Hester's Counterpart Part 30

Thursday morning, word came from Doctor Weldon that the students must return to school and make ready their belongings to go home.

Commencement was not to be considered. The graduates would receive their diplomas, but there could be no festivities.

The students had been taken care of in the country houses which stood on the hills back of Flemington. These were the only places for miles about which had not been flooded. As soon as communication with other places had been made, Doctor Weldon was kept busy sending and receiving telegrams. Each father and mother was distracted when news of the flooding of Lockport came.

By Thursday evening, the students had returned. The drift and dirt had been removed from the Seminary building, and the campus had been freed from logs and driftwood. But some things could never be replaced. The old apple trees had been uprooted; the gra.s.sy slope which had lain close to the river front had been washed out to gravel bottom. The gray bricks of the building showed the water mark and at the corner a few misplaced ones told the story of how the old lamp post had saved the building.

The once beautiful halls were water-stained; hard-wood floors were warped until they stood in little hollows and hills; and the polished wood of the doors and bal.u.s.trades had lost all semblance of beauty.

The girls rushed into one another's arms. They could talk now of the flood for the danger had pa.s.sed from them. The dormitories were a babel of voices. A score of girls talked at once and not one listened to another.

Miss Burkham from the hall below heard the confusion and retired to her own apartments. She had no thought of interfering with the chatter. She explained her lack of discipline to Doctor Weldon later. "This will never happen again in all their lives. As long as they were talking, they were forgetful that the opportunity for the banquet, the play, and commencement had been taken from them. I thought it wise to put up with the noise, rather than have them feel depressed."

The girls were discussing the play and banquet even then. There were confessions on all sides.

"We intended feasting on the senior banquet," cried Erma. "We had bribed Belva. He was to lead the caterers up to our third floor. You seniors would have sat waiting in the Philo Hall below."

"No, indeed. You reckoned without considering that the senior cla.s.s were not all dullards. We had heard of your plans. Doctor Weldon gave us permission to hold the banquet at a hotel in the city. Miss Burkham and the Fraulein were to go with us. So while you girls would have been sitting in the attic waiting for the banquet, we would have been whirling away in cabs to the city." Helen had a smile of triumph as she told the story. If the seniors had been robbed of their opportunity to outwit the juniors, they at least would not miss the chance of boasting of it.

Erma looked at her quizzingly. "Was that really true?" she asked. "Well, I have this much to say. If the seniors had outwitted us, we in turn outwitted the freshmen. They were gloating over the fact that they had a copy of our play."

"We did," cried Hester. "And we had the parts almost learned."

"Yes, I was to be the queen," said Emma. "I knew my part. I was to--."

"You the queen!" said Edna Bucher, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

"I could not possibly conceive of you taking such a part."

"Well, you never did have much imagination. You should cultivate it,"

was Emma's quick rejoinder.

"Please do not quarrel," said Josephine as she raised her soulful eyes and let them rest upon each girl in turn. "This may be our last time together. It would be so sweet to carry with us pleasant memories. Let us have sweet--."

"Not too much, though," said Emma. "You always were a great girl for caramels and fudge, Jo; but you must remember some of the rest of us liked olives and pickles."

"Emma's speech in plain English, means that she prefers some wit to too much sentiment," said Hester.

"I most a.s.suredly do," was the rejoinder, as Emma sat down on top of the trunk which had been brought in ready for packing.

The group of girls had gathered in Sixty-two. During the winter and spring terms, this room had been the general gathering place; for Hester and Helen were popular with the other students.

"I wish I might finish about the play," cried Erma. "Those miserable little freshmen thought they had our play. Yes, I know you took a copy from my study-table drawer. It was one I put in there for you to take.

While you were busy learning that, we had another. So while you girls were gloating over the 'East Indian Queen,' we went on in peace and practised 'A Roumanian Princess.'"

"Really? Erma Thomas, do you mean it?"

"Do I mean it? I surely do. Oh, wasn't it fun to hear you practise and see you slip about with your mysterious airs!"

The door opened and Renee came in. She was robed in a full-length kimona.

"You girls sitting here doing nothing! I am packing. I do not intend letting it go until morning and then hurrying. My trunk is locked and I cannot find the keys. Will you lend me yours, Helen?"

Helen arose to get them from a drawer. Emma sighed as she looked at Renee.

"When I go to heaven," she said, "and meet Renee there, I know what she will say to me the very first thing."

The girls looked their queries and Emma concluded, "'Emma, please lend me your crown. I've mislaid mine.'"

"And Emma will be finding fault with everything. She'll feel dreadful because she is forced to be in heaven all the time," said Sara slowly.

This was a hit direct at the little Dutch doll, for all through the year she had been complaining at the restrictions of school, and could not understand why Doctor Weldon did not allow the girls to go down to the city when they pleased.

During this conversation, Mame Cross had been sitting apart. Now Josephine turned to her, and a.s.suming an att.i.tude and expression of great solicitation and interest said, "Mame is the only one who feels what this evening means to us. Perhaps never again shall we talk together. No one knows what the summer will bring. Mame is overcome by the thought--."

"I am not. I was not thinking of that at all," Mame replied. "It came to me while the girls were talking of the banquet and play and commencement that I was almost glad that we were not having any of them."

"Mame Cross, what heresy! The flood has made her mad," cried the girls.

"I have reasons for thinking so. I simply could not have gone to one thing. What could I have worn if I had gone? I made up my mind when we had our last reception that I would never go to another unless I had something decent to wear."

"When I meet Mame in heaven," said Emma, trying to look serious, "the very first thing she will say is, 'My robe doesn't hang as well as yours, and my harp isn't so bright.'"

"Are you not getting a little irreverent?" said Helen gently. "There are so many common things to jest about. Is it not better to use them as the b.u.t.t of our wit, instead of matters beyond our comprehension?"

"Yes, I suppose so, Helen," said Emma. "But, you know I never consider.

I blurt out just what I wish to say."

The half-hour bell sounded and the girls went to their rooms to make ready to appear at the dining-table. The lower halls were yet damp although they had been open to the air and sun since the previous Sabbath. Doctor Weldon, not wis.h.i.+ng to risk the health of the pupils, had converted a cla.s.s-room on the second floor into a dining-hall. Here dinner was served informally; the students attending to their own wants, for the servants were kept busy carrying the trays from the floor below.

At the bringing-in of the last course, Doctor Weldon arose to make the announcements. She asked the young ladies to attend to their packing at once. Belva and Marshall had already brought down trunks and boxes from the store-room. Immediately after breakfast, the following morning, each young lady should call at the office when arrangements would be made for her going home.

There was too much to be done after dinner to permit of any visiting.

The girls went to their rooms and began to dismantle them. Hester and Helen had much to do, but they contrived to carry on a steady flow of talk while they worked.

"Perhaps, we'll never be together again," said Hester, from the depths of the closet whither she had gone in search of shoes. "You will not be here next year. We may never meet again."

"I think we shall," said Helen. "The world is not a very large place.

You are to visit me, you know. I shall ask your Aunt Debby when I see her."

"And you'll come to visit me. Couldn't you come this summer? You'd like Jane Orr and Ralph. He is the nicest boy I ever knew, except Robert Vail."

"Rob _is_ nice. Yes, I think I can come. We could have a fine time."

Hester grew eloquent about the walks, picnics and drives they could have. Helen was accustomed to life in a mansion with a retinue of servants. Hester knew this. She knew also that at her home, Aunt Debby and she would perform all the household work and that Aunt Debby would set out her own flowers and plant a garden of radishes and lettuce with their kindred small garden truck. Helen would have no servants to wait upon her. Hester gave no thought to the difference in the household. To her, friends.h.i.+p was above all material conditions. As she felt concerning such matters, she took it for granted that all right-minded people must feel. She could not conceive the thought that Helen, as her friend, could be critical of the plain old-fas.h.i.+oned home where she and Aunt Debby were the home-makers. It was not training alone which gave Hester such impressions. She had within her the instinct of true n.o.bility. She gave the best of what was hers without apology or explanation. She took it for granted that her offerings would be received in the same spirit. They were, for Helen Loraine valued a friend higher than the friend's possessions.

"I am very glad I asked you to forgive me, last Sat.u.r.day," continued Helen. She was bending over the drawer of the chiffonier while she robbed it of its contents. "I could not have been happy had I gone home and not have made friends with you. It was my fault, Hester, that you did not play as a subst.i.tute on the first team. I thought something, and I told Miss Watson that I did not care to have you play. You do not know how sorry I have been since."

"Yes, I do. There, I think I have all my shoes ready to pack. Those old gym shoes I might as well throw out as rubbish. Yes, I do know, Helen. I felt dreadfully about it myself; but I thought you had a good reason. I myself despise a girl who prevaricates even a little."

Helen raised her head from her work to look at Hester. She could not fully grasp this last remark.