THE bell on Mary Lyon was ringing for vespers the following Sunday evening--the first vesper service of the year. The girls had all heard much about it and were anticipating the time.
"Oh, Tommy!" cried Molly, bursting in from the next room. "Are you ready to go?"
"Yes, yes; in a jiffy. Are you?" for her solicitous roommate was helping to get her bandaged hands through the sleeves of her light evening cloak. "It's a perfect shame I had to get my hands all cut up. Think of it, not a letter written to-day -- except one to mamma to keep her from guessing. She'd be worried to death, if she knew."
"Hurry up, girls; we won't get any seats if you don't hurry."
Students were tramping through the corridors and down the stairs, and Paradise Alley soon joined the throng.
It was a beautiful evening. A big silver moon was just rising over the shoulder of Prospect Hill, thin-veiled in shreds of clouds. In the clear, cool air, the clang of the vesper bell reverberated again and again, as the echoes were thrown back from the walls of the dormitories. From every direction, hatless students were making Mary Lyon their destination. Here and there a belated choir girl, her white surplice thrown over her arm, was hurrying to reach Assembly Hall, where the choir were having a ten-minute rehearsal. The seven o'clock car had just brought a crowd of people from Holyoke, many of them men -- real men! -- and Tommy drew a deep breath as she smelled cigar smoke on the night air for the first time in weeks. It made her think of daddy and she felt "good."
Early as they were, the girls found many there before them. But there was room for all, and they found a place in the topmost row of the gallery, where they could lean back their heads against the wall and see everything in the body of the chapel below them. Pretty soon Professor Howard, having arranged his choir and brought them down from Assembly Hall, came out of one of the anterooms, swathed in his academic gown with its three purple stripes, and took possession of the organ.
This gown, in consideration of the infinite calisthenics of all four members needed in manipulation of the organ, had always been a problem to the professor. But the inauguration of the college President a few years before had called for all of the Faculty to appear in the academic robes of their degrees; and so Professor Howard, heretofore immune, had to get out his gown of Doctor of Music and appear in it at the organ. In training for the occasion, he confided to his friends at a choir rehearsal, his wife every evening wrapped a great shawl around him while he practiced at home, and thus by slow stages he was able to overcome in a measure the impediments of hanging drapery.
Mr. Howard now adjusted the electric lamps on the organ desk -- the pedals, stops, and so forth -- pushed his glasses farther back on the bridge of his nose, gave his gown a last hunch on his shoulders, and, with a smile at those nearest him, settled down to the keys. Those who had heard him before were immediately in heaven; those who had not were having their first experience of ecstasy. Softly, sweetly, came the notes of the "Andantino," and our friends in the gallery, thrilled with the exquisiteness of the music, let their gaze wander among the electric lights and cross beams up in the ceiling, their attention never for a moment taken by any of the people still coming in. Two or three students came up softly and sat in the same row on the left of them. Of a sudden Tommy's heart began to thump; she recognized Helen Crosby beside her. After that her attention was not good for much.
Softer and softer became the music and, as the notes died away, the organ started on the first bars of the processional and the choir began to come in, that beautiful, quaint strain of Oriental-like music -- the old "Plain Song" -- on their lips:
"O come, O come, Emmanuel,
Redeem and bless thine Israel!
Give joy for mourning, hope for fear,
And let the Son of God appear!
"Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Has come to thee, O Israel!"
Two and two they came, the crisp, white surplices falling in blameless folds over the black-clad little figures. Elinor Haskell with a Junior was leading; a little behind her, Gail Calder; and farther back, among the Sophomores, as the line drew in and lengthened, Edith Brewster. The organ was booming now, and the freshness of young voices was pouring out higher and higher, swelling in volume; eyes were lifted in the exaltation of the moment, and a halo almost glowed over the fair brows. They might have been singing through the streets of Jerusalem!
"O come, Thou King and Savior, come!
Here open wide our heavenly home!
Make plain the way that leads on high,
And close the road to misery!
"Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Has come to thee, O Israel!"
"Oh, isn't that beautiful! " breathed Molly to her neighbor, who happened to be Tommy.
"It's glorious," came the whispered response. "I never heard anything like it before. No wonder people come from Holyoke and Amherst to hear it." And she relapsed into thoughtfulness. At the end of the prayer, a hard and stealthy poke from Molly aroused her.
"See who's next to you," whispered Molly.
"Hush -- I know," whispered back Tommy.
The young lady on the left of her was offering to share her copy of the Order of Service, and Tommy, her heart beating, clutched it with her awkward, white-swathed, iodoformy hands.
"Oh, you poor girl," said Miss Crosby, "have you hurt your hands?"
"Yes," with a blush, from Tommy. P> "Bread-cutter?"
"No, fire-escape," was the laconic reply, and a sheepish smile came over Tommy's features.
"Oh -- I've heard. I'm awfully sorry." And Helen Crosby knew it was that Freshman, maligned to her the night before by Edith in their society room.
It is left to the imagination to form an idea of Tommy's state of happiness as she sat beside that most popular young woman, to whom her fancy (and need of protection) attached itself. For was it many people who had that honor? Wasn't Molly, all envious, directing the glances of the rest of the party toward them? Yes, it was blissful! The responses rolled in Tommy's mouth like something good; for wasn't Helen Crosby repeating them with her? The chants and soft '"Amens" of the choir arranged antiphonally on each side in the front of the chapel, the anthem and the great King "Te Deum," now soft and mysterious, now with glorious fullness, poured out and made her think of the vastness of a cathedral and incense and stained glass. Only when the recessional was reached did Helen awake to the regret of having to leave her new-found friend so soon. For the choir were marching out again, singing "O day of rest and gladness" with the feeling of good work done. That simple air, quaint in its plainness, filled every cranny with the same satisfaction and content. Professor Howard has a knack of discovering simple, homely airs, which, whipped to life and transformed under his masterly hands, have been sung by the Mount Holyoke choir with a richness that has made that organization famous.
As the last of the choristers passed out, and the "Amen" was heard in the distance from the corridor, Helen Crosby turned to Tommy.
"You have a splendid voice," she said to her -- "you and your friend next to you. Aren't you going to join the choir? Freshmen are to have their voices tried to-morrow, I think."
"Thank you -- indeed we shall go!" cried Tommy enthusiastically, and introductions followed all around as the rest of the Freshmen were presented. Going down the narrow gallery stairs, Tommy was again brought near Helen Crosby.
"I've had a delightful evening, Miss Crosby," she said, "and -- and -- all on account of you."
"Oh, nonsense," said Miss Crosby, taken aback.
"Yes, I mean it. And -- Is it too much for a Freshman to ask? -- will -- you come and see me sometime?"
Miss Crosby acquiesced laughingly.
"Sometime when there's time," she said, and they lost each other in the mob of girls at the entrance. Her friends "jollied" Tommy about Helen Crosby; but Tommy, having had the best time in her life, only smiled good-naturedly and let the mischievous shots glance off. And when it comes to that -- who had the happiest sleep that night and who had the sweetest dreams -- in which, however, there were no bandaged hands?
On Monday two great events occurred. Two signs appeared before chapel on the bulletin boards: one on the Senior, calling for a class meeting in the Williston lecture room at 4.45, and the other on the music bulletin board -- in Mr. Howard's boldest and most artistic strokes -- calling for Freshman recruits, and giving a list of appointments. Porter and Safford Freshmen were to go and have their voices tried at 1.15 that day in the general music room. Last night's vesper service was evidently meant to serve as a drumming up.
Interested Freshmen were thrown into a state of excited expectation, and the music room was humming like a beehive with them, when Professor Howard opened the door.
"My!" he said, smiling. "I'm almost afraid to come in. D'you all want to join the choir?"
"Yes, indeed," was the enthusiastic response.
"Well, I guess we'll have a dandy choir this year, if you're all as good as you're willing." He seated himself at the piano and struck up "America" to get the timidity out of them. "You all know that, don't you? Now everybody sing -- mouth wide open --
"My country, 'tis of thee --"
They were in full swing.
"That's right," encouraged Mr. Howard, raising a listening ear. "That's fine!"
Soon his ear was caught by the singing to the left of him, where some of the Porter delegation were standing, and he started a second verse, listening very attentively. When they had finished, he began to examine individually, beginning on the side that had attracted his attention.
"This young lady here -- what's your name?" He took it down. "Now sing the scale -- la, la, la, la. Now back again. That will do." And he jotted down a hieroglyphic comment. "Next!"
The girls put Molly to the front, and for the first time in her life that young woman felt backward. But her courage reviving with the first chords of the music, she took the scale with a dash, and her beautiful voice brought her out with flying colors.
"Fine!" commented Professor Howard. "Can you go higher?" Molly tried the higher scale, and for five minutes she held the floor exclusively.
"Now, that's what I call tiptop," when Molly had reached as far as she could go. "Where d'you take lessons?"
"I had a few with Professor Ralston, of Cambridge."
"Is that so! I know him very well. Now, I don't tell it to everybody right off like this, but I want you in the choir. And I hope you'll take singing lessons from Miss Robinson. She starts next week. Next, please."
Molly pulled Tommy forward.
"Did you take lessons, too?" inquired Professor Howard, grinning.
"No," said Tommy faintly, her eyes dropping, "but I used to sing in our glee club."
"Well, then, I guess you can sing if I play a cakewalk. Now the scale -- la, la, la --"
Tommy's full young voice was good to hear, and Mr. Howard evidently thought so, too, for his face beamed.
"Good! Two good bites in five minutes!" he said. "You'll do, both of you. Come to choir rehearsal next Friday at 4.45."
The two happy girls closed the door behind them on a roomful of expectant candidates, and hugged each other out in the corridor.
"I knew we would! " exclaimed Molly jubilantly.
"Aren't you glad!" laughed Tommy.
And they went down to mathematics in Williston and waited for the class to assemble -- ages before the time. They had been the luckiest of the lucky, for it turned out that few candidates were accepted; it was only late Wednesday afternoon that Fanny Wallace received a notice that she might "come to rehearsal." For Fanny, indeed, had no great quality or quantity of voice. She had only her willingness, and it was the influence of Gail Calder brought to bear upon Professor Howard and the latter's own liking for girls like Fanny that brought the welcome note.
After classes that day came the Senior meeting with its election of officers. Tommy and Molly, who had been celebrating their success with a row on the lake, knew nothing of the events going forward. It was half past five, and they were tying the boat in the boathouse, when their senses were suddenly assaulted by ear-splitting sounds from up the grove.
"What do you suppose it is?" asked Molly, squatting on the cobwebby steps.
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Tommy, shoving the oars on the narrow, wooden platform. "It sounds like the barking of dogs. Let's go up and see."
As they emerged from the boathouse and went up the hilly path under the double row of great maples, where red squirrels raced and scolded, the cries grew more insistent and larger of volume.
"What is it? What is it?" they called to a girl running out of Porter.
"Senior elections!" came back the reply. "Come on up to Williston."
Sure enough! Outside of Williston was a seething mob of girls -- Seniors, dignified Seniors! -- from whose throats the rough, "manly" cheering, reverberating against the halls around, came in hoarse roars.
"Listen!" cried Tommy, clutching Molly's arm. "Isn't that --"
"Rah-rah-rah!
Rah-rah-rah!
Rah-rah-rah!
Crosby! Crosby! Crosby!"
" Why --"
On the shouders of the crowd was lifted the little figure of Helen Crosby -- blushing and protesting -- while classmates and admiring friends braved the maelstrom to grip her hands and offer congratulations; for Helen had just been elected president of the Senior Class, and lucky the shoulders that bore her burden! From dormitory to dormitory they passed, giving their class song and yell, and cheering with raucous voices that would have done credit to men. The girls in the dormitories waved to them out of windows and called for "Speech!" and Faculty, meeting the happy mob on the campus, smiled and passed on. For once the Seniors had laid down the mask of dignity.
Senior elections was the topic of conversation at supper that night -- even the Faculty at each table was interested -- and the details were told by grave but excited Senior-opposites whose voices were now hoarse from yelling -- and proud to be! Helen Crosby would make an ideal Senior president. They had planned it out from their Freshman year, and the petite, graceful lady, so gentle and democratic and intellectual, who was famed in the class dramatics, and whose versatility ranged from Tony Lumkins to Parthenia -- who in addition was sure to be elected to the Phi Beta Kappa as soon as it should be installed in the spring -- now held the hearts of the college in another sphere.
Tommy ate hardly any supper, so great was her excitement; for she was revolving a plan in her mind by which she could most fitly show her appreciation of the Senior elections. There is a quaint old song in the Holyoke song books which runs like this:
Here Freshmen fall madly in love twice a week,
With a Senior, you know, with a Senior, you know!
They load her with flowers, but never dare speak,
At Holyoke, Mount Holyoke, you know!
Unconsciously Tommy was carrying out the context of that stanza -- a marked symptom of Freshman fever. Toward eight o'clock, when night had come on and made students passing to and fro on the campus look like vague, formless shadows, another shadow added itself to their number. It was Tommy, who, on the pretext of going to work in the library, surreptitiously slipped her purse up her sleeve and stole out into the darkness, bound for Mr. Gates's, the town florist.
Mr. Gates, a quaint old soul, well advanced in years, kept hot-houses along College Street and sold his flowers and plants to the college and the city of Holyoke. On Memorial Day his little, stooping figure wore a glorious, faded old blue uniform and medals at the exercises on the village green, and he was proud that he still got along without a cane. He and the college botany department were great friends; they went together on botanical expeditions, and often exchanged duplicates of specimens. One afternoon Dr. Lyman, head of that department, was told that Mr. Gates had been to see her during her absence. On the desk in her office she found two specimens of rare mushrooms. The first was labeled THIS and the second THE OTHER, and in a note in the old man's handwriting was the following inscription:
"Is THIS like THE OTHER, Or is THE OTHER different from THIS?"
Tommy hoped to find Mr. Gates in his hot-house, putting his flowers to bed. But alas! everything was closed up and dark, and a pang of disappointment seized her. For a moment she stood uncertain, then after a little hesitation she boldly strode forward toward the house and rang the bell.
"Is Mr. Gates in?"
"Yes, won't you come in?" said the little old wife, who opened the door.
"Oh -- I only wanted --"
"Some flowers?" asked Mr. Gates himself, who now appeared, pipe in hand, and invited her to a chair.
"Ye-es; for Miss Crosby, you know."
"Uh-huh! They've sent her lots of flowers, and the Sophomore and Junior classes sent her great big bunches of them." His eyes were twinkling.
"Did they? I -- I suppose -- you see, Miss Crosby is a friend of mine --"
Mr. Gates nodded approvingly. He had seen this before; it was good for his trade.
"But I can't give 'em to you to-night. The office is closed up. I c'n take them aroun' to her early in the mornin'."
"Oh, will you! I -- I guess that's just as good. Have you any American Beauties?"
"Lots of them."
"Then -- could you send -- half a dozen? Buds, you know."
"All right, miss -- the first thing in the mornin'."
Tommy paid for her luxury, and gave her card and final directions; and when Mr. Gates closed the door after her, he turned to his wife with a grin.
"Another Freshman, Mother! But if they didn't do that, they'd be gettin' homesick, or spoilin' their stomicks with fudge an' the like."
Seats had been given out in the chapel, and a little note, stating the number of her seat, put in each girl's letter box. Our three Paradise Alley friends, who with two others from Porter Hall had been so lucky as to win seats in the choir, were planning to be at their places in chapel bright and early Thursday morning.
Why?
There was a peculiar stir in college, and a streak of suspicion in the air. The Seniors had elected class officers; regular seats in chapel had been assigned; it now followed, the underclassmen reasoned, that the Seniors must come out in cap and gown soon -- to-day, it was rumored. True, the Seniors seemed very unconcerned and practical this morning at breakfast. Most of them wore colored shirtwaists and dresses, and talked of domestic work and "lab" and various other things that call for plain working dresses. But, pshaw! this was only a blind, and the underclassmen accused the Seniors of it.
This coming out in caps and gowns for the first time in chapel was the Seniors' great day -- prouder even than Commencement -- and nearer a marriage occasion than anything else in their lives! But the coming out was always kept secret from dearest friend, and caps and gowns were smuggled into the music room the night before and hidden away.
This morning the chapel bell rang out no differently from any other morning, but the underclassmen hurried expectantly to chapel. Some hung around the outer door like bees, reluctant to go in; while others, seeing the Senior rows in front left absolutely unoccupied, hurried home for their cameras.
The chapel was fast filling, curiosity on tiptoe. Professor Howard, who (an unusual thing for him) had come up from Holyoke for chapel, was at the organ desk -- in his gown! He pushed back his glasses and smiled at his choir, and, when three bells rang, began a soft impromptu something for the benefit of the people coming in last, just before the doors were closed. No, still no Seniors! The music now became soft, formless chords, and then slowly mellowed out into the "Pilgrims' Chorus" from "Tannhauser."
The doors in the rear were thrown open, and -- ah! -- a suppressed murmur rippled over the assembly. There were the Seniors at last! The President of the college arose with a smile and the Faculty on the platform arose also, the underclassmen, their nerves a-tingle, following suit.
In they came with the stately music, Helen Crosby, with Grace Waldon, the handsome and businesslike vice-president, leading. Their black gowns fell over spotless white dresses, and the tassels on the left side of their caps swayed ruthlessly into their eyes. Fuller and fuller swelled the music, like a host advancing on the mountainside. On and on came the Seniors, proud and confident, looking neither to right nor left, where hearts were beating wildly and lumps were filling the throats and tears the eyes of adoring chums; for their friends thought of this as the beginning of the end, and felt the time galloping past when these Seniors would give up their caps and gowns to somebody else and pass out of the college world forever.
Our friends in the choir, too, strange to say, felt the solemnity of the moment in their little souls, as they watched the Seniors come to their places -- felt as though something dreadful were happening, and mourned for the Seniors as though they knew every one of them. They sang the opening Gloria with all the voice that was in them, and drank in every word of the President's words.
Then something occurred to bring the student body back to earth again -- one of those ludicrous coincidences that are bound to happen. The hymn was announced, and the college joined in that selected for the occasion. The imposing music rolled out:
"Triumphant Zion, lift thy head
From dust, and darkness, and the dead" --
Those who knew it well had an intuition that something was giving way -- they knew not what.
"Though humbled long, awake at length
And gird thee with thy Saviour's strength."
Unconscious of anything wrong, the college started on the second verse, when those in front saw Professor Howard beginning to smile expansively.
"Put all thy beauteous garments on,
And let thy various charms be known" --
The suppressed smile on the faces of the students was contagious and broadened into a mischievous and appreciative grin.
"The world thy glories shall confess,
Decked in the robes of righteousness!"
"The world thy glories shall confess,
Decked in the robes of righteousness!"
That hymn turned the tide; the underclassmen, who had a moment before been almost in tears, once more resumed their natural composure, and reminded themselves that they had come "to praise Caesar, not to bury him." Mr. Howard helped them keep up this impression, for when the service was over, he marched out the Seniors, the first to leave chapel (now and hereafter) to the strains of Mendelssohn's "Wedding March."
Congratulations were in order on the lawn in front of the chapel, and when Tommy, undaunted, wormed herself in a group the center of which was Helen Crosby, the latter reached out her hand and drew Tommy toward her.
"Why, you little namesake!" she exclaimed, throwing a black-sleeved arm around her shoulders -- and you don't know how good it feels to have a real Senior, in cap and gown, put her arm around you -- "Why, you little namesake! What made you send me those beautiful roses! See, I am wearing some of them to-day. And they are keeping splendidly -- all blossomed out. Come up to-night to my room in Rockefeller and see them."
After the Seniors have elected their class officers, one of the first functions is the Senior-Freshman reception. When Tommy went to see "her Senior" in the evening, Helen invited her to go to the Senior reception with her. For she had taken a fancy to this impulsive Tommy, and though she would have to receive most of the evening at the social, she would spend all the time she could with her, giving her Freshman over to Elinor Haskell while she was in the receiving line.
To say Tommy's vanity was tickled over this invitation from the Senior president would be very mild. She was fairly beside herself, quivering with excitement as though from an electric shock, and the next morning, before chapel, sought Dr. Doane in the dispensary, to ask or plead if the bandages on her hands "might not really be left off" within a week's time. For the reception was to be next Tuesday night, and Tommy was planning to wear her pretty white organdie -- her graduation dress -- on this gala occasion. Dr. Doane set her mind at rest by promising that "perhaps they might," and for a week following Tommy visited her every day to see if her hands were not getting "ripe." For wasn't she the proudest girl in college to be invited by the Senior class president?
Sunday night after supper, she and Frances Chambley were enumerating their blessings in the latter's room. Helen Crosby had visited Tommy that morning after church; and Frances, too, who was present, had lost her heart to her.
"You see, 'it never rains but it po-ars,' Tommy," said Frances, " and I almost envy you. First you get into the choir, and then Miss Crosby invites you to the Senior reception, and then she comes to visit you."
"Oh, Miss Crosby!" sighed Helen. "Don't you think she is a dear, Frances?"
"I sure do, you lucky girl!"
"She is so brilliant in everything!"
"Yes, and they say she'll make the Phi Beta Kappa next spring."
Pause.
"I wish we could go and visit her now -- but I suppose that would be highly improper."
"Ye-es, I suppose so," said Frances, looking at her friend regretfully under curly locks. "But if we could only manage!"
"I just feel restless -- Frances."
"Homesick?"
"No-o-o -- not homesick! But I'd like to -- Let's go down to Rocky anyhow -- and sort of -- walk around -- and see --"
"Yes -- and maybe --"
In a jiffy they were in their coats and descending the stairs, and were lost in the darkness of the night. Arm in arm they went down the "chute" to Rockefeller Hall and around the front where they could look up to the suite on the second floor occupied by Helen Crosby and her Junior roommate. They walked out into the lawn, where, at a better angle and out of the patches of light thrown by the open windows, they could see and not be seen.
The shades were up. Helen Crosby had visitors for whom she was making tea, and ripples of laughter came from her windows.
"Wouldn't you like to be there, Frances?"
"Ye-es," from Frances, whose teeth were beginning to chatter from the chill of the evening.
"Cold?"
"K-kind of."
" Well, I d-don't know but I feel so, t-too. But say -- isn't she s-stunning!"
"Yes -- just see how d-dayenty she is!"
"But wouldn't you just like to be there?"
"Noa--I'd j-just as soon be here -- where I can see her."
"Hu! S-sour grapes!"
"R-r-really I would. I -- I wouldn't want to be up there with all that crowd!"
"W-well, y-you aren't. And I d-don't know as I would, either."
The minutes crawled along, and the silly little girls kept their watch and tried to imagine themselves warm. They saw the visitors go, and were half tempted to go up next. They saw Helen Crosby settle down to writing letters at her desk, and looked on with hungry eyes, shivering in silence.
It was finally nine o'clock striking on Mary Lyon that roused them to their senses. They took a last loving look and turned for home -- regretfully. Next morning they both had colds.