True to Marjorie’s prediction one momentous event after another, relative to her many campus interests, caused March to skim away on wings. On the fifth day of March, which fell upon Saturday, Hamilton College turned out in full force to attend the dedication of the dormitory. Due to the large crowd that must inevitably be present the exercises had been scheduled to take place in the open air in the large open space in front of the building. In the event of bad weather they would be conducted in the assembly hall of the building. It was hoped by the Travelers that the day for which they had toiled so faithfully would be mild and sunny. When the day came it proved to be a marvel of balmy breezes and warm sunshine. It was one of those rare early spring days which promise so smilingly of the return of Spring in her glory. The dedication exercises began at one o’clock before the largest student body ever enrolled at Hamilton College and in charge of the Reverend Compton Greene, the oldest minister in the county of Hamilton, and also the Episcopal minister at The faculty also attended in a body, grouped well to the right of the speakers’ stand. To the left stood row upon row of dark-faced men dressed in their best, their faces bright with smiles. Their leader, Peter Graham had Signor Baretti on one side of him and on the other a tall, broad-shouldered man with keen dark eyes and a firm mouth. Peter Cairns had demurred at accepting the honor of standing with Peter Graham on such an occasion. “Oh, I’ll stay at the edge of the crowd,” he had declared, but had been overruled by his two friends. “You don’t come and make the strike break up, and my countrymen go work like these should, we don’t have any dorm now. So you help, too, and you should go with us. Why you are ashamed to be seen with us? I am once poor Italiano, but very respec’bl,” had been the argument Baretti had used to Mr. Cairns. He had finally won his point. Among the company of Travelers in the roped-in space was Leslie Cairns. She had also yielded to persuasion, though she had still the humiliated Marjorie, Robin and Miss Susanna had all vowed firmly before hand that under no circumstances would they be drawn into speech making. “Let the men make the speeches,” Miss Susanna had said with an emphatic nod. The uneasy partners had agreed with her and informed her that they should depend upon her to stick to her guns. When the time came, however, Miss Susanna found herself the center of a student body, ready to bow down to her. She received an ovation that amazed her to the point of all but reducing her to tears. Sturdy soul that she was she set her jaws and refused to break down. She had to make a speech, however, and the few terse sentences she spoke came straight from her heart. Neither were Page and Dean permitted “to get by” without a speech. Robin came first and spoke with the charming sincerity which was the keynote of her disposition. Marjorie listened to her in active discomfort, all too sure that she would be called upon next. She tried to think of something to say, but her mind suddenly seemed to become blank. Worried over her own lack of inspiration she scarcely heard what Robin said. She merely caught the tones of her partner’s earnest voice. Presently Robin had finished speaking and applause broke out in deafening waves. After a little it subsided. Then—Marjorie She began her speech with: “Dear friends of Hamilton College.... Because Mr. Brooke Hamilton adored and venerated his mother, because he wished the highest for womankind, we are here today to do him honor by adding our bit to the splendid educational plans he made and carried out so nobly in the building of Hamilton College.” Her voice, clear and ringing, carried to the farthest limits of the enthusiastic throng. Brooke Hamilton could have had no stauncher advocate than Marjorie. In the short speech she made she brought before the assembled company the man as she had come to know him through her work on his biography. She ended eloquently with: “When his biography is given to the world he will take his rightful place among the great men who have devoted their lives to aiding the cause of education. He planned unselfishly, and gave royally. He must be to us who love our Alma Mater the great example. Because we have believed in his maxims we shall try to live by them.” She was surprised when she resumed her chair next to Jerry to find her eyes full of tears. She had been carried away by the very earnestness of her praise for the founder of Hamilton. “Taisez vous, Jeremiah. I almost cried. Now please don’t make me laugh. I’m glad it’s all over. I never was intended as a speechifier.” “You only think you weren’t, Bean, dear Bean. ‘Speechifier’s’ a fine word; I shall adopt it. I’m sure it isn’t in the ‘dic.’ That’s what I’m looking for, original words; like ‘celostrous,’ for instance.” Satisfied to have made Marjorie laugh Jerry subsided. Presently a final prayer was said by the Reverend Greene, and the large company joined in the singing of the Doxology. Following the exercises the enthusiastic throng moved forward to inspect the new dormitory, the massive entrance doors of which stood open as though inviting visitors. Among the few students who did not follow the crowd were Julia Peyton and Mildred Ferguson. Mildred was frankly contemptuous over the whole affair. She was not interested in a dormitory for the use of needy students, nor did she care anything about Brooke Hamilton as the founder of the college. “Shucks,” she commented disdainfully to Julia as the two turned away from the animated scene. “Let’s go back to the campus. Somebody had to found Hamilton. Why should there be so much fuss made over it?” “That small woman on the platform!” Julia exclaimed “Well, she doesn’t know it,” shrugged Mildred. Julia, however, was anything but at ease in mind. Ever since the dismal failure of the attempt to force Leslie Cairns from Wayland Hall she had been more or less gloomy and morose. She had haughtily declared on the day after Muriel’s “show” that she would not any longer keep the presidency of the club. She would not even attend any future meetings. She wrote a resignation as president and intrusted it to Mildred to read to the club. Mildred read it out to the members at the next meeting of the Orchid Club. It was accepted with such alacrity, and a new president so promptly elected, that she decided she would not be so foolish as risk her membership in the club by offering to resign. She was inwardly peeved in that she had not been appointed president and another girl elected as vice-president. Only her ability to brazen things out kept her in a club in which the attitude of its other members toward her was one of polite endurance. Julia’s club troubles were less to her, however, than Clara Carter’s defection. Clara still roomed with her, but paid very little attention to her. The red-haired girl was trying to model her acts on a higher basis. She was completely out of sympathy with her former intimate. The day after the dedication of the dormitory she received a third letter from home that sent her into a panic. She let it overcome her to the extent of cutting her classes for the day and staying in her room to weep dismally over the Peytons’ changed prospects. “What is the matter?” Clara Carter asked Julia not unsympathetically as she came in from her Greek recitation to find Julia seated lachrymosely in the very chair she had been occupying when Clara had left their room. “Nothing,” Julia gulped, and sighed. “There certainly must be. You hardly ever cry.” “You wouldn’t be interested to know if I tell you,” Julia quavered. “You are not my friend any more.” “I would be if you would try to do as you should,” Clara returned with stolid dignity. “I don’t care “I wish I had never got up that miserable petition, or listened to a word Mildred Ferguson told to me about that Dulcie Vale, her cousin,” Julia’s voice rose to a disconsolate wail. “I am very glad I came to my senses in time and had my name taken off the list,” Clara returned grimly. “I feel sorry for you, somehow, Julia, though you’ve only yourself to blame for what’s happened.” Clara had not yet reached a point of forbearance wherein she could honestly sympathize with her roommate. She had not yet arrived at the charitable spirit of which she now gave signs of someday achieving. “I know it.” Julia held her handkerchief to her eyes, continuing to cry softly. “I’d truly like to know what troubles you, Julia,” Clara presently said in a softer tone than she had at first used. “I can’t come back to Hamilton next year,” Julia sobbed out. “We’ve lost our money; everything we own, too. My father has been having bad luck in the market for the past year. My mother knew “Why don’t you come back and live at the dormitory? Your father could afford to pay your fees, couldn’t he?” Clara suggested. This time she showed real sympathy. “No. That is I’m not sure. It’s his idea—for me to be his secretary. He says I’ve always been so wasteful and extravagant that it is time I had to shoulder a little responsibility. He’d have to pay a confidential secretary capable of doing his work not less than from fifty to a hundred dollars a month. He says he must cut expenses to a minimum in order to pull himself up again financially. It may take him a year to do it. He made my mother write me all this. She is dreadfully upset by the whole thing. Anyway I wouldn’t come back to the campus as a dormitory girl. I simply couldn’t!” Julia exclaimed vehemently. “No, no.” Julia made a dissenting gesture. “My father is awfully proud. He wouldn’t accept help from even his oldest friends. He’s an out and out crank about such things. Thank you just the same, Clara. It’s sweet in you to wish to help me. I—I—appreciate—it. Never mind me. You’d better hurry along, or you’ll be late for French.” Clara cast a hasty glance at the wall clock, gathered up her books and hurried away. On her way to her recitation she racked her brain for some way in which she might help Julia. Of the Wall Street realm of financiering she knew very little. Her father was a manufacturer and had inherited wealth from his father. Julia had occasionally told her tales of “Wolf” Peyton’s exploits as a financier. She had never been much interested in hearing them. She now wished she had listened to them more attentively. Her mind fixed on the subject of Julia’s misfortunes, she paid little attention to her French lesson. On the way back to Wayland Hall she chanced to encounter Doris Monroe. “What are you looking so solemn about, Clara?” Doris greeted in friendly fashion. “Oh, I was just thinking. Somebody just told me some bad news. Not about myself,” she added “Is there anything I can do?” Doris’ alert brain instantly reverted to Julia Peyton. She had caught a glimpse of Julia hurrying through the hall to her room that morning and had noticed her woebegone expression. “No. Why, I don’t know.” Clara paused uncertainly. “I’d be breaking a confidence to tell you, but you might know of a way to help.” “I’d rather you wouldn’t break a confidence,” Doris returned candidly. “I know. But—” Clara hesitated again, “—I think I could tell you of the difficulty without naming the person. It would do no harm, Doris, I can assure you of that.” “I’ll take your word for it,” Doris made quick response. Clara colored with pleasure. Doris’s confidence in her was gratifying. “The father of a certain student here has lost all his money. He is a Wall Street financier. He is going to be awfully poor for a while. This student I speak of will not be able to come back to Hamilton next year. Her father says she will have to be his secretary. She feels very badly about it. She’d like to complete her college course. I wish I knew a way to help her father financially. I told her that my father would lend her father some money, but she said he would not accept a loan from even a friend. I “No; not this minute. But I will think it over. Perhaps I may hit upon a brilliant idea. I’ll see you tonight about it. Come to my room. We’ll have more time to talk things over. I must run along.” With a little farewell gesture Doris turned and ran toward Hamilton Hall, where she would make her next recitation. While Clara continued to ponder the matter without success it haunted Doris, also. She was now positive that the student in question was Julia Peyton. She had heard that Julia’s father was a Wall Street “raider.” Leslie Cairns had gone to some pains to explain the term to her. Leslie—of course! The very one to know what should be done. Thought of Julia’s despicable part in the recent plot against Leslie’s welfare recurred to Doris. Leslie could hardly be blamed if she refused to consider helping Julia. Leslie, however, understood a great deal about the world in which her father had piled up millions. Doris decided with her usual calm judgment that Leslie should be in her room that evening when Clara came to it. Muriel would be away at the rehearsal of a play which Leila was directing. She would ask Clara in Leslie’s presence to tell Leslie what the red-haired girl had just told her. When Clara stepped into Doris’s room that evening she cast an unconsciously disappointed look at Doris. She had not expected to see Leslie Cairns. “Please don’t mind Leslie’s being here, Clara. I asked her to come. I wish you to tell her what you told me this morning. Her father is one of the greatest financiers in the United States, or in Europe, perhaps. Leslie knows a great deal about finance. She will surely find a way to help you.” “I—I—you couldn’t help in this affair, Miss Cairns,” Clara burst forth in embarrassment. “It wouldn’t be possible for you to.” “Why not?” Leslie turned a direct kindly glance upon the red-haired girl. “Please tell me. I know nothing of what it may be. I do know that I’d like to be of service. I have several years of pleasing no one but myself to make up for.” She smiled her grimly humorous smile. It took a little more coaxing, however, before Clara would yield. Finally she did so, telling Leslie what she had previously told Doris. Leslie listened without comment, until Clara had wound up her doleful little tale. She sat with one elbow on an arm of her chair, one hand cupping her chin. “I think my father can find the way to help this man,” she said reassuringly. “Pardon me when I say I believe I know who this man is. I have heard of him often from my father.” She paused, viewing Clara with mute inquiry. Clara understood. “I—I—it’s Julia’s father,” she stammered. “Perhaps I should not have told “It was necessary for me to know,” Leslie cut in with a trace of her old-time brusqueness. “How can my father help a man regain his financial ground unless he knows that man’s identity?” she asked half humorously. “Well, of course not.” Clara brightened, laughing a little. “Will you trust the matter to me for a few days, perhaps weeks, Miss Carter?” Leslie asked kindly. “I will write to my father at once. Meanwhile the matter shall be one of strict confidence among us three. I should prefer Miss Peyton never to know the source from which help came to her father through any of us. I believe my father may wish not to be known in the matter, either.” “You speak with great confidence, Miss Cairns. You are sure something can be done by your father for Mr. Peyton?” Clara asked half doubtfully. “Very sure,” Leslie repeated encouragingly. Clara did not remain in Doris’s room long. She went back to her own room to find Julia making a conscientious effort to study. “I mustn’t neglect what last few opportunities I have,” she said soberly. “I shall try to do well in all my subjects for the rest of the year.” “That’s a brave view to take.” Clara longed to tell Julia what she had just done. She smiled to herself. The more she considered Leslie’s quiet In her room Leslie had just finished a brief but forceful letter to her father. It read: “Dear Peter the Great: “Here is a further chance for you to prove your greatness. Do you know a raider on the Street named Wolf Peyton? Of course you do. You know them all. He has lost his fortune. Dead broke. His daughter expects nothing but to leave college this June. She must come back for her senior year. It seems he needs her as his secretary, or thinks he does. I think the secretary business would flivver after he had tried it. Anyhow please put him on his feet so it won’t be necessary for her to sacrifice her senior year. He may be your bitterest enemy, his daughter thought she was mine, but, never mind. We should tremble. Fix it up without him knowing you did anything. “I am going to be in one of Page and Dean’s shows. It is to be a revue, and will be given on the evening of the eighth of April. You had better come to it. I am going to sing a French song and give some of those funny imitations of Parisians which you like to see me do. I am happy, Peter. The Hedge begins to look like a near future proposition. With oceans of love. I’ll write again soon. “Faithfully, “Leslie.” |