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Betty Wales, Freshman. Dunton Edith Kellogg
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Автор произведения Dunton Edith Kellogg
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Public Domain
“But I wish you wouldn’t be so sarcastic over Helen,” she went on stoutly. “She can’t help being such a freak.”
Eleanor yawned. “I was born sarcastic,” she said. “I wish Lil Day would hurry. Did you happen to notice that I cut three classes straight this morning?”
“No,” said Betty aghast. “Oh, Eleanor, how dare you when–” She stopped suddenly, remembering that Eleanor had asked her not to speak of the entrance conditions.
“When I have so much to make up already, you mean,” Eleanor went on complacently. “Oh, I shall manage somehow. Here they come.”
A few moments later the freshman and sophomore classes, with a sprinkling of juniors to make the numbers even, were gathered en masse in the big gymnasium. All the afternoon loyal sophomores had toiled thither from the various campus houses, lugging palms, screens, portières and pillows. Inside another contingent had arranged these contributions, festooned the running-track with red and green bunting, risked their lives to fasten Japanese lanterns to the cross-beams, and disguised the apparatus against the walls with great branches of spruce and cedar, which still other merry, wind-blown damsels, driving a long-suffering horse, had deposited at intervals near the back door. By five o’clock it was finished and everybody, having assured everybody else that the gym never looked so well before, had gone home to dress for the evening. Now the lights softened what Mary Brooks called the “hidjous” greens of the freshman bunting, a band played sweet music behind the palms, and pretty girls in pretty gowns sat in couples on the divans that lined the walls, or waited in line to speak to the receiving party. This consisted of Jean Eastman and the sophomore president, who stood in front of the fireplace, where a line of ropes intended to be used in gym practice had been looped back and made the best sort of foundation for a green canopy over their heads. Ten of the prettiest sophomores acted as ushers, and four popular and much envied seniors presided at the frappé bowls in the four corners of the room.
“There’s not much excitement about a manless dance, but it’s a fascinating thing to watch,” said Eleanor to her partner, as they stood in the running-track looking down at the dancers.
“I’m afraid you’re blasé, Miss Watson,” returned the sophomore. “Only seniors are allowed to dislike girl dances.”
Eleanor laughed. “Well, I seem to be the only heretic present,” she said. “They’re certainly having a good time down there.”
They certainly were. The novelty of the occasion appealed to the freshmen, and the more sophisticated sophomores were bound to make a reputation as gallant beaux. So although only half the freshman could dance at once and even then the floor was dreadfully crowded, and in spite of the fact that the only refreshment was the rather watery frappé which gave out early in the evening, 190-’s reception to 190- was voted a great success.
At nine o’clock the sophomore ushers began arranging the couples in a long line leading to the grind table, and Betty knew that her hour had come. The orchestra played a march, and as the girls walked past the table the sophomore officers presented each freshman with a small booklet bound in the freshman green, on the front cover of which, in letters of sophomore scarlet, was the cryptic legend: “Puzzle–name the girl.” This was explained, however, by the inside, where appeared a small and rather cloudy blue-print, showing the back view of a girl in shirt-waist and short skirt, with a pile of books under her arm, and the inevitable “tam” on her head. On the opposite page was a facsimile telegraph blank, filled out to the registrar,
“Please meet my dear young daughter, who will arrive on Thursday by the 6:15, and oblige,
Everybody laughed, pushed her neighbors around for a back view, and asked the sophomores if the telegram had truly been sent, and if this was the real girl’s picture. So no one noticed Betty’s blushes except Mary Brooks, upon whom she vowed eternal vengeance. For she remembered how one afternoon the week before, she and Mary had started from the house together, and Mary, who said she was taking her camera down-town for a new film, had dropped behind on some pretext. Betty had been sure she heard the camera click, but Mary had grinned and told her not to be so vain of her back.
However, nobody recognized the picture. The few sophomores who knew anything about it were pledged to secrecy, as the grinds were never allowed to become too personal, and the freshmen treated the telegram as an amusing myth. In a few minutes every one was dancing again, and only too soon it was ten o’clock.
“Wasn’t it fun?” said Betty enthusiastically, as she and Helen undressed.
“Oh yes,” agreed Helen. “I never had such a good time in my life. But, do you know, Miss Watson says she was bored, and Roberta thought it was tiresome and the grind-book silly and impossible.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction sometimes,” said Betty sagely, smothering a laugh in the pillows.
She was asleep in five minutes, but Helen lay for a long while thinking over the exciting events of the evening. How she had dreaded it! At home she hated dances and never went if she could help it, because she was such a wall-flower. She had been afraid it would be the same here, but it wasn’t. What a lovely time she had had! She could dance so well now, and Miss King’s friends were so nice, and college was such a beautiful place, though it was so different from what she had expected.
Across the hall Roberta had lighted her student lamp and was sitting up to write an appreciative and very clever account of the evening to her cousin, who was reporter on a Boston paper and had made her promise to send him an occasional college item.
And Eleanor, still in the yellow satin, sat at her desk scribbling aimlessly on a pad of paper or staring at a clean sheet, which began, “My dear father.” She had meant to write him that she was tired of college and wanted to come home at once; but somehow she couldn’t begin. For she thought, “I can see him raise his eyebrows and smile and say, ‘so you want to throw up the sponge, do you? I was under the impression that you had promised to stay out the year,’ as he did to the private secretary who wouldn’t sit up with him till three in the morning to write letters.”
Finally she tore up “My dear father,” and went to bed in the dark.
CHAPTER V
UP HILL–AND DOWN
The next day was just the sort that everybody had been hoping for on Mountain Day,–crisp and clear and cool, with the inspiriting tang in the air, the delicious warmth in the sunshine, and the soft haze over the hills, that belong to nothing but a New England October at its best. The Chapin house breakfast-table was unusually lively, for each girl wanted to tell what she thought about the reception and how she was going to spend Mountain Day; and nobody seemed anxious to listen to anybody’s else story.
“Sh–sh,” demanded Mary Brooks at last. “Now children, you’ve talked long enough. Run and get your lunch boxes and begin making your sandwiches. Mrs. Chapin wants us to finish by ten o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock!” repeated Katherine. “Well, I should hope so. Our horse is ordered for nine.”
“Going to be gone all day?” inquired Mary sweetly.
“Of course,” answered Katherine with dignity.
“Well, don’t kill the poor beast,” called Mary as she ran up-stairs for her box.
Mary was going off in a barge with the sophomore decorating committee, who wanted a good chance to congratulate and condole with one another over their Herculean labors and ultimate triumph of the day before. The Rich sisters had decided to spend the holiday with an aunt who lived twenty miles down the river; Eleanor had promised early in the fall to go out with a party of horseback riders; and Helen, whose pocketbook had been prematurely flattened to buy her teakettle, had decided to accept the invitation of a girl in her geometry division to join