Elizabeth Hobart at Exeter Hall. Jean Katherine Baird
Cresswell, will you take charge of Elizabeth – I’m going to call you Elizabeth; you don’t look nearly old enough to be Miss Hobart.”
“Yes; come with me, Miss Hobart. Nancy, I presume you and I part here. I shall be surprised if Miss Morgan permits you and Mary to be together much longer.”
She led the way to a table by the window where she seated herself at its head, placing Elizabeth at her right.
“Miss Morgan never allows roommates to sit together at meals,” she explained, “or two girls who have been reared together as Mary and Nancy have. She wishes us to know all the students, and tries to prevent our forming little cliques, as we’re bound to do when we room and eat and study with the same people.”
“But what if you should not like the other people?” asked Elizabeth. “It must be rather unpleasant to sit at meals with someone whom you do not like.”
“That is one of the lessons Miss Morgan is giving us the opportunity of learning. We may discover on close acquaintance that one is more likable than we first supposed; and if that is impossible, then we learn to keep our dislikes to ourselves.”
The dining-hall was rapidly filling. Landis Stoner and Min Kean came in among the last, the former taking her place at Miss Cresswell’s table, sitting beside Elizabeth.
“Why, Anna Cresswell,” she exclaimed, leaning forward, “did Miss Morgan put you at the head of the table?”
“How else should I be here? You surely did not think I came unasked.”
“Oh, no, I spoke without thinking. Of course, you would not come unless she asked you to do so. I was surprised, that was all.”
“Why surprised? You know I am a Senior, and it is customary to give them the head.”
“Oh, yes, of course. But there are Seniors who haven’t been given the head. That is what made me speak.”
Miss Cresswell turned the conversation to other subjects. Elizabeth was the only new student at the table. She felt that some reason other than the one given had caused Miss Stoner to speak as she had. It was not until some days later that she learned that Landis was a Senior. She learned, too, that the girl was ambitious to be first, even in so slight a thing as sitting at the head of a table and playing hostess to five girls, generally of under classes.
“Are you on the second floor again this year, Landis?” asked a little pink-and-white, china-doll girl from the foot of the table.
“Yes, Mame. Min and I have the same rooms as before. The third time is the charm. I presume something good will happen this year.”
“Perhaps Min will get through the preliminaries,” was the rejoinder. “She won’t pull through from any effort she makes herself. If her friends wish to see her graduate, they will be compelled to resort to something. Get her to pick four-leafed clovers and wear them in the toe of her shoe, possibly. That has been known to work where all else fails.”
Landis looked serious at the jest. Her manner grew quite self-assertive as she replied, as though expressing herself quite settled the question. Yet throughout there was an assumed self-deprecatory air, as though she would not have her hearers think she was either maligning her friend or lauding herself too highly in the comparison suggested in her speech.
“Don’t blame Min too much. Some work which would be possible for you or me, is impossible for her. I did not realize until we roomed together what a difference there can be in – in – minds. I could not have believed that any one would consider a theorem or a page of French difficult. But,” with an arch glance, “these past two years have taught me a great deal. I am more sympathetic, and oh so much more thankful that I am – ”
“Not as ‘these publicans and sinners,’” finished the girl at the foot. As she spoke, her glance swept over the table to include among “these” all who sat there.
Even Elizabeth, though a stranger, could not suppress a smile.
“Who has No. 12 – that big room, the one Miss Watson used to have?” continued Miss Welch, ignoring Landis’ show of vexation at her words. Landis made no attempt to answer, although the question was addressed to her. After a moment’s silence, a little German girl, Elizabeth’s vis-a-vis, replied, “If I have not heard it unright, Fraulein – that is, Miss O’Day in it she will room.”
She blushed prettily as she spoke, half in shyness and half in embarrassment that her German idioms would intrude themselves when she was trying to speak English. She looked up at Miss Cresswell, as though she sought encouragement from her.
“Why, Miss Hirsch, what have you been doing all summer? Spending all your vacation talking English? You have improved wonderfully. Now Fraulein Kronenberg will complain that you are losing your pure German accent.”
“Oh, think you so? It is glad I am. A single German word the whole long summer have I not said. But about the room which on the second floor is; to me it was said Miss O’Day will – will – occupy? it.”
“Who is to room with her?” asked Miss Welch.
“I believe she is to room alone,” said Miss Cresswell.
“Why doesn’t Maud Harris go back with her? They seemed to get along well last fall, and Maud is well enough to enter again!” said Miss Welch.
“Miss Harris with anything could – what you call it? – get along,” said Miss Hirsch.
“My words seem to suggest that Miss O’Day is difficult to get along with. I did not mean that. So far as I know, she has a very even temper, and is more than generous with all her possessions. She isn’t selfish.”
“I can plainly see why Maud has another roommate. Of course you all do. It does seem a little hard.” Here Landis’ manner grew important. Her head was raised, and her lips curled. “But those of us who have a high sense of honor would not care to room with Miss O’Day. I hope I am not narrow-minded, but I feel that all my finer instincts rebel at the thought of – ”
“Miss Stoner, if you please, we will drop the subject. Nothing can be gained by carrying it further.” This came from Miss Cresswell. She spoke quietly but her manner and voice was that of one who expected to have her suggestions followed.
Landis tilted her head a little higher, but her face flushed. She was about to tell Miss Cresswell that she would discuss any subject when and where she chose when she remembered suddenly that Miss Cresswell was the head of the table and the one to whom she must pay a certain amount of respect.
The dinner had been brought in. Miss Cresswell served the plates with Maggie, the colored serving-maid, standing at her side. All conversation of a personal nature stopped while the servants were in the room. When the dinner was over, and dessert on the table, the chatter began. As they were about to quit the room, a bell rang. Quiet fell upon them. Dr. Morgan arose from her place at the head table.
She made a few general announcements. Then in her clear, decisive voice continued: “The students will not forget that they are expected to dress for dinner. If you are too indisposed to change your school attire for something fresher, you are too indisposed to come to the dining-hall. But you will bear in mind that this does not mean either dinner or reception gowns. Elaborate and extravagant dressing is not suited to girls in school. Miss O’Day has infringed upon this rule. Consequently she may pass immediately to her apartments, change her gown, and spend the evening in her room, without conversing with anyone. You may be excused, Miss O’Day.”
From a table at a distant part of the room, Miss O’Day arose. As she moved through the room with her head high and eyes straight before her, her shoulders and arms gleamed through their transparent covering, and the rustle of her silken petticoats was audible.
As she disappeared, Dr. Morgan gave the signal for dismissal. The hum of conversation among the students began again, as in little groups they passed to the parlors or to the campus.
CHAPTER IV.
THE RECEPTION
“What have you brought to fix up our quarters?” asked Miss