Kitabı oku: «Molly Brown's Freshman Days», sayfa 6
CHAPTER XI
EXMOOR COLLEGE
Busy days followed the sophomore-freshman ball. The girls were “getting into line,” as Judy variously expressed it; “showing their mettle; and putting on steam for the winter’s work.” The story of the incendiary had been reported exaggerated and had gradually died out altogether. Frances Andrews had returned to college, more brazenly facetious than ever, breaking into conversations, loudly interrupting, making jokes which no one laughed at except Molly and Judy out of charity. She was a strange girl and led a lonely life, but she was too much like the crater of a sleeping volcano, which might shoot off unexpectedly at any moment, and most of the girls gave her a wide berth.
The weather grew cold and crisp. There was a smell of smoke in the air from burning leaves and from the chimneys of the faculty homes wherein wood fires glowed cheerfully.
At last Saturday arrived. It was the day of the excursion to Exmoor, and it was with more or less anxiety regarding the weather that the three girls scanned the skies that morning for signs of rain. But the heavens were a deep and cloudless blue and the air mildly caressing, neither too cold nor too warm.
“It is like the Indian summers we have at home,” exclaimed Molly, when, an hour later, they turned their faces toward the village through which the trolley passed.
Mabel Hinton, passing them as they started, had called out:
“Art off on a picnic?”
And they had answered:
“We art.”
Some other girls had cried:
“Whither away so early, Oh?”
And they had cried:
“To Exmoor! To Exmoor, for now the day has come at last!” paraphrasing a song Judy was in the habit of singing.
Indeed the day seemed so perfect and joyous that they could hardly keep from singing aloud instead of just humming when they boarded the trolley car.
Through the country they sped swiftly. The valley unfolded itself before them in all its beauty and the misty blue hills in the distance seemed to draw nearer. Over everything there was a sense of autumn peace which comes when the world is drowsing off into his deep sleep.
“Exmoor!” called the conductor at last, and the three girls stepped off at a charming rustic station. With a clang of the bell which rang out harshly in the still air, the car flew on.
The three girls looked at the empty station. Then they looked at each other with a kind of mock consternation, for nothing really mattered.
“Where is Dodo?” asked Judy, with the smile of the victor, since she had predicted only a few moments before that Dodo might by this time have become so frightened at his boldness that he would suddenly become extinct like his namesake, the dodo-bird.
“Well, if Dodo is really extinct,” said Molly, “we’ll just take a little walk back through the fields. Epiménides thought nothing of it. He expects to walk to-day and meet us at lunch.”
But Dodo was not extinct that morning, and they beheld him now running down the steep road as fast as his heavy boots could carry him.
“Behold, his spirit has risen from its fossil remains and he now walks among us in the guise of a man,” chanted Judy.
“Don’t make us laugh, Judy, just as the poor soul arrives without enough breath to apologize,” said Nance, and the next instant the embarrassed young man stood before them blushing and stammering as if he had been caught in the act of picking a pocket or committing some other slight crime which required explanation.
“I’m terribly sorry – have you waited long? – the schedule was changed – I didn’t know – you should have come half an hour later – I don’t mean that – I mean I wasn’t ready – ” he broke off in an agony of embarrassment and the girls burst out laughing.
“Don’t you be caring,” said Judy. “We’re here and nothing else really matters.”
“I shouldn’t have thought the station of a man’s college could be so deserted,” observed Molly, looking about the empty place.
Dodo assured her that plenty of people would be there in half an hour, when the train arrived; just then everybody was either in the village on the other side of the buildings, or down on the football grounds watching the morning practice game. There was to be a real game that afternoon.
“You see, it’s only a small college,” he went on. “There are only two hundred and fifty in all. The standards are so high it’s rather hard to get in, but we are heavily endowed and can afford to keep up the standards,” he added proudly.
They climbed the road to the college almost in silence and in ten minutes emerged on a level elevation or table land which commanded a view of the entire countryside. Here stood the college buildings, built of red brick, seasoned and mellowed with time. They were a beautiful and dignified group of buildings, and there was a decidedly old world atmosphere about the place and the campus with splendid elm trees. Molly had once heard Judith Blount refer to Exmoor as that “one-horse, old-fashioned little college,” and she was not prepared for anything so fine and impressive as this.
Nor was she prepared for the surprise of Miss Green, sister of Professor Edwin and Dodo. The girls had pictured her a middle-aged spinster, having heard she was older than the Professor himself, who seemed a thousand to them. And here, waiting for them, in the living room of the Chapter House, was a very charming and girlish young woman with Edwin’s brown eyes and cleft chin and George’s blonde hair; the ease and graciousness of one brother and the youthful fairness of the other. She had come down from New York the night before especially to meet them, she said.
Rather an expensive trip, they thought, for one day’s pleasure, since it took about seven hours and meant usually one meal and of course at night a berth on the sleeper.
“At first I thought I couldn’t manage it for this week,” she continued, “but Edwin was so insistent and no one has ever been known to refuse him anything he really wanted.”
Edwin! But why Edwin? Why not the youthful and blushing Dodo? So Molly wondered, while they were conducted over the entire college; the beautiful little Gothic chapel with its stained glass windows; through the splendid old library which was much smaller than the one at Wellington, but much more “atmospheric” as Judy had remarked; then through the dormitories where they remained discreetly in the corridors, and finally back to the Chapter House, in which George lodged with some thirty schoolmates.
There on the piazza was Professor Edwin Green waiting for them. He had made an early start, he said, and walked the whole distance in less than three hours. Some other young men came up and were introduced, and the entire gay party, Nance shyly sticking closely beside Miss Green, went off to view the village, which was a quaint old place well worth visiting, they were told.
The train had evidently come in, and crowds of people were hurrying up the road. There was a sound of a horn and a coach dashed in sight filled with students wearing crimson streamers in their buttonholes.
“It’s a crowd of Repton fellows come over to see their team licked,” George explained, “but look, Edwin, here comes Dickie Blount. I thought he was in Chicago.”
“Evidently he isn’t,” said the Professor, his eyes smiling, his mouth serious. It was Richard Blount, the hero of the ham bone, and he straightway attached himself to Molly and declined to leave her side for the rest of the day.
“Don’t tell me that that delightful, joking, jolly person is brother to Judith,” whispered Judy in Molly’s ear.
Molly nodded.
“There’s no family resemblance, but it’s true, nevertheless.”
Motor cars and carriages of all varieties now began to arrive. The whole countryside had turned out to see the great game between the two local college teams, and the Wellington girls pinned green rosettes in their buttonholes to signify that their sympathies were all for Exmoor.
“It’s the most exciting, jolliest time I ever had in all my life,” cried Molly to Professor Green, who walked on her other side. “And to think I have never seen a football game before in all my life.”
“I must draw a diagram for you and show you what some of the plays are, or you will be in a muddle,” said the Professor, looking at her gravely, almost, as Molly thought, as if she were one of his English Literature pupils.
At lunch, according to the etiquette of the place, George and his guests were placed at the senior table. There was no smoking nor loud talking and the students behaved themselves most decorously, although George confided to Judy that ordinarily pandemonium prevailed.
After lunch they started for the grounds in a triumphal procession; for our Wellington freshmen and their chaperone had an escort of at least four or five young men apiece. Nance looked bewildered and shy and happy; Judy was never more sparkling nor prettier, and Molly was in her gayest, brightest humor.
They had hardly left the Chapter House behind them and proceeded in a snake-like procession across the campus, when a black and prancing, though rather bony, steed dashed up bearing a young lady in a faultlessly fitting riding habit. It was Judith Blount.
Nobody looked particularly thrilled at Judith’s appearance, not even Judith’s brother, and Judy almost exclaimed out loud:
“Bother! Why couldn’t she stay at home just once?”
“How do you do, Cousin Grace?” called Judith from her perch. “I heard you were going to be down and I couldn’t resist riding over to see you.”
“How are you, Judith? I’m so glad to see you,” answered Cousin Grace in a tone without much heart to it. “Why didn’t you come sooner? We’ve just finished lunch.”
“Thanks, I had a sandwich early. I suppose you are off for the grounds. Go ahead. I’ll get Cousin Edwin to help me tie up this old animal somewhere. We’ll follow right behind.”
Molly was almost certain that Cousin Edwin was about to place this office on the shoulders of his younger brother, but glancing again at the flushed and happy face of Dodo at the side of Judy, the Professor relented and dropped behind to look after his relation.
Never had Molly been so wildly excited as she was over the football game that afternoon. It was a wonderful picture, the two teams lined up against each other; crowds of people yelling themselves hoarse; the battle cry of the Repton team mingling with the warlike cry of the Exmoor students. The cheer leaders at the heads of the cheer sections made the welkin ring continuously. At last a young man, who seemed to be a giant in size and strength, dashed like a wild horse across the Russian steppes straight up the field with the ball under his arm, and from the insane behavior of the green men, including Professor Edwin Green and his fair sister, Molly became suddenly aware that the game was over and Exmoor had won.
The cheering section could yell no more, because to a man it had lost its voice; but, oh, the glad burst of song from the Exmoor students as they leaped into the field and bore the conquering giant around on their shoulders. And, oh! the dejection of the men of crimson as they stalked sadly from the scene of their humiliation.
At last the whole glorious day was over and the girls found themselves on the way to the trolley station. Richard Blount and his cousin, Miss Green, had hastened on ahead. They were to take the six o’clock train back to New York.
“Cousin Edwin, why can’t you hire a horse in the village and ride back to Wellington with me?” asked Judith, when they paused at the Chapter House for her to mount her black steed.
“Because I’m engaged to take these young ladies home by trolley, Judith,” answered the Professor firmly.
Judith leaped on her horse without assistance, gave the poor animal a savage lash with her whip and dashed across the campus without another word.
The ride back at sunset was even more perfect than the morning trip. The Professor of English Literature appeared to have been temporarily changed into a boy. He told them funny stories and bits of his own college experiences, and made them talk, too. Almost before they knew it, the conductor was calling: “Wellington!”
CHAPTER XII
SUNDAY MORNING BREAKFAST
It was quite the custom at Wellington for girls to prepare breakfasts on Sunday morning in their rooms. There was always the useful boneless chicken to be creamed in one’s chafing dish; and in another, eggs to be scrambled with a lick and a promise, at these impromptu affairs; and it was a change from the usual codfish balls of the Sunday house breakfast.
On this particular Sunday morning, Judy was very busy; for the breakfast party was of her giving, in Molly’s and Nance’s room; her own “singleton” being too small. She was also very angry in her tempestuous and unrestrained way, and having emptied the vials of her wrath on Molly’s head, she was angrier with herself for giving away to temper.
Although it was Judy’s party, Molly, as usual kind-hearted and grandly hospitable, had invited Frances Andrews. Then she had gone and confessed her sins to Judy, who flared up and said things she hadn’t intended, and Molly had wept a little and owned that she was entirely at fault. But what could be done? Frances was invited and had accepted. To atone for her sins, poor Molly had made popovers as a surprise and arranged to bake them in Mrs. Murphy’s oven. But the hostess being gloomy, the company was gloomy, since the one is apt to reflect the humor of the other. However, as the coffee began to send forth its cheerful aroma from Judy’s Russian samovar, discord took wings and harmony reigned. It was a very comfortable and sociable party. Most of the girls wore their kimonos, it being a time for rest and relaxation; but when Frances Andrews swept into the room in a long lavender silk peignoir trimmed with frills of lace, all cotton crepe Japanese dressing gowns faded into insignificance.
“There is no doubt that college girls are a hungry lot,” remarked Margaret Wakefield, settling herself comfortably to dispose of food and conversation and arouse argument, a thing she deeply enjoyed.
“So much brain work requires nourishment,” observed Mabel Hinton.
“There is not much brain nourishment at Queen’s,” put in Frances Andrews. “I’ve been living on raw eggs and sweet chocolate for the last week. The table has run down frightfully.”
Sallie Marks was a loyal Queen’s girl, and resented this slur on the table of the establishment which was sheltering her now for the third year.
“The food here is quite as good as it is at any of the other houses,” she said coldly to the unfortunate Frances, who really had not intended to give offence.
“Pardon me, but I don’t agree with you,” replied Frances, “and I have a right to my own opinion, I suppose.”
Judy gave Molly a triumphant glance, as much as to say, “You see what you have done.”
Everybody looked a little uncomfortable, and Margaret Wakefield, equal to every occasion, launched into a learned discussion on how many ounces of food the normal person requires a day.
Once more the talk flowed on smoothly. But where Frances was, it would seem there were always hidden reefs which wrecked every subject, no matter how innocent, the moment it was launched.
“Molly, I can trade compliments with you,” put in Jessie Lynch, taking not the slightest notice of her roommate’s discourse. “It’s one of those very indirect, three-times-removed compliments, but you’ll be amused by it.”
“Really,” said Molly, “do tell me what it is before I burst with curiosity.”
“I said ‘trade,’” laughed Jessie, who liked a compliment herself extremely.
“Oh, of course,” replied Molly. “I have any number I can give you in exchange. How do you care for this one? Mary Stewart thinks you are very attractive.”
“Does she, really? That’s nice of her,” exclaimed Jessie, blushing with pleasure as if she hadn’t been told the same thing dozens of times before. “I think she’s fine; not exactly pretty, you know, but fine.”
“I suppose you don’t know how her father made his money?” broke in Frances.
There was a silence, and Molly, feeling that she was about to be mortified again by something disagreeable, cried hastily:
“Oh, dear, I forgot the surprise. Do wait a moment,” and dashed from the room.
While she was gone, Nance and Judy began filling up the intervals with odd bits of conversation, helped out by the other girls, and Frances Andrews did not have another opportunity to put in her oar. Suddenly she rose and swept to the door.
“You would none of you feel interested to know, I suppose, that Mary Stewart’s father started life as a bootblack – ”
“That’s what I’m starting life as,” cried Molly, who now appeared carrying a large tray covered with a napkin. “I am the official bootblack of Queen’s, and I make sometimes one-fifty a week at it. I hope I’ll do as well as Mr. Stewart in the business. Have a popover?”
She unfolded the napkin and behold a pile of golden muffins steaming hot. There were wild cries of joy from the kimonoed company.
“And now, Jessie, I’ll take my second-hand, roundabout compliment – ” she began, when Judy interrupted her.
“Won’t you have a popover, Miss Andrews?” she asked in a cold, exasperated tone.
“Thanks; I eat the European breakfast usually – coffee and roll – ”
“Yes, I’ve been there,” answered Judy.
“I’ll say good morning. I’ve enjoyed your little party immensely,” and Frances marched out of the room and banged the door.
“I should think you would have learned a lesson by this time, Molly Brown,” cried Judy hotly. “There is always a row whenever that girl is around. She can’t be nice, and there is no use trying to make her over.”
“I’m sorry,” said Molly penitently. “I wish I could understand why she behaves that way when she knows it’s going to take away what few friends she has.”
“I think I can tell you,” put in Mabel Hinton. “Nobody likes her, and nobody expects any good of her. If you are constantly on the lookout for bad traits, they are sure to appear. It’s almost a natural law. Everybody was expecting this to-day, and so it happened, of course. If we had been cordial and sweet to her, she never would have said that about Mary Stewart or the food at Queen’s, either.”
“Dear me, are we listening to a sermon,” broke in Judy flippantly.
But, in spite of Judy’s interruption, Mabel’s speech made an impression on the girls, some of whom felt a little ashamed of their attitude toward Frances Andrews.
“Did you ever see a dog that had been kicked all its life?” went on Mabel; “how it snarls and bites and snaps at anybody who tries to pet it? Well, Frances is just a poor kicked dog. She’s done something she ought not to have done, and she’s been kicked out for it, and she’s so sore and unhappy, she snarls at everybody who comes near her.”
“Mabel, you’re a brick!” exclaimed Sallie Marks. “I started the fight this morning and I’m ashamed of it. I’m going to make a resolution to be nice to that poor girl hereafter, no matter how horrid she is. It will be an interesting experiment, if for no other reason.”
“Let’s form a society,” put in Molly, “to reinstate Frances Andrews, and the way to do it will be to be as nice as we can to her and to say nice things about her to the other girls.”
“Good work!” cried Margaret Wakefield, scenting another opportunity to draw up a constitution, by-laws and resolutions. “We will call a first meeting right now, and elect officers. I move that Molly be made chairman of the meeting.”
“I second the motion,” said Sallie heartily. “All in favor say ‘aye.’”
There was a chorus of laughing “ayes” and a society was actually established that morning, Molly, as founder, being elected President. It consisted of eight members, all freshmen, except the good-natured Sallie Marks, who condescended, although a junior, to join.
“Suppose we vote on a name now,” continued Margaret who wished to leave nothing undone in creating the club. “Each member has a right to suggest two names, votes to be taken afterward.”
It was all very business-like, owing to Margaret’s experienced methods, but the girls enjoyed it and felt quite important. As a matter of fact, it was the first society to be established that year in the freshman class, and it developed afterward into a very important organization.
Among the various names suggested were “The Optimists,” “The Bluebirds,” “The Glad Hands,” mentioned by Sallie Marks, and “The Happy Hearts.”
“They are all too sentimental,” said the astute Margaret, looking them over. “There’ll be so many croaks about us if we choose one of these names that we’ll be crushed with ridicule. How about these initials – ‘G.F.’ What do they stand for?”
“Gold Fishes,” replied Mabel Hinton promptly. The others laughed, but the name pleased them, nevertheless. “You see,” went on Mabel, “a gold fish always radiates a cheerful glow no matter where he is. He is the most amiable, contented little optimist in the animal kingdom, and he swims just as happily in a finger bowl as he does in a fish pond. He was evidently created to cheer up the fish tribe and I’m sure he must succeed in doing it.”
The explanation was received with applause, and when the votes were taken, “G.F.” was chosen without a dissenting voice.
It was decided that the club was to meet once a week, it’s object, to be, in a way, the promotion of kindliness, especially toward such people as Frances Andrews, who were friendless.
“We’ll be something like the Misericordia Society in Italy,” observed Judy, “only, instead of looking after wounded and hurt people, we’ll look after wounded and hurt feelings.”
It was further moved, seconded and the motion carried that the society should be a secret one; that reports should be read each week by members who had anything to report; and, by way of infusing a little sociability into the society, it was to give an entertainment, something unique in the annals of Wellington; subject to be thought of later.
It was noon by the time the first meeting of the G. F. Society was ready to disband. But the girls had really enjoyed it. In the first place, there was an important feeling about being an initial member of a club which had such a beneficial object, and was to be so delightfully secretive. There was, in fact, a good deal of knight errantry in the purpose of the G. F.’s, who felt not a little like Amazonian cavaliers looking for adventure on the highway.
“Really, you know,” observed Jessie, “we should be called ‘The Friends of the Wallflowers,’ like some men at home, who made up their minds one New Year’s night at a ball to give a poor cross-eyed, ugly girl who never had partners the time of her life, just once.”
“Did they do it?” asked Nance, who imagined that she was a wallflower, and was always conscious when the name was mentioned.
“They certainly did,” answered Jessie, “and when I saw the girl afterward in the dressing room, she said to me, ‘Oh, Jessie, wasn’t it heaven?’ She cried a little. I was ashamed.”
“By the way, Jessie, I never got my compliment,” said Molly. “Pay it to me this instant, or I shall be thinking I haven’t had a ‘square deal.’”
“Well, here it is,” answered Jessie. “It has been passed along considerably, but it’s all the more valuable for taking such a roundabout route to get to you. I’ll warn you beforehand that you will probably have an electric shock when you hear it. You know I have some cousins who live up in New York. One of them writes to me – ”
“Girl or man?” demanded Judy.
“Man,” answered Jessie, blushing.
There was a laugh at this, because Jessie’s beaux were numerous.
“His best friend,” she continued, “has a sister, and that sister – do you follow – is an intimate friend – ”
“‘An intimate friend of an intimate friend,’” one of the girls interrupted.
“Yes,” said Jessie, “it’s obscure, but perfectly logical. My cousin’s intimate friend’s sister has an intimate friend – Miss Green – ”
“Oh, ho!” cried Judy. “Now we are getting down to rock bottom.”
“And Miss Green told her intimate friend who told my cousin’s intimate friend’s sister – it’s a little involved, but I think I have it straight – who told her brother who told my cousin who wrote it to me.”
“But what did he write,” they demanded in a chorus.
“That one of Miss Green’s brothers was crushed on a charming red-headed girl from Kentucky.”
Molly’s face turned crimson.
“But Dodo is crushed on Judy,” she laughed.
“It may be,” said Jessie. “Rumors are most generally twisted.”
The first meeting of the G. F.’s now disbanded and the members scattered to dress for the early Sunday dinner. They all attended Vespers that afternoon, and in the quiet hour of the impressive service more than one pondered seriously upon the conversation of the morning and the purpose of the new club.
