chairs, awaiting the signal from the principal, she addressed them.

"Young ladies, you will be served with plain fare this morning. Perhaps, you do not know that the butcher, the baker, the milkman, and butter-man drive in each morning from Flemington. The road was flooded this morning and they could not reach us. The supplies which the steward keeps on hand, are in the basement, which was flooded last night. You may be seated."

There was no complaint at the bit of bacon and stale bread with which each plate had been served. There were excitement and hilarious good-humor, as though the flood had come for their especial benefit to give them an experience new and unusual. A bit of bacon and stale bread! One could get along very well for a few hours on that. But it seemed destined that the students were not to have even so little.

Marshall came in and hurried to Doctor Weldon. She appeared cool and collected; but one could never tell from her manner whether she were anxious or not. The few seniors who remembered when the building had been afire, remembered Doctor Weldon had acted just so. Waiting until Marshall left the dining-hall, she rang the bell. The buzz of voices ceased.

"Take your plates and go up to the parlor on the second floor. You may be dismissed in order. Miss Burkham's table first."

Miss Burkham arose and led the way. She was quite as collected as Doctor Weldon, although, she, too, had seen the water marks which were appearing on the floor from the water in the basement below.

"It is like a picnic. Think of eating bacon and stale bread in a parlor, done up in pale-green and silver. I know it will taste better." It was Erma who was talking. Her voice rang over all like a silver bell, as with merry laugh and light spirits she lead the way to the floor above.

The door leading from the main hall on to the porch was closed, but a little stream had forced itself in and was trickling over the floor. The men-servants were rolling up the rug, preparatory to carrying it to the floor above and the women-servants were pinning up window draperies and hangings to save them from possible contact with the water.

Doctor Weldon, calm and serene, as though a flood were an everyday occurrence and not at all alarming, went about the building instructing the servants and teachers in regard to saving what they could of the property on the ground floor.

Hester, Helen, Erma, and their friends stood on the landing of the stairway and watched the men work. The girls had forgotten that they were hungry. Their plates were poised in the air and the bits of bacon and stale bread were untouched.

Renee came to the head of the stairway and leaning over the balustrade, looked down on the outstretched plates. "Haven't you girls touched a bite?" she asked. "I am glad I found you. I wish you'd lend me your piece of bacon."

The girls, thus addressed, saw nothing humorous in the request. Erma was about to hand over her portion when a laugh from the hall above caused her to pause. Emma, Edna, and Louise were laughing and ridiculing Renee, who turned about and went off in bad humor, explaining as she did so that she wanted a piece for Mame Cross who had been complaining that she had not been treated as other girls when it came to the distribution of bacon.

The men tossed the rugs upon the first landing of the stairway and went to the assistance of Marshall, who came in with tables and chairs from the kitchen. By much straining and lifting, the pianos were raised upon these.

"That is all we can do," said the night-watchman. "We cannot possibly take them to the second floor. They are three feet higher now. The water can't possibly rise that much more."

Doctor Weldon had taken refuge on the steps for the hall was flooded. The girls moved up to the second floor.

"Let us go to the Philo Hall on the third floor," cried Erma. "We can see over town from there."

"I do not wish to see," said several.

"I do," said Hester and Helen together. The three made their way to the hall whose windows opened to the north and east. The current from the river was sweeping about the corner of the building with a tremendous force. Logs and square timbers, uprooted trees and driftwood were being borne down in great quantities.

On the side of the driveway, where the current was strongest, stood an iron lamp-post deeply imbedded in a foundation of stone. It had been placed there in the early history of the school, when electricity and gas were unknown. It had never been removed for the trustees were graduates of the school and refused to remove the landmarks of their school-days. So there it stood above the muddy, dirty water.

The girls at the open window above could look down upon it.

"See that great timber coming!" cried Helen.

"It is right in the current and making straight for the building. If it should strike the corner!"

The building was old and not able to stand the force of a heavy timber, propelled by such a tremendous force. The girls at the window knew what that meant. They held their breath. The timber rushed on, but it turned broadside in the current and came up against the iron post. There it remained as nicely as though weighed and measured and fixed in place. Back of it came logs and drift which piled upon the timber and lamp-post until a bulwark was formed which turned the current away from the corner and the danger with it.

"It's luck. Did you ever see such luck?" cried Erma. "If that lamp-post had not been there, the whole corner of the building would have been broken in. It was luck – pure luck."

"It was Providence," said Helen simply. "I think it was meant that the lamp-post should be just where it is."

There were few words said. The scene was so awful that the desire to talk was taken away. From the parlors below, the excitement and laughter died. A quiet fell over the building. There was nothing to do but to watch and wait – for what or how long, no one could tell.

The sun shone out on the water. Below, lay the city. The portion which stood low was flooded to the second floor. Hester thought of Aunt Debby as her eyes rested on the distant town.

"There is no fear there," said Helen following the glance of her roommate's eyes. "Fairview Street is the highest in town. You remember there is a terrace with steps where it joins Market. The tops of the buildings on Fourth Street will be covered before it comes to the doors of Fairview."

Hester knew that this was true. No immediate danger threatened the little cottage. The seminary with its old walls and the current from both river and creek beating upon it was where fear lay.

"Look!" cried Helen, pointing her finger to midstream. There bobbing along like a cork on the current was a stable one side of which had been torn away. The mow was filled with hay, and in the stalls beneath was a horse feeding from the manger. It bobbed along serenely, as though midriver in a high flood were the legitimate place for a stable. Then it struck the sides of the bridge. There was the sound of crushing and the barn was sucked down under the bridge and disappeared from sight.

The morning passed and the girls sat in the window seats, fascinated by the sea before them.

The water continued rising until twelve o'clock. It filled the lower halls and crept almost to the second floor. The water-pipes burst and a famine of drink as well as food came. Fortunately, the experiences of the day had taken away the appetite.

"I have been watching that old tree," said Hester. "When the clock struck twelve, the water had just reached the notch at the branches. It is one o'clock now and it has not gone higher."

The waters were at a standstill. The worst was over. At three o'clock, Hester cried out with delight. "It is falling – falling! See the trunk of the tree shows above the water."

It was slowly receding. The danger-mark had passed, although the signs of havoc it had caused, were yet passing on the breast of the river. A part of a kitchen went sailing by. The watchers saw the upper window of a half-submerged house. There was a bed, a cradle, and a sewing-machine open and ready for use. There were pathos and tragedy sufficient for a lifetime. There was a touch of humor too, for on a long plank, at either end, sat a rat and a great black cat. They watched each other instinctively, and were unconscious of the danger which threatened them both.

Five o'clock came, and the girls had not moved from their positions. During the day, but a few sentences had passed between them.

At last hunger came to them. But there was no use going in search of food; for the larder was bare. There was not even a cup of water for them.

For more than an hour Helen had not moved. Fear of the water had passed. A finer feeling than dread inspired her now. Someone from below called Erma, and she left the Philo Hall. She neither laughed nor danced. Even her effervescent spirits had been under the spell of the waters.

Her departure aroused Helen from her reverie. Arising, she came to where Hester sat. Her voice was low. To the old tenderness was added a new sweetness and strength, "Little roommate," she said, "listen to me for a few minutes. Weeks ago, I believed you guilty of an act I could not countenance. I treasured resentment against you, though even while I was doing it, I loved you. I did wrong in not going directly to you and making known my complaint. May I tell it to you now, or shall we let it be as though it never happened, and let all our ugly feeling and bitterness go down with the flood?"

"Let it go with the flood, Helen. I do not know how I erred, but I do know that I missed your friendship. Let us forget it from this minute."

"And let me give what I denied long ago," said Helen, as she stooped to press her lips to Hester's forehead.