MID-YEARS came and went, with all the fears, heartrendings, and anxieties. For the Freshmen especially this first experience of a week of cramming was a hard one. There was the usual sitting up late at night, or getting up in the small hours with the help of the vigilant alarm clock; there was cramming and gorging of knowledge, and trying to review or relearn overnight the lectures and study of a semester.
Helen "plugged" like all the girls and more so, for she had the first two months practically to relearn. Her memory, loaded down with those early frivolities, would hardly yield the few grains of knowledge mixed in with so much chaff. Helen used up all her four sit-ups -- the four of the winter term -- and got up early the rest of the time. But the result in her examinations was indeed gratifying. Helen passed in all the courses of the semester! Her natural brilliancy carried her through. She did not ask how or yearn to learn the details; she had passed! And she made, so to speak, a New-years's resolution: that, as far as with her lay, she would never again fall low in her studies and give herself, at the very last of things, such a week of agony.
Helen kept her promise to herself, as she would to anybody else. February found her studying "like a Trojan" (if they ever studied). She took the pleasures of college life with an even hand; for while she did not deny herself anything reasonable, she still did not indulge in good times to excess, or for one moment allow them to interfere with her work.
There were no more unpleasantnesses to embitter her days -- at least, none came to existence since her unfortunate experience of the snowfight. For that experience she could never forget, and, in moments of happiness and satisfaction, the memory of it often seeped down through her mind like a bitter poison. But with time its effect became less and less, as one might become accustomed to a toxic drug.
Her friends were good to her, however, and helped with their little kindnesses to overcome her grief. Fanny was closer to her than ever, and Helen Crosby and Elinor Haskell were most sweet and dear. As for Molly, she went so far as to interview the President and tell her, in her own graphic style, the part she had taken in the snowfight. The President did not attach much culpability to her, and we will not say that she was not amused by the breezy account of the battle.
In regard to the snowfight, however, the Sophomores as individuals escaped punishment. Their resentment to the insult, put into such sudden and active form, had been so simultaneous with all that no one transgressor could be picked out. Only the Freshmen knew, or felt, who were most active in battling them, both on the Porter lawn and later in the evening in the house. Paradise Alley felt the utmost contempt for their neighbors, especially the one across the way; and Helen, as leader and standard bearer for the Freshmen, soon got a chance to show what she would do for her "dearest enemy." What she did was a surprise even to herself. For she hated Edith Brewster's arrogant smallnesses with all the bigness of her soul.
It was toward the end of February, a Saturday morning, that Helen was obliged to stay away from chapel. As she was gathering up her books to start out when the girls were leaving chapel for the first recitation, she heard through her open door, over the transom of the room opposite, a conversation between Edith Brewster and Elinor Haskell, who was tired out and ill.
"Oh, Elinor, I'm so mad I could howl! I just set my heart on going to New Haven to-night. Will Hayes has written me about the 'Taming of the Shrew' till I can't do a thing but see it. I do want to see him playing Katherine."
"And the Dean wouldn't let you go?"
"No, she wouldn't. She raised all sorts of objections, and said the reason was too trivial to leave college and miss recitations."
"Would you miss many?"
"Two lab hours and one recitation -- at 3.50, of course."
"That's too bad."
"I'd like to cut just on purpose to defy her."
"Oh, you mustn't do that! You'd get yourself into all kinds of trouble. Promise me that you won't do that. You know I'm going to the infirmary to rest over Sunday, and I shouldn't get a moment's peace if I thought you would do such a thing."
"Well, don't worry; I won't. I'll stay here and hold the fort while you're gone. Only it makes me wild to think that Will is going to be a most charming Katherine and I shan't see it. Mrs. Shepard will have to take Blanche Shepard alone now. They are not so narrow at Smith College, so Blanche can get off. We were going to have such a great time afterwards at Mrs. Shepard's. But it's all off now."
Edith was certainly disappointed, and Helen hugged to her heart the thought that there was one thing, anyhow, Edith was disappointed in which she could not override roughshod. As Helen was leaving her room she heard Edith still grumbling:
"Oh, I would just like to spite --"
The rest was lost as Helen was descending the stairs.
As the day went on Helen forgot all about Edith and her disappointments. Only at noon Edith did not appear at lunch, but her absence was not remarked upon. Since the beginning of the semester she and Helen had been sitting side by side -- unavoidable coincidence -- at Miss Foster's table. They abhorred each other, and hardly spoke except to pass the bread and butter. The salt was eternally spilled between them. When evening came, however, Edith was still missing.
"Is Miss Brewster ill?" asked Miss Foster.
"Why, her roommate was," volunteered a Sophomore. "She went down to the Everett House to rest over Sunday."
"Miss Brewster wasn't at table for lunch," blundered a Freshman. "She has been talking of going to New Haven over Sunday."
"Oh!" said Miss Foster, "no notification has come to me about her going."
"She didn't go to New Haven," said the Senior-opposite, trying to allay the fears of the head of the house. "Miss Haskell told me the Dean wouldn't let her go."
For a moment there was a strained silence. Helen, with beating heart, was an anxious listener. She felt in her bones that Edith had allowed the temptation to run away with her. With her heart thumping wildly, she saw the precipice suddenly yawn before Edith, and Edith about to fall down it. She knew what punishment would be in store for this disobedience and defiance. For a moment a selfish satisfaction filled her heart. Then she drew back horrified.
Miss Foster caught the terrified expression on Helen's face.
"Do you know if Miss Brewster is ill, Miss Thompson?" she asked. "I believe you are a close neighbor of hers."
Asked point blank, there was nothing to do but to commit herself one way or the other. She might say she did not know, and leave Edith to her fate. She certainly would not push her over the brink; and yet again, not to interfere was the same as helping in the ruin. Her heart bounded with the suddenness of the crisis. Words stuck in her throat, and the blood clogged in her brain. Her face was white, for her soul was chilled through. Her knife rattled awkwardly to her plate.
"I -- I believe she is ill," she answered, shivering.
"Perhaps you ought to see if Miss Brewster wants a tray," said the Senior-opposite, with a mischievous twinkle, knowing Edith and Helen were not friendly.
"Perhaps I ought to, since Miss Haskell's away," said Helen, flushing up with an angry red.
"I should think she might want a tray," said Miss Foster, narrowly watching Helen's face. "She has not been to any meal since breakfast."
Helen resumed her eating, but there really was no more supper for her that night. She had committed herself to a lie to save her -- enemy! and now she must in some way live up to it to save both of them. The people at the table felt there was something wrong, but to lie for an enemy is hardly a usual human instinct, and that fact threw them off the track and left them mystified. They thought it was strange that Helen should want to serve Edith, even at another's suggestion; and yet it might be that she was doing this for Elinor's sake, and it was this unpleasant duty that embarrassed her.
It was clear to Helen she must keep this curiosity to its normal level. She excused herself as dessert was being served, saying that she wanted to go up and see about Miss Brewster. All eyes were upon her, but she smiled bravely.
When she came to the second floor, she quickly got matches from her room and entered the room opposite hers, which was pitch-dark. She lit the gas and looked around. There was nobody there. Edith's round-the-campus suit lay on her couch, with several other pieces of everyday apparel. Helen looked into the closet where she knew Edith kept her suit case. There was no suit case there. Helen threw herself into a Morris chair with a groan, and pressed her hands on her throbbing temples.
She was face to face with the crisis.
She had crossed her Rubicon; she must defend her enemy from destruction and protect herself in the step she had decided on. The thought of the lie she had told to gain this end made her despise herself. She would have despised herself still more had she not done it. She felt like a warrior who fights a battle to kill. Hers was a good cause. Her soul certainly would not suffer for this sin, when by the sacrifice she would save the reputation of this girl, for whom discovery meant disgrace.
As she was thinking things over, a sudden knock came on the door. Her heart jumped and trembled like water in a pitcher suddenly jarred. She went to the door and opened it a little. It was Julia Ackerson, whose domestic work it was to get ready trays for the incapacitated students in Porter.
"Miss Foster sent me up," said Julia, surprised to find Helen there, "to see if Edith wants some supper."
"Why -- yes, if you will be so good; but not the supper we had to-night. Only some tea and toast and -- and plenty of butter."
When the girl had gone, Helen breathed again, relieved that Julia had not seen Edith's empty couch. But students were coming up now. Why, any one of them might take a notion to come and call on Edith! How was she to keep more of them from visiting her? Perhaps Miss Foster herself might come. In the frantic racking of her brain, her eyes fell upon an "Engaged" sign hanging back of the door. She seized it and hung it outside the door and, with that formidable watchdog on guard, went back to the Morris chair.
"Edith, you don't want to see visitors when you're sick, do you, dear?" she said, smiling to herself; but her smile was pathetic.
At that moment she heard somebody, who had been mounting up the stairs, come softly up to the door and -- stop. It was Miss Foster. Helen knew her footstep. She held her breath while the lady waited outside. Indeed, Miss Foster was not altogether satisfied with Edith's "illness." As head of the house, she was bound to follow up her suspicions. She had sent the tray girl with a double purpose, and, not being satisfied with the result, had come up herself to investigate. She heard Helen's remark to the supposed Edith, but overlooked its sarcasm. She saw the "Engaged" sign and, Faculty though she was, hesitated at violating it. It was a faithful watchdog.
Helen listened, expecting a knock any moment. She thought perhaps she ought not stay so still, but ought to speak again to Edith. Perhaps that would keep Miss Foster from going any further. But her voice failed her.
After a few more moments of suspense, Miss Foster's steps were heard softly going away.
Helen took in the tray from Julia Ackerson when it was brought, and then went to her own room, undressed, and put on her bath robe; then, taking some books, she told Fanny she was going to study in one of the girls' rooms. She went back to Edith's room, and spent the evening there, to ward off any intrepid sign jumper. Fanny thought she was with Molly, and Molly with Fanny. Both girls were too busy with their Monday's lessons to have the least chance for visiting to-night.
In the quiet of Edith's room Helen worked. She did not expect to be disturbed, either by visitors or by her involuntary hostess. She did not expect the latter home that night. A play three hours' ride off was not likely to bring one home before one or two at best, and the last car came up from Holyoke at eleven. Besides, Edith had made arrangements to stay in New Haven with Mrs. Shepard that night.
At the twenty-minute bell Helen gathered up her books and turned out the light. She went out and, taking Edith's key out of the keyhole, locked the door so that nobody could get in and find Edith gone. Nevertheless, she herself did not sleep. She lay awake for hours listening to all possible noises, which might be Edith returning in the dead of night to find her door locked. When all chance of such a thing happening was passed, Helen fell asleep, Edith's key safe under her pillow.
Sunday came, with fresh worries for Helen's tangled brain. Should she go to breakfast and be quizzed, or not; should Edith have another tray, or not? She thought it best to dress and go down, leaving Edith's room as it was. The first thing Miss Foster did, when Helen got down to breakfast, was to ask:
"How is Miss Brewster?"
"Oh," replied Helen, flushing, "her 'Engaged' sign was on the door. But I don't believe it's anything serious."
"I'm glad it isn't serious," replied Miss Foster, eyeing Helen steadily.
Breakfast ended and Helen's troubles began again! Her heart shrank in disgust from further dissimulation, and she resolved to get "Edith" and herself, as soon as possible, out of the way of all questions. As soon as her own bed was made and room tidied, she took down the "Engaged" sign from Edith's door and went into the room. It was in pretty bad order. Nothing had been moved. Edith's clothing still lay about. A light-blue ribbon with a soiled turnover on it sprawled over the chiffonier. Edith's toilet articles lay around among it. Indeed, it looked natural enough, and Edith did not seem far off.
It was now past nine o'clock. As she was leaving the room she came full upon Miss Foster with Dean Eliot coming up the stairs. Her heart almost stopped beating. Had Miss Foster been consulting with the Dean?
"I hear Miss Brewster is ill," said the Dean, "Does she care to have anybody see her?"
"Her -- her room is in pretty bad order," stammered the frightened Helen.
"Oh -- then never mind; tell her I'm sorry she is not well."
"How is it," remarked Miss Foster, as they were turning away, "I thought you and Miss Brewster were sworn enemies. Have you made up?"
"Well," said Helen brightly, "Elinor Haskell won't let us alone, and we have to behave sometimes for her sake. Then we've sat together at your table since the beginning of the semester, and I try to be decent to please Elinor."
The Dean and Miss Foster laughed and went away.
"Thank heaven," cried Helen under her breath, going to her own room. There was nobody there, Fanny having gone down to the basement to get her laundry.
All in a fever, Tommy put on her long coat and hurried down to Rockefeller to Helen Crosby. That young lady was sitting cross-legged on her couch, in a kimono, with a towel spread on her lap, manicuring her nails.
Tommy burst in upon her without even knocking. "Helen Crosby," she cried, "you must save my life or I won't speak to you again!"
"That is a natural result, dear," laughed Helen.
"I'm not joking," said Tommy, plumping herself beside her, knocking the little box of red nail polish out of Helen's lap.
"Well, tell me about it," said Helen. "I'm all ears to hear."
"That chump of an Edith has gotten herself into no end of trouble. She's in such a dreadful mess, that, as much as I abhor Edith, I took compassion on her and tried to get her out. And now I'm in, too!"
Then followed in detail the whole escapade, about Tommy's overhearing the conversation and suspecting where Edith had gone, and how she had tried to shield Edith and cover her tracks.
"Helen," cried Tommy, "you're not to tell what I've told you to-day, even to Edith. At least, not my part in it. Elinor does not know and mustn't know. But Edith must be gotten home somehow. I think Miss Foster has been thrown off the track. But remember, Edith must never know it was I who helped her. Why, dearest, she and I never say Boo! to each other unless we are forced to, and we sit together at table with elbows touching!"
"Oh, you big-hearted goose!" exclaimed Helen. "You two ought to have your heads knocked together!"
"We shall, if you don't step in and rescue us."
"For heaven's sake, what am I to do?"
"Do! Isn't Edith your beloved society sister? Must I tell you what to do? Why, telegraph, telephone, go down after her! There are a million schemes buzzing through my head. Edith's got to be here by noon! I can't invent a single dodge more, and won't!"
Tommy threw herself upon the pillows in her excitement, and cried hysterically.
"Oh, you silly, brave girl," said Helen, stroking her hair. "You've done something I wouldn't dare do for all the Ediths in the world! But now that it's done, I'll do all I can to help you and that irresponsible society sister of mine."
"Well, get up and dress yourself," cried Tommy impatiently, rising from the pillows. "Go down to Holyoke and telegraph. Nobody would see you."
"Wouldn't they? I'd be breaking the college rules just like Edith. Perhaps we can telephone from some house in the village. What is Mrs. Shepard's address?"
"I -- I'm sure I don't know," said Tommy, aghast.
"Then how are we to get word to them?"
There was a breathless pause.
"Unless -- unless we can find it in some address book or letter in Edith's desk." Tommy was still resourceful.
"I hardly think we shall. Edith's meant to come to grief and she will. She made her bed --"
"You're a perfect traitor, Helen Crosby! Anyway, I'm all tangled up in this, and you must help me."
"You are a goose, too!"
Helen Crosby was very angry -- angry with Edith Brewster for setting college discipline at defiance and doing such an unheard-of thing. She thought of the probable results -- of the hullaballoo the affair would make.
"It's dreadful," she groaned.
"I've thought so all along," said Tommy, her teeth chattering. "Come -- come at least to Porter. The girls are going to church now."
The village church bell had been ringing for ten minutes and troops of students were on their way to service. Helen Crosby took off her kimono and dressed, and went out on the campus with Tommy. Nobody was around by the time they reached Porter. They went up to Edith's room, and Tommy tidied up, while Helen hunted for the address in Edith's desk, among little brass candlesticks and society emblems. But no address came to light.
"I don't know what we are to do," said Tommy helplessly.
"It seems to me, dear," said Helen, " that the only wise thing for us to do is to wait. I won't let you tangle yourself in this affair any further. If Edith went secretly, she probably can get back the same way. In the meanwhile, suppose you dress up and go to church. It's not eleven o'clock yet, and you're too nervous for words. Besides, if they see you still around here, they'll suspect."
"Well, maybe I'd better go. Miss Foster is not at all easy about me, and Fanny goes around with a look of suspicion on her innocent brow. You stay here and hold the fort."
And she went.
Helen Crosby was worried and nervous herself. She sat down and for a long time tried to read a magazine, repeating the same paragraph over and over and going back again; but she only ended by thoughtfully turning down dog's-ears on the pages. She finally flung the magazine on the couch and began to pace the floor.
"Oh, that foolish girl Edith!" she muttered to herself. "She's been on the verge of trouble several times this year, and now she's in it! I ought to let her stay in it. I'd like to see how she'll get back now!"
She looked at the little green china clock on Elinor's desk -- Quarter of twelve.
"She never seems to have any common sense about these things. She's as impulsive as a young cat, and is only ready to fly out at other people."
She heard voices outside on the Porter path. The girls were returning from church.
Suddenly the door opened and -- Edith Brewster burst in upon her.
"Why, hullo," cried Edith. "Been waiting for me long?"
"Yes; where have you been?" demanded Helen.
"Church."
"Where were you last night? You didn't come to meeting."
"Can't a person stay away from society once in a while?"
"Now, please don't evade. I'll tell you where you were. You went to New Haven -- without permission!"
Edith's mouth opened, and she gazed at Helen with staring eyes.
"H-how do you know?"
"I know!" cried Helen, losing all her natural gentleness. "Miss Foster suspects where you were. You missed three meals. You were in imminent danger of being found out when a friend saved you -- one who is more friend to you than you are to her."
"Who? What?"
"Don't ask any questions. Listen to me. You're in no end of trouble. To lecture you seems to do no good. You always know better. Now no amount of lecturing will help you. What explanation will you make?"
"I--I don't know. Does she know I've been gone?"
"Miss Foster? No, she doesn't--not positively. But she suspects. And I -- I -- don't know what I ought to do about it."
"Do! You're not going to give me away!" cried Edith.
"Don't fly at me like that! No, I'm not."
Helen put her hand to her bursting brow and tried to think.
"You are supposed to have been ill. You had a tray last night. You slept over breakfast this morning. That's all. I -- I -- Make what you like out of that, but say as little as you can. Edith Brewster, you're in an awful mess!"
"What -- what shall I do?" pleaded the frightened girl.
"I don't know. Let things stand as they are for the present."
"Does anybody know?"
"No -- not even Elinor; nobody except the one who shielded you."
"Who was it, Helen -- tell me!"
"You don't deserve to know," said Helen curtly. "And if I were you, I wouldn't try to find out."
And with that she left Edith.