Marjorie Dean, College Junior

CHAPTER VI—THE LAST OF THE HAMILTONS

“Oh, I am Marjorie Dean from Hamilton College,” Marjorie said, straightening up with a smile.

For an instant the two pairs of dark eyes met. In the old lady’s appeared a gleam half resentful, half admiring. In the young girl’s shone a pleasant light, hard to resist.

“Yes; I supposed you were one of them,” nodded Miss Susanna. “Let me tell you, young woman, you are the first I have met in all these years from the college who had any claim on gentle breeding.”

Marjorie smiled. “There are a good many fine girls at Hamilton,” she defended without intent to be discourteous. “Any one of a number I know would have been glad to help you.”

“Then that doll shop has changed a good deal recently,” retorted the old lady with rapidity. “Nowadays it is nothing but drive flamboyant cars and spend money for frivolities over there. I hate the place.”

Marjorie was silent. She did not like to contradict further by saying pointedly that she loved Hamilton, neither could she bear the thought of not defending her Alma Mater.

“I can’t say that I hate Hamilton College, because I don’t,” she finally returned, before the pause between the two had grown embarrassing. “I am sure you must have good reason to dislike Hamilton and its students or you would not say so.”

The pink in her cheeks deepened. Marjorie bent and completed the task of returning the last spilled posy to the basket.

“There!” she exclaimed good-naturedly. “I have them all in the basket again, and not a single one of those little jars are broken. I wish you would let me carry the basket for you, Miss Hamilton. It is really a cumbersome affair without the handle.”

“You are quite a nice child, I must say.” Miss Susanna continued to regard Marjorie with her bright, bird-like gaze. “Where on earth were you brought up?”

Signally amused, Marjorie laughed outright. She had raised the basket from the ground. As she stood there, her lovely face full of light and laughter, arms full of flowers, Miss Susanna’s stubborn old heart softened a trifle toward girlhood.

“I come from Sanford, New York,” she answered. “This is my junior year at Hamilton. Four other girls from Sanford entered when I did.”

“Sanford,” repeated her questioner. “I never heard of the place. If these girls are friends of yours I suppose they escape being barbarians.”

“They are the finest girls I ever knew,” Marjorie praised with sincerity.

“Well, well; I am pleased to hear it.” The old lady spoke with a brusquerie which seemed to indicate her wish to be done with the subject. “You insist on helping me, do you?”

“Yes; if it pleases you to allow me.”

“It’s to my advantage, so it ought to,” was the dry retort. “I am not particular about lugging that basket in my arms. I loaded it too heavily. Brian, the gardener, would have carried it for me, but I didn’t care to be bothered with him. I am carrying these down to an old man who used to work about the lawns. His days are numbered and he loves flowers better than anything else. He lives in a little house just outside the estate. It is still quite a walk. If you have anything else to do you had better consider it and not me.”

“I was on my way to town. It is too late to go now.” Marjorie explained the nature of her errand as they walked on. “The girls will probably come to the conclusion that I found it too late to go to Hamilton after I had changed my gown. One or another of them will buy me something pretty to give to Elaine,” she ended.

“It is a good many years since I bought a birthday gift for anyone. I always give my servants money on their birthdays. I have not received a birthday gift for over fifty years and I don’t want one. I do not allow my household to make me presents on any occasion.” Miss Susanna announced this with a touch of defiance.

“It seems as though my life has been full of presents. My father and mother have given me hundreds, I guess. My father is away from home a good deal. When he comes back from his long business trips he always brings Captain and I whole stacks of treasures.”

Marjorie was not sure that this was what she should have said. She found conversing with the last of the Hamiltons a trifle hazardous. She had no desire to contradict, yet she and her new acquaintance had thus far not agreed on a single point.

“Who is ‘Captain,’” was the inquiry, made with the curiosity of a child.

Marjorie turned rosy red. The pet appellation had slipped out before she thought.

“I call my mother ‘Captain,’” she informed, then went on to explain further of their fond home play. She fully expected Miss Susanna would criticize it as “silly.” She was already understanding a little of the lonely old gentlewoman’s bitterness of heart. Her earnest desire to know the last of the Hamiltons had arisen purely out of her great sympathy for Miss Susanna.

“You seem to have had a childhood,” was the surprising reception her explanation called forth. “I can’t endure the children of today. They are grown up in their minds at seven. I must say your father and mother are exceptional. No wonder you have good manners. That is, if they are genuine. I have seen some good imitations. Young girls are more deceitful than young men. I don’t like either. There is nothing I despise so much as the calloused selfishness of youth. It is far worse than crabbed age.”

“I know young girls are often selfish of their own pleasure,” Marjorie returned with sudden humility. “I try not to be. I know I am at times. Many of my girl friends are not. I wish I could begin to tell you of the beautiful, unselfish things some of my chums have done for others.”

Miss Susanna vouchsafed no reply to this little speech. She trotted along beside Marjorie for several rods without saying another word. When she spoke again it was to say briefly: “Here is where we turn off the road. Is that basket growing very heavy?”

“It is quite heavy. I believe I will set it down for a minute.” Marjorie carefully deposited her burden on the grass at the roadside and straightened up, stretching her aching arms. The basket had begun to be considerable of a burden on account of the manner in which it had to be carried.

“I couldn’t have lugged that myself,” Miss Susanna confessed. “I found it almost too much for me with the handle on. Ridiculous, the flimsy way in which things are put together today! Splint baskets of years ago would have stood any amount of strain. If you had not kindly come to my assistance, I intended to pick out as many of those jars as I could carry in my arms and go on with them. The others I would have set up against my own property fence and hoped no one would walk off with them before my return. I dislike anyone to have the flowers I own and have tended unless I give them away myself.”

“I have often seen you working among your flowers when I have passed Hamilton Arms. I knew you must love them dearly or you would not spend so much time with them.”

“Hm-m!” The interjection might have been an assent to Marjorie’s polite observation. It was not, however. Miss Susanna was understanding that this young girl who had shown her such unaffected courtesy had thought of her kindly as a stranger. She experienced a sudden desire to see Marjorie again. Her long and concentrated hatred against Hamilton College and its students forbade her to make any friendly advances. She had already shown more affability according to her ideas than she had intended. She wondered why she had not curtly refused Marjorie’s offer.

“I am rested now.” Marjorie lifted the basket. The two skirted the northern boundary of Hamilton Arms, taking a narrow private road which lay between it and the neighboring estate. The road continued straight to a field where it ended. At the edge of the field stood a small cottage painted white. Miss Susanna pointed it out as their destination.

“I will carry this to the door and then leave you.” Marjorie had no desire to intrude upon Miss Susanna’s call at the cottage.

“Very well. I am obliged to you, Marjorie Dean.” Miss Susanna’s thanks were expressed in tones which sounded close to unfriendly. She was divided between appreciation of Marjorie’s courtesy and her dislike for girls.

“You are welcome.” They were now within a few yards of the cottage. Arriving at the low doorstep, Marjorie set the basket carefully upon it. “Goodbye, Miss Hamilton.” She held out her hand. “I am so glad to have met you.”

“What’s that? Oh, yes.” The old lady took Marjorie’s proffered hand. The evident sincerity of the words touched a hidden spring within, long sealed. “Goodbye, child. I am glad to have met at least one young girl with genuine manners.”

Marjorie smiled as she turned away. She had never before met an old person who so heartily detested youth. She knew her timely assistance had been appreciated. On that very account Miss Susanna had tried to smother, temporarily, her standing grudge against the younger generation.

Well, it had happened. She had achieved her heart’s desire. She had actually met and talked with the last of the Hamiltons.

CHAPTER VII—TWO KINDS OF GIRLS

“Hold on. I am not made of wood, as Hal says when I occasionally hammer him in fun.” Jerry put up her hands in comic self-defense. “You certainly are in a fine humor after keeping your poor pals waiting for you for an hour and a half and then not even condescending to appear.”

“I’ve had an adventure, Jeremiah. That’s why I didn’t meet you girls in Hamilton. I started for there in a taxicab. Then I met a lady in distress, and, emulating the example of a gallant knight, I hopped out of the taxi to help her.”

“Wonderful! I suppose you met Phil Moore or some other Silvertonite with her arms full of bundles. About the time she saw you she dropped ’em. ‘With a sympathetic yell, Helpful Marjorie leaped from the taxicab to aid her overburdened but foolish friend.’ Quotation from the last best seller.” Jerry regarded Marjorie with a teasing smile.

“Your suppositions are about a mile off the track. I haven’t seen a Silvertonite this afternoon. The lady in distress I met was——” Marjorie paused by way of making her revelation more effective, “Miss Susanna Hamilton.”

“What? You don’t say so.” Jerry exhibited the utmost astonishment. “Good thing you didn’t ask me to guess. She is the last person I would have thought of. Now how did it happen? I am glad of it for your sake. You’ve been so anxious to know her.”

Rapidly Marjorie recounted the afternoon’s adventure. As she talked she busied herself with the redressing of her hair. After dinner she would have no more than time to put on the white lingerie frock she intended to wear to Elaine’s birthday party.

Jerry listened without comment. While she had never taken the amount of interest in the owner of Hamilton Arms which Marjorie had evinced since entering Hamilton College, she had a certain curiosity regarding Miss Susanna.

“I knew you girls would wait and wonder what had delayed me. I am awfully sorry. You know that, Jeremiah,” Marjorie apologized. “But I couldn’t have gone on in the taxi after I saw what had happened to Miss Susanna. She couldn’t have carried the basket as I did clear over to that cottage. She said she would have picked up as many plant jars as she could carry in her arms and gone on with them.”

“One of the never-say-die sort, isn’t she? Very likely in the years she has lived near the college she has met with some rude girls. On the order of the Sans, you know. If, in the past twenty years, Hamilton was half as badly overrun with snobs as when we entered, one can imagine why she doesn’t adore students.”

“It doesn’t hurt my feelings to hear her say she disliked girls. I only felt sorry for her. It must be dreadful to be old and lonely. She is lonely, even if she doesn’t know it. She has deliberately shut the door between herself and happiness. I am so glad we’re young, Jeremiah.” Marjorie sighed her gratitude for the gift of youth. “I hope always to be young at heart.”

“I sha’n’t wear a cap and spectacles and walk with a cane until I have to, believe me,” was Jerry’s emphatic rejoinder. “Are you ready to go down to dinner? My hair is done, too. I shall dress after I’ve been fed. Oh, I forgot to tell you. I bought you a present to give Elaine. We bought every last thing we are going to give her at the Curio Shop.”

“You are a dear. I knew some of the girls would help me out. I supposed it would be you, though. Do let me see my present.”

“There it is on my chiffonier. You’d better examine it after dinner. It is a hand-painted chocolate pot; a beauty, too. Looks like a bit of spring time.”

“I’ll look at it the minute I come back. I’m oceans obliged to you.” Marjorie cast a longing glance at the tall package on the chiffonier, as the two girls left the room.

At dinner that night Marjorie’s adventure of the afternoon excited the interest of her chums. She was obliged to repeat, as nearly as she could what she said to Miss Susanna and what Miss Susanna had said to her.

“Did she mention the May basket?” quizzed Muriel with a giggle.

“Now why should she?” counter-questioned Marjorie.

“Well; she was talking about not receiving a birthday present for over fifty years. She might have said, ‘But some kind-hearted person hung a beautiful violet basket on my door on May day evening!’”

“Only she didn’t. That flight of fancy was wasted,” Jerry informed Muriel.

“Wasted on you. You haven’t proper sentiment,” flung back Muriel.

“I’ll never acquire it in your company,” Jerry assured. The subdued laughter the tilt evoked reached the table occupied by Leslie Cairns, Natalie Weyman, Dulcie Vale and three others of the Sans.

“Those girls seem to find enough to laugh at,” commented Dulcie Vale half enviously.

“Simpletons!” muttered Leslie Cairns. She was out of sorts with the world in general that evening. “They sit there and ‘ha-ha-ha’ at their meals until I can hardly stand it sometimes. I hate eating dinner here. I’d dine at the Colonial every evening, but it takes too much time. I really must study hard this year to get through. I certainly will be happy to see the last of this treadmill. I’m going to take a year after I’m graduated just to sail around and have a good time. After that I shall help my father in business.”

“There’s one thing you ought to know, Leslie, and that is you had better be careful what you do this year. I have heard two or three rumors that sound as though those girls over there had told about what happened the night of the masquerade. I wouldn’t take part in another affair of that kind for millions of dollars.”

Dulcie Vale assumed an air of virtuous resolve as she delivered herself of this warning to Leslie.

“Don’t worry. There won’t be any occasion. I don’t believe those muffs ever told a thing outside of their own crowd. They’re a close corporation. I wish I could say the same of us.” Leslie laughed this arrow with cool deliberation.

“What do you mean?” Harriet Stephens said sharply. “Who of us would be silly enough to tell our private affairs?”

“I hope you wouldn’t.” Leslie’s eyes narrowed threateningly. “I have heard one or two things myself which may or may not be true. I am not ready to say anything further just now. My advice to all of you is to keep your affairs to yourselves. If you are foolish enough to babble your own about the campus, on your head be it. Be sure you will hear from me if you tell tales. Besides, you are apt to lose your diplomas by it. A word to the wise, you know. I have a recitation in psychology in the morning. I must put in a quiet evening. Kindly let me alone, all of you.” She rose and sauntered from the room, leaving her satellites to discuss her open insinuation and wonder what she had heard to put her in such an “outrageous” humor.

CHAPTER VIII—A FROLIC AT SILVERTON HALL

The “simpletons” finished their dinner amid much merriment, quite unconscious of their lack of sense, and hustled up to their rooms to dress for the party. Leila, Vera, Helen, Hortense Barlow, Eva Ingram, Nella Sherman and Mary Cornell had also been invited. Shortly after seven the elect started for Silverton Hall, primed for a jubilant evening. Besides their gifts, each girl carried a small nosegay of mixed flowers. The flowers had been purchased in bulk by Helen, Eva and Mary. The trio had made them up into dainty, round bouquets. These were to be showered upon Elaine, immediately she appeared among them. Helen had also composed a Nonsense Ode which she said had cost her more mental effort than forty themes.

Every girl at Silverton Hall was invited to the party. It was not in gentle Elaine to slight anyone. With twenty girls from other campus houses, the long living room at the Hall was filled. Across one of its lower corners had been hung a heavy green curtain. What it concealed only those who had arranged the surprise knew. Elaine had been seized by Portia Graham and Blanche Scott and made to swear on her sacred honor that she would absolutely shun the living room until granted permission to enter it.

“I hope you have all put cards with your presents,” were Portia’s first words after greeting them at the door. “You can’t give them to Elaine yourselves. We’ve arranged a general presentation. So don’t be snippy because I rob you of your offerings.”

“Glad of it.” Jerry promptly tendered her gift to Portia. “I always feel silly giving a present.”

The others from Wayland Hall very willingly surrendered their good-will offerings. Their bouquets they kept. Entering the reception hall, Elaine stepped forward to welcome them and received a sudden flower pelting, to the accompaniment of a lively chorus of congratulations.

“How lovely! Umm! The dear things!” she exclaimed, as the rain of blossoms came fast and furious. Her sweet, fair face aglow with the love of flowers, she gathered them up in the overskirt of her white chiffon frock and sat down on the lower step of the stairs to enjoy their fragrance. “I am not allowed in the living room, girls. Everyone can go in there but poor me. I thank you for these perfectly darling bouquets. I’ll have a different one to wear every day this week. If you want to fix your hair or do any further beautifying go up to Robin’s room. If not, go into the living room.”

Lingering for a little further chat with Elaine, whom they all adored, they entered the living room to be met by a vociferous welcome from the assembled Silvertonites. When the last guest had arrived and been ushered into the reception room, from somewhere in the house a bell suddenly tinkled. In order to give more space the chairs had been removed and the guests lined the sides of the apartment and filled one end of it halfway to the wide doorway opening into the main hall.

At sound of the bell a hush fell upon the merry-makers. Again it tinkled and down the stairs came a procession that might have stepped from a tapestry depicting the life of the greenwood men. Four merry men, their green cambric costumes carefully modeled after the attire of Robin Hood and his followers, had come to the party. The first, instead of being Robin Hood, was Robin Page. She bowed low to Elaine, who was still languishing in exile in the hall, and offered her arm.

“Delighted; I am so tired of hanging about that old hall!” Elaine seized Robin’s arm with alacrity and the two passed into the adjoining room. The other three faithful servitors followed their leader. The last one carried a violin and drew from it an old-time greenwood melody as Elaine and Robin joined forces and paraded into the living room.

Straight toward the green curtain Robin piloted Elaine to the fiddler’s plaintive tune. Stationed before the curtain, Blanche Scott drew it aside.

A surprised and admiring chorus of exclamations arose. There stood a real greenwood tree. Portia and Blanche could have amply testified to this fact as the two of them, armed with a hatchet, had laboriously chopped down a small maple and brought it to the house from the woods on the afternoon previous. Its branches were as well loaded with packages of various sizes as those of a Christmas tree. Under the tree was a grassy mound built up of hard cushions, the whole covered with real sod dug up by the patient wood cutters.

On this Elaine was invited to sit. She formed a pretty picture in her fluffy white gown in conjunction with the greenery. The four merry men gathered round her and bowed low, then sang her an ancient ballad to the accompaniment of the violin. Followed a short speech by the tallest of the four congratulating her, in stately language on the anniversary of her birth. Three of the four then busied themselves with stripping the tree of its spoils and laying them at her feet. During this procedure the fiddler evoked further sweet thin melodies from his violin.

Last, Elaine’s gallant escort, who had left her briefly, returned to the scene with a large green and white straw basket, piled high with gifts. These duly presented, the quaint bit of forest play was over and the enjoying spectators crowded about the lucky recipient of friendly riches.

“I don’t know what I shall ever do with them all,” she declared in an amazed, quavering voice. “I’m not half over the shock of so much wealth yet. I simply can’t open them now. I’ll weep tears of gratitude over every separate one of them.”

“You aren’t expected to look at them now,” was Robin’s reassurance. “Your merry men are going to carry Elaine’s nice new playthings up to her room. So there! Tomorrow’s Saturday. You can spend the afternoon exploring. We are going to have a stunt party now. Anyone who is called upon to do a stunt has to conform or be ostracized.”

“If we are going to do stunts there is no use in bringing back the chairs. After Elaine’s presents have all been carted upstairs everybody can stand in that half of the room. We can roll the rug up from the other end exactly half way. That will give room and a smooth floor for dancing stunts. We shall surely have some,” planned Blanche. “I had better inform the company of what’s going to happen next. It will give them a chance to think up a stunt.”

While the faithful greenwood men busied themselves in Elaine’s behalf, Blanche proceeded to make a humorous address to the guests. Her announcement sent them into a flutter. At least half of the crowd protested to her and to one another that they did not know any stunts to perform.

When the deck was finally clear for action and the show began, it was amazing the number of funny little stunts that came to light. The first girl called upon was Hortense Barlow. She marched solemnly to the center of the improvised stage and announced “‘Home Sweet Home,’ by our domestic animals.” A rooster lustily crowed the first few bars of the old song, then two hens took it up. They relinquished it in favor of a bleating lamb. It was succeeded by a pair of grunting pigs. The opening bars of the chorus were mournfully “mooed” by a lonely cow, and the rest of it was ably sung by a donkey, a dog and a guinea hen. She then repeated the chorus as a concerted effort on the part of the barnyard denizens.

The manner in which she managed to imitate each creature, still keeping fairly in tune, was clever in the extreme. Her final concert chorus convulsed her audience and she was obliged to repeat it.

Hers was the only encore allowed. Portia announced that, owing to the lack of time, encores would have to be dispensed with. The guests had received permission to be out of their house until half-past eleven and no later.

Leila was the next on the list and responded with an old-time Irish jig. Vera Ingram and Mary Cornell gave a brief singing and dancing sketch. Jerry responded with the one stunt she could do to perfection. She had half closed her eyes, opened her mouth to its widest extent, and wailed a popular song just enough off the key to be funny. Heartily detesting this class of melody, she never failed to make her chums laugh with her mocking imitation.

Portia being in charge of the stunt programme, she called upon Blanche who gave the “Prologue from Pagliacci” in a baritone voice and with expression which would have done credit to an opera singer. Lucy Warner surprised her chums by a fine recital of “The Chambered Nautilus,” giving the quiet dramatic emphasis needed to bring out Holmes’ poem. Marie Peyton danced a fisher’s hornpipe. Vera Mason borrowed one of Robin’s kimonos and a fan and performed a Japanese fan dance. Several of the Silvertonites sang, danced, recited, or told a humorous story.

“As we shall have time for only one more stunt, I will call on Ronny Lynne,” Portia announced, smiling invitingly at Ronny. “Wait a minute until I call the orchestra together. We will play for you,” she added.

“Play for me for what?” Ronny innocently inquired. Nevertheless she laughed. Though she had yet to dance for the first time at Hamilton, she knew that her ability as a dancer was an open secret.

“For your dance, of course. What kind of dance are you going to do? Mustn’t refuse. Everyone else has been so obliging.” Portia beamed triumph of having thus neatly caught Ronny.

“I suppose I must fall in line. I don’t know what to dance. Most of my dances require special costumes.” Ronny glanced dubiously at the white and gold evening frock she was wearing. “I know one I can do,” she said, after a moment’s thought.

Raising her voice so as to be heard by all, she continued in her clear tones: “Girls, I am going to do a Russian interpretative dance for you. The idea is this: A dancer at the court of a king, who is honored because of her art, loses her sweetheart. She becomes so despondent that no amount of praise can lift her from her gloom. She tries to decide whether she had best kill her rival or herself. Finally she decides to kill her rival. I shall endeavor to make this plain in a dance containing two intervals and three episodes. The first depicts the dancer in her glory. The second, in her dejection. The third, her decision to kill.”

A brief consultation with the orchestra as to what they could play, suitable to the interpretation, and Ronny was ready. Phyllis, the reliable, who had been proficient on the violin from childhood, and possessed a wide musical repertoire, both vocal and instrumental, played over a few measures of a valse lente. Her musicians were familiar enough with it to follow her lead. Moskowski’s “Serenade” was chosen for the second episode, and Scharwenki’s “Polish Dance” for the third.

Every pair of eyes was centered on Ronny’s slight, graceful figure as she stood at ease for an instant waiting for the music to begin. Many of the girls present had never seen an interpretative dance. With the first slow, seductive strains of the waltz, Ronny became the court dancer. In perfect time to the music she made the low sweeping salutes to an imaginary court, then executed a swaying, beautiful dance of intricate steps in which her whole body seemed to take part in the expression of her art. The grace of that symphonic, white and gold figure was such the watchers held their breath. At the end of the episode there was a dead silence. Applause, when it came, was deafening.

Ronny claimed the tiny interval for rest, merely raising her hands in a despairing gesture at the hub-bub her dance had created. By the time she was ready to continue it had subsided. All were now anxious to see her interpretation of the jilted woman.

The second, though much harder to execute, Ronny liked far better than the first. Particularly fond of the Russian idea of the dance, she threw her whole heart into the story she was endeavoring to convey by motion. When she had finished she was tired enough to gladly claim a rest while Portia went upstairs for a paper knife which would serve as a dagger for the third episode.

The wild strains of the “Polish Dance” were well suited to the character of the episode. The flitting, white and gold figure of indolent grace had now become one of tense purpose. Every line of her figure had now become charged with the desire for revenge. Every step of the dance and movement of the arms were in accordance with the mood she was portraying. She enacted the dancer’s plan to steal upon her rival unawares and deliver the fatal knife thrust.

Had Ronny not explained the dance beforehand, so vivid was her interpretation, her audience could have gained the meaning of it without difficulty. A united sighing breath of appreciation went up as she concluded the Terpsichorean tragedy by a triumphant flinging of her arms above her head, one hand tightly grasping the murder knife.

Carried out of life ordinary by the glimpse of another world of emotion, it took the admiring girls a minute or so to realize that Ronny was herself and a fellow student. She had cast over them the perfect illusion of the tragic dancer; the sure measure of her art. When they came out of it they crowded about her asking all sorts of eager questions.

“Ronny has brought down the house, as usual. Look at those girls fairly idolizing her.” Jerry’s round face was wreathed with smiles over Ronny’s triumph. “I shall go in for interpretative dancing myself, hereafter. It’s about time I did something to make myself popular around here.”

“What are you going to interpret?” Muriel demanded to know.

“I haven’t yet decided,” Jerry vaguely replied. “Anyway, I wouldn’t tell you if I had. I should expect to practice my dance awhile before I sprang it on anyone. It might give my victim a horrible scare.”

“You wouldn’t scare me,” was the valorous assurance. “You had better try it on me first when you are ready to burst upon the world as a dancer. I will give you valuable criticism.”

“Laugh at me, you mean. Come on. Let’s interview the orchestra. Phil is certainly some little fiddler.”

Taking Muriel by the arm, Jerry marched her up to Phyllis, who, with the other members of the orchestra, were also coming in for adulation. The addition of Jerry and Muriel to the group was soon noticeable by the burst of laughter which ascended therefrom. Good-natured Jerry had not the remotest idea of how very popular she really was.

Promptly on the heels of the stunt party followed a collation served in the dining room. An extra table had been added to the two long ones used by the residents. When the company trooped into the prettily-decorated room with its flower-trimmed tables, the Wayland Hall girls were pleasantly surprised to see Signor Baretti in charge there. While he had repeatedly refused at various times to cater for private parties given at the campus houses, Elaine had secured his valued services without much coaxing. He had long regarded her as “one the nicest, maybe the best, all my young ladies from the college.”

It was one minute past eleven when the guests rose from the table after a vigorous response to Portia’s toast to Elaine, and joined in singing one stanza of “Auld Lang Syne.” With the last note of the song hasty goodnights were said. “Not one minute later than half-past eleven” had been the stipulation laid down with the permission for the extra hour.

“We’ll have to walk as though we all wore seven league boots,” declared Jerry, as the Wayland Hall girls hurried down the steps of Silverton Hall. “But, oh, my goodness me, haven’t we had a fine time? Tonight was like our good old Sanford crowd parties at home, wasn’t it? It looks to me as though the right kind of times had actually struck Hamilton!”

CHAPTER IX—HER “DEAREST” WISH

It did not need Elaine’s party to cement more securely the friendship which existed between the Silvertonites and the group of Wayland Hallites who had co-operated with them so loyally from the first. They had fought side by side for principle. Now they were beginning to glimpse the lighter, happier side of affairs and experience the pleasure of discovering how much each group had to admire in the other.

“What we ought to do is organize a bureau of entertainment and give musicales, plays, revues and one thing or another,” Robin proposed to Marjorie as the two were returning from a trip to the town of Hamilton one afternoon in early October. “We would charge an admission fee, of course, and put the money to some good purpose. I don’t know what we would do with it. There are so few really needy students here. We’d find some worthy way of spending it. I know we would make a lot. The students simply mob the gym when there’s a basket-ball game. They’d be willing to part with their shekels for the kind of show we could give.”

“I think the same,” Marjorie made hearty response. “At home we gave a Campfire once, at Thanksgiving. We held it in the armory. We had booths and sold different things. We had a show, too. That was the time Ronny danced those two interpretative dances I told you of the other night. We made over a thousand dollars. Half of it went to the Sanford guards and the Lookouts got the other half.”

“We could make a couple of hundred dollars at one revue, I believe. We could give about three entertainments this year and three or four next,” planned Robin. “It would have to be a fund devoted to helping the students, I guess. Come to think of it, I would not care to get up a show unless our purpose was clearly stated in the beginning. A few unjust persons might start the story that we wanted the money for ourselves. By the way, the Sans are not interesting themselves in our affairs this year, are they? Do you ever clash with them at the Hall?”

“No; they never notice us and we never notice them. It isn’t much different in that respect than it was in the beginning. I’d feel rather queer about it sometimes if they hadn’t been so utterly heartless in so many ways. This is their last year. It will seem queer when we come back next fall as seniors to have almost an entirely new set of girls in the house. I can’t bear to think of losing Leila and Vera and Helen. Then there are Rosalind, Nella, Martha and Hortense; splendid girls, all of them. I wish they had been freshies with us. That’s the beauty of the Silvertonites. They will all be graduated together.”

“We are fortunate. Think of poor Phil! She is going to be lonesome when we all leave the good old port of Hamilton. To go back to the show idea. I’m going to talk it over with my old stand-bys at our house. You do the same at yours. Maybe some one of them will have a brilliant inspiration. I mean, about what we ought to do with the money, once we’ve made it.”

A sudden jolt of the taxicab in which they were riding, as it swung to the right, combined with an indignant yell of protest from its driver, startled them both. A blue and buff car had shot past them, barely missing the side of the taxicab.

“Look where you’re goin’ or get off the road!” bawled the man after it. His face was scarlet with anger, he turned in his seat, addressing his fares. “That blue car near smashed us,” he growled. “The young lady that drives it had better quit and give somebody else the wheel. This is the third time she near put my cab on the blink. She can’t drive for sour apples. I wisht, if you knew her, you’d tell her she’s gotta quit it. I don’t own this cab. I don’t wanta get mixed up in no smash-up. If she does it again I’ll go up to the college boss and report that car.”

“Neither of us know her well enough to give her your message,” Marjorie smiled faintly, as she pictured herself giving the irate driver’s warning to Elizabeth Walbert. She had recognized the girl at the wheel as the blue and buff car had passed her.

“I’ll stop her myself and tell her where she gets off at,” threatened the man. “I ain’t afraida her.”

“I think that would be a very good idea,” calmly agreed Marjorie. “There is no reason why you should not rebuke her for her recklessness. She was at fault; not you.”

“Do you imagine he really would report Miss Walbert to Doctor Matthews,” inquired Robin in discreetly lowered tones, as the driver resumed attention at the wheel.

“He might. He would be more likely to do his talking to her,” was Marjorie’s opinion. “I tried to encourage him in that idea. A report of that kind to Dr. Matthews might result in the banning of cars at Hamilton.”

“Did you hear last year, at the time Katherine was hurt, that Miss Cairns received a summons from Doctor Matthews? I was told that he gave her a severe lecture on reckless driving. She told some of the Sans and it came to Portia and I in a round-about way.”

“I believe it to be true.” Marjorie hesitated, then continued frankly. “Katherine did not report her.”

Unbound by any promise of secrecy to any person, Marjorie acquainted Robin with the way the report of the accident had been put before the president. She and her chums had heard the story from Lillian Wenderblatt, who had so ardently urged her father to take up the cudgels for Katherine directly after the accident.

“Lillian explained to her father that Katherine utterly refused to take the matter up. He reported it to the doctor of his own accord, saying that Katherine wished the affair closed. So Doctor Matthews didn’t send for her at all. While he never referred to the subject afterward to Professor Wenderblatt, he said at the time of their talk that he would send Miss Cairns a summons to his office. Lillian’s father said the doctor’s word was equivalent to the summons. So I believe she received one. None of us who are Kathie’s close friends ever mentioned it to others. Lillian told no one but us. She did not ask us to keep it a secret. We simply did not talk about it. That’s why I felt free to tell you, since you asked me a direct question.”

“Strange, isn’t it, that the Sans can’t even be loyal to one another,” Robin commented. “Very likely Leslie Cairns told them in confidence, not expecting it would be betrayed. She may not know to this day that a girl of her own crowd told tales.”

“She is not honorable herself. Her intimates know that.” Marjorie’s rejoinder held sternness. “There is nothing truer than the Bible verse: ‘As ye sow, so must ye also reap.’ She tries to gain whatever she happens to want by dishonorable methods. In turn, her chums behave dishonorably toward her.

“An unhappy state of affairs.” Robin shrugged her disfavor. “Phil says Miss Walbert is a talker; that she is becoming unpopular with the sophs who voted for her last year because she gossips.”

Marjorie smiled whimsically. “Wouldn’t it be poetic justice if she were to turn the half of her class who were for her last year against her by her own unworthiness? After Miss Cairns worked so hard to establish her too! There’s surely a greater inclination toward democracy than last year, or Phil wouldn’t have won the sophomore presidency.”

“Yes; and she won it by eighteen votes this year over Miss Keene, and she is one of Miss Walbert’s pals. Last year she lost it by nine. Some difference!” Robin looked her pride of her lovable cousin. “I think there is a great change for the better in Hamilton since we were freshies, don’t you?”

Marjorie made quick assent. “You Silverites have done the most for Hamilton,” she commended. “We Lookouts have tried our hardest, but we couldn’t have done much if you hadn’t been behind us like a solid wall.”

“You Lookouts deserve as much credit as we. You girls are social successes in the nicest way, because you have all been so friendly and sweet to everyone. Then you have fought shoulder to shoulder with us. Now that we have begun to make our influence felt, we should follow it up by giving entertainments in which the whole college can have a part.”

“Let’s do this,” Marjorie proposed. “Bring the orchestra and Hope Morris, she’s so nice, over to Wayland Hall on Saturday evening. I’ll have a spread. Then we can plan something to give in the near future. Here’s my getting-off place. Goodbye.”

The taxicab having reached a point on the main campus drive where two other drives branched off right and left, the machine slowed down. She rarely troubled the driver to take her to the door of the Hall, it being but a few rods distant from this point.

Swinging up the drive and into the Hall in her usual energetic fashion, Marjorie’s first move was toward the bulletin board. Three letters was the delightful harvest she reaped from it. One in Constance’s small fine hand, one from General. The third she eyed rather suspiciously. It was in an unfamiliar hand and bore the address, “Marjorie Dean, Hamilton College.”

“An advertisement, I guess,” was her frowning reflection as she went on upstairs. “Anyone I know, well enough to receive a letter from, would know my house address.”

Anxious to relieve her arms of several bundles containing purchases made at Hamilton before opening her letters, Marjorie did not stop to examine her mail on the landing. Entering her room, she found it deserted of Jerry’s always congenial company. Immediately she dropped her packages on the center table and plumped down to enjoy her letters.

Second glance at the letter informed her that the envelope was of fine expensive paper. This fact dismissed the advertisement idea. Marjorie toyed with it rather nervously. In the past she had received enough annoying letters to make her dread the sight of her address in unfamiliar handwriting. On the verge of reveling in the other two whose contents she was sure to love, she hated the idea of a disagreeable shock. She knew of no reason why she should be the recipient of any such letter. That, however, would not prevent an unworthy person from writing one.

Determined to read it first and have it over with, Marjorie tore open an end of the envelope and extracted the missive from it. A hasty glance at the end and she vented a relieved “A-h-h!” Turning back to the beginning, she read with rising color:

“Marjorie Dean,

Hamilton College.

“Dear Child:

“Will you come to Hamilton Arms to tea next Thursday afternoon at five o’clock? I find I have the wish to see and talk with you again. I prefer you to keep the matter of your visit from your girl friends. I am not on good terms with Hamilton College and its students, and the information that I had invited you to tea would form a choice bit of campus gossip.

“Yours sincerely,

“Susanna Craig Hamilton.”

CHAPTER X—HAMILTON ARMS AND ITS OWNER

“Well, of all things!” Marjorie could not get over her undiluted amazement. For a second it struck her that she might again be the victim of a hoax. Perhaps an unkindly-minded person wished her to essay a call on Miss Susanna, thinking she might receive a sound snubbing. She shook her head at this canny suspicion. The phrasing was unmistakably Miss Susanna’s. She doubted also whether anyone had seen her that day with the old lady. Only a few cars had passed them before they had turned into the private road. These had contained persons not from the college. Outside the Lookouts, only Katherine, Leila and Vera knew of her encounter with Miss Susanna. She had not thought of keeping it a secret. She now made mental note to tell the girls not to mention it to anyone.

This resolve brought with it the annoying cogitation that the girls would wonder why she suddenly wished the matter kept secret. Nor could she explain to them without violating Miss Hamilton’s request. She could readily understand the latter’s point of view. Miss Susanna could not be blamed for taking it. Marjorie could only wish the old lady knew how honorable and discreet her chums were. She decided she would endeavor to make her hostess acquainted with that truth during her call.

She came to the conclusion that she could not pledge her close friends to secrecy regarding her recent adventure until after she had been to Hamilton Arms and talked with its eccentric owner. Miss Susanna would no doubt be displeased to learn that she had already mentioned their meeting to others. She would have to be told of it, nevertheless.

Marjorie’s next problem was to slip quietly away on Thursday afternoon without saying where she was going. That would not be difficult, provided none of the Lookouts happened to desire her company on some particular jaunt or merry-making. An indefinite refusal on her part would bring down on her a volley of mischievous questions.

“I’ll have to keep clear of the girls on Thursday,” she ruminated, with a half vexed smile. “I’ll have to put on the gown I’m going to wear to tea in the morning and wear it all day so as not to arouse their curiosity. That’s a nuisance. I’d like to wear one of my best frocks and I can’t on account of chemistry. I’ll wear that organdie frock Jerry likes so much; the one with the yellow rosebud in it. It is not fussy. If it is cold or rainy I can wear a long coat over it. I hope it’s a nice day. I can wear my picture hat. It goes so well with that gown. I can slip it out of the Hall without them noticing if I swing it on my arm. I hope to goodness I don’t ruin my organdie during chemistry. I feel like a conspirator.”

Marjorie chuckled faintly as she rose from her chair, letter in hand. She tucked the letter away in the top drawer of her chiffonier with the optimistic opinion that it would not be very long before she could frankly tell her chums of its contents.

Fortune favored her on Thursday. She awoke with a stream of brilliant sunshine in her face. She rejoiced that the day was fair and hoped Miss Susanna would suggest a walk about the grounds. Then she remembered the request the latter had made, and smiled at her own stupidity. A walk about the grounds would probably be the last thing Miss Susanna would suggest.

As it happened, Jerry had made an engagement to go to Hamilton with Helen. Ronny had a theme in French to write, which she said would take her spare time both in the afternoon and evening. Lucy and Katherine would be in the Biological Laboratory until dinner time, and Leila and Vera were invited to a tea given by a senior to ten of her class-mates. These were the only ones to be directly interested in her movements. To Jerry’s invitation, “Want to go to town with Helen and I this afternoon?” she had replied, “No, Jeremiah,” in as casual a tone as she could command, and that had ended the matter.

Marjorie was doubly careful in the Chemical Laboratory that afternoon and walked from it this time with no disfiguring stains on her dainty organdie frock. The letter had named the hour for her visit as five o’clock. This gave her ample time to return to the Hall, re-coif her curly hair and add a pretty satin sash of wide pale yellow ribbon to her costume. The absence of Jerry was, for once, welcome. She had a free hand to put the finishing touches to her toilet. It appealed to a certain sense of dignity, latent within her, to be able to quietly adjust her hat before the mirror and walk openly out of Wayland Hall. Marjorie inwardly hated anything connected with secrecy, yet it seemed to her she was always becoming involved in something which demanded it.

When finally she emerged from the Hall, she did not follow the main drive but cut across the campus, making for the western entrance. Reaching the highway, she kept a sharp lookout for passing automobiles. She laughed to herself as she thought of how disconcerting it would be after all her pains to run squarely into Jerry and Helen. The latter had just been the lucky recipient of a limousine, long promised her by her father, and she and Jerry were trying it out that afternoon.

It was ten minutes to five when, without having met anyone save two or three campus acquaintances, Marjorie walked sedately between the high, ornamental gate posts of Hamilton Arms, and on up the drive to the house. She compared her present approach to that of last May Day evening, when she had stolen like a shadow to the veranda to hang the May basket. It did not seem quite real to her that now she was actually coming to Hamilton Arms as an invited guest.

The knocker was no easier to pull than it had been on that night. She waited, feeling as though she were about to leave the college world behind and enter one rich in the romance of Colonial days. Then the door opened slowly and a dignified old man with thick, snow-white hair and a smooth-shaven face stood regarding her solemnly.

“You are Marjorie Dean?” he interrogated in deep, but very gentle tones. This before she had time to ask for Miss Susanna.

“Yes,” she affirmed, smiling in her unaffected, charming fashion. “I—Miss Hamilton expects me to tea.”

“I know.” He bowed with grave politeness. “Come in. Miss Susanna is in the library. I will show you the way.”

Marjorie drew a long breath of admiration as she was ushered into a wide almost square reception hall paneled in walnut. Her feet sank deep into the heavy brown velvet rug which completely covered the floor. Walking quickly behind her guide, she had no more than time for a passing glance at the massive elegance of the carved walnut furniture. She caught a fleeting glimpse of herself in the great square mirror of the hall rack and thought how very small and insignificant she appeared.

“How are you, Marjorie Dean?” Ushered into the library by the stately old man, the last of the Hamiltons now came forward to greet her.

“I am very well, thank you. I hope you are feeling well, too, Miss Susanna.”

Marjorie took the small, sturdy hand Miss Susanna extended in both her own. The mistress of Hamilton Arms looked so very tiny in the great room. Marjorie experienced a wave of sudden tenderness for her.

“Yes; I am well, by the grace of God and my own good sense,” returned her hostess in her brisk, almost hard tones. “You are prompt to the hour, child. I like that. I hate to be kept waiting. I have my tea at precisely five o’clock. It is years since I had a guest to tea. Sit down there.” She indicated a straight chair with an ornamental leather back and seat. “Jonas will bring the tea table in directly, and serve the tea. Take off your hat and lay it on the library table. I wish to see you without it.”

She had not more than finished speaking, when the snowy-haired servitor wheeled in a good-sized rosewood tea-table. He drew it up to where Marjorie sat, and brought another chair for the mistress of Hamilton Arms similar to the one on which the guest was sitting. Withdrawing from the room, he left youth and age to take tea together.

“Who would have thought that I should ever pour tea for one of my particular aversions,” Miss Susanna commented with grim humor. “Do you take sugar and cream, child?”

“Two lumps of sugar and no cream.” Marjorie held out her hand for the delicate Sevres cup.

“Help yourself to the muffins and jam. It is red raspberry. I put it up myself. Now eat as though you were hungry. I am always ravenous for my tea. I do not have dinner until eight and I am outdoors so much I grow very hungry as five o’clock approaches.”

“I am awfully hungry,” Marjorie confessed. “I love five o’clock tea. We have it at home in summer but not in winter. We girls at Hamilton hardly ever have it, because we have dinner shortly after six.”

“At what campus house are you?” was the abrupt question.

“Wayland Hall. I like it best of all, though Silverton Hall is a fine house.”

“Wayland Hall,” the old lady repeated. “It was his favorite house.”

“You are speaking of Mr. Brooke Hamilton?” Marjorie inquired with breathless interest. “Miss Remson said it was his favorite house. He was so wonderful. ‘We shall ne’er see his like again,’” she quoted, her brown eyes eloquent.

Miss Susanna stared at her in silence, as though trying to determine the worth of Marjorie’s unexpected remarks.

“He was wonderful,” she said at last. “I am amazed at your appreciation of him. You are an amazing young person, I must say. How much do you know concerning my great uncle that you should have arrived at your truly high opinion of him?”

“I know very little about him except that he loved Hamilton and planned it nobly.” Marjorie’s clear eyes looked straight into her vis-a-vis’s sharp dark ones. “I have asked questions. I have treasured every scrap of information about him that I have heard since I came to Hamilton College. No one seems to know much of him except in a general way.”

“That is true. Well, the fault lies with the college.” The reply hinted of hostility. “Perhaps I will tell you more of him some day. Not now; I am not in the humor. I must get used to having you here first. I try to forget that you are from the college. I told you I did not like girls. I may call you an exception, child. I realized that after you had left me, the day you helped me to the cottage with the chrysanthemums. I was cheered by your company. I am pleased with your admiration for him. He was worthy of it.”

As on the day of her initial meeting with Brooke Hamilton’s great niece, Marjorie was again at a loss as to what to say next. She wished to say how greatly she revered the memory of the founder of Hamilton College. In the face of Miss Susanna’s declaration that she did not wish to talk of him, she could not frame a reply that conveyed her reverence.

“Try these cakes. They are from an old recipé the Hamiltons have used for four generations. Ellen, my cook, made these. I seldom do any baking now. I used to when younger. I spend most of my time out of doors in good weather. Let me have your cup.”

Her hostess tendered a plate of delicate little cakes not unlike macaroons. Marjorie helped herself to the cakes and forebore asking questions about Brooke Hamilton. Miss Susanna had partially promised to tell her of him some day. She could do no more than possess her soul in patience.

“What do you do in winter, Miss Hamilton, when you can’t be out?” she questioned interestedly. “Do you live at Hamilton Arms the year round?”

“Yes; I have not been away from here for a number of years. In winter I read and embroider. I do plain sewing for the poor of Hamilton. Jonas takes baskets of clothing and necessities to needy families in the town of Hamilton. ‘The poor ye have always with ye,’ you know.”

“I know,” Marjorie affirmed, her lovely face growing momently sad. “Captain, I mean, my mother, does a good deal of such work in Sanford. I have helped her a little. During our last year at high school a number of us organized a club. We called ourselves the Lookouts and we rented a house and started a day nursery for the mill children. The house was in their district.”

“And how long did you keep it up?” was the somewhat skeptical inquiry.

“Oh, it is running along beautifully yet.” Marjorie laughed as she made answer.

“I am more amazed than before. A club of girls usually hangs together about six weeks. Each girl feels that she ought to be at the head of it and in the end a grand falling-out occurs.” Miss Susanna’s eyes were twinkling. This time her remarks were not pointedly ill-natured. “You are to tell me about this club,” she commanded.

Marjorie complied, giving her a brief history of the day nursery.

“Are any of your Lookouts here at Hamilton with you?” she was interrogated.

“Four of them. One, Lucy Warner, won a scholarship to Hamilton.” Now on the subject, Marjorie determined to make a valiant stand for her chums. She therefore told of the offering of the scholarship by Ronny and of Lucy’s brilliancy as a student. She told of Lucy’s ability as a secretary and of how much she had done to help herself through college. She did not forget to speak of Katherine Langly, and her exceptional winning of a scholarship especially offered by Brooke Hamilton.

“I had no idea there were any such girls over there.” The old lady spoke half to herself. “I might have known there would be some apostles.”

“Miss Susanna,”—Marjorie decided that this would be the best time to acquaint her hostess with what she had purposed to tell her,—“I told my intimate friends of meeting you the day the basket handle broke. I thought you ought to know that. You had asked me in your letter not to mention to anyone that I was coming here. I did not say a word to anyone of the letter. I would ask my chums not to mention what I told them about meeting you in the first place, but, if I do, they will wish to know why.”

“Humph!” The listener used Jerry’s pet interjection. “Where did you tell them you were going today? Some of them must have seen you as you came away.”

“No; they were all out except one girl. She was busy writing a theme.”

“What would you have told them if they had seen you?” Miss Hamilton eyed the young girl searchingly.

“I would have said I was going out and hoped they wouldn’t feel hurt if I didn’t tell them my destination. What else could I have said?” It was Marjorie’s turn to fix her gaze upon her hostess.

“Nothing else, by rights. If I allowed you to tell your chums, as you call them, that you were here today, would they keep your counsel? How many of them would have to know it?” The older woman’s face had softened wonderfully.

Marjorie thought for an instant. “Eight,” she answered. “They are honorable. I would like to tell them.”

“Very well, you may.” The permission came concisely. “I will take your word for their discretion. I have my own proper reasons for not wishing to be gossiped about on the campus. I wish you to come again. I do not wish your visits to be a secret. I abhor that kind of secrecy. Perhaps in time I shall not care if the whole college knows. At present what they do not know will not hurt them. In the words of my distinguished uncle, ‘Be not secret; be discreet.’”