Beatrice Leigh at College Part 18

"Agnes, your beautiful fungi!"

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come," called Agnes in mechanical response. There was a pause; then the k.n.o.b turned and the visitor entered with diffident step.

Ethelwynne hastily smoothed her hair with one hand and felt of her belt with the other. "Oh, good evening, Professor Stratton," she stuttered from surprised embarra.s.sment, "I mean, good morning. How do you do? Won't you sit down?"

Agnes turned to look, and rose in sober greeting.

"You see it is spoiled," she pointed to the ink-splotched drawing. "It was an accident. You don't know how exceedingly sorry I am, Professor Stratton. The work on your book can go on without it, I hope."

The older woman forgot her incorrigible shyness in dismay. "What a shame!

How distressing!" She hurried forward impulsively to examine the sheet.

"Since you brought it to me last night I have been exulting in the thought of it. You have great talent for such work. The time you have spent on it! How distressing!" She stopped in thoughtful fear that she might be adding to the girl's disappointment. "An accident, you say? How did it happen?"

"Something startled me so that I twirled around in my seat, and my elbow knocked the ink over. I--I am very sorry." Her lips felt stiff.

Ethelwynne watching with miserable eyes saw her moisten them. They were drooping at the corners.

"It is my fault," she burst out hurriedly, "it is all my fault. I made her jump. I startled her on purpose. I said mean things to her because I felt like saying them. I felt like saying them because I had flunked in Latin.

And I flunked in Latin because I took a p-p-pill--oh, no, no! I mean, because I caught cold from staying out on the ice too long. And I stayed out long because I wanted to. And the reason why I caught cold from staying out too long was because my digestion was upset from eating fudge when the doctor told me not to. And I ate the fudge because I wanted it.

And it is all my fault. It is all because I do things just because I want to do them and not because I ought to do them or ought not to do them. I ought to leave them undone, you know. And Prexie says that most miseries in life come from that att.i.tude of I-do-it-because-I-want-to-do-it-and- I-don't-do-it-because-I-don't-want-to-do-it. And now Agnes won't have thirty dollars to send home for Christmas. And it is all my----"

"Hush!" said Agnes, "hush, now, dear! That'll be all right. It was my fault anyhow. I should have had better control of my nerves and learned not to let myself get startled." She smiled rea.s.suringly across the bowed head into Professor Stratton's concerned eyes.

"I will see what I can do about holding back the ma.n.u.script till you reproduce the drawing," said the older woman, "it is barely possible that I can manage it."

As the door closed softly behind her, Ethelwynne lifted her tear-wet face.

"Agnes, do you think it was the pill that did it?"

"Did what? Everything?"

"Oh, no, no! Was it the pill that made me flunk in Latin?"

"I don't know," she answered doubtfully, "perhaps it helped."

"I want to say it was the pill. I want to believe it was the pill. I want to, but I won't, because it wasn't--not really way down underneath truly, you know. It was my own selfish self." She reached up both arms to draw Agnes closer in a repentant hug. "Wynnie's sorry," she said.

CHAPTER XI

A GIRL TO HAVE FRIENDS

"Laura!" It was a soft little call sent fluttering in through the keyhole. "Laura, are you there?"

Laura with her chin propped on her hands at one of the broad sills stirred uneasily in her chair and glanced sideways at her roommate who was seated before the other window. Lucine had stopped reading aloud and was regarding the door with an irritable frown on her vivid dark face.

"I do wish, Laura, that you would tell Berta Abbott that an engaged sign on our door means nothing if not the desire for undisturbed privacy. She is the most inconsiderate person in the junior cla.s.s. This is the third time----"

"Laura!" called the voice again, "answer me! I know you are in there.

I've simply got to speak to you one minute. It's awfully important."

Laura half rose with a pleading smile toward Lucine who motioned her indignantly back to her seat.

"Laura Wallace, stay right there. You promised to help me revise this essay. You know that I can't do it alone, because I haven't a particle of critical ability; and the editors say they cannot print it as it is now.

You are exceedingly selfish to think of deserting me just when I most need your suggestions. The board of editors meets to-night to choose the material for the next number of the magazine, and if they decline this again I shan't be eligible for election next month. You promised."

"Laura, there's something I've got to ask you. If you don't come out, I shall have to take this sign down and walk in my own self. Laura! Ah!"

The door swung open and tall Berta popped in. Slamming it behind her, she stood with both hands on the k.n.o.b, her eyes fixed with an expression of innocent inquiry upon Lucine who had halted in the middle of her sudden dash across the floor, her hand still outstretched toward the key.

"Excuse me, Miss Brett. Were you just going out? I'm glad I did not disturb you. Shall I hold it open for you?" She stepped to one side and waited gravely without moving a muscle till Lucine after a withering stare had stalked angrily back to her window. The corner of Berta's mouth gave a quick, queer little twitch before settling back into proper solemnity.

"Come, Laura. You'd better. I shan't keep you long." At her imperious gesture Laura slid out of the room at an apologetic angle, her head twisted for a final shy glance back at Lucine who was apparently absorbed in her papers.

When safely outside in the corridor Berta seized her about the waist and whirled her away from all possible earshot through cracks and transom.

"Now then, exit the ogre, or rather eximus nos, leaving the ogre alone.

For what particular reason is she trampling all over you to-day? I didn't catch all her last speech. You don't mean to say that you have promised to help her with her writing?"

"Yes," Laura nodded her rough curly head. She was a delicate little thing with the irregular features that generally accompany such hair. Her beauty lay in her expression which brightened charmingly from minute to minute since her escape. "Oh, how good the air smells!" she stopped to lean from an open window. "Lucine shivers at every draught. It is hard to manage the ventilation to suit two persons in the same room. I smother----"

"Of course you smother--and you smother a good many more hours than she shivers. Trust her for that. Such a little ninny as you are! Don't forget that you have agreed to room with my best little sister when she enters next fall. You would not have been thrust in with Lucine Brett this year if I could have prevented it."

"Oh, but if I can't come back--you know, I'm almost sure I shan't come back. And anyhow I'm the only friend she has. I've got to stick to her.

If you could hear her mourning over her loneliness! n.o.body cares for her--n.o.body in all the world! And the girls don't like her. I promised to be her friend. She--she needs me."

"Humph!" growled Berta sourly, but somehow her arm was stealing around the slight shoulders so far beneath her own, "that's the silly kind of a person you are. If any creature needs you, from a lame kitten to a lion with a toothache, you'll cling. Idiocy, that's what it is! Your brother warned me last summer to restrict your charities. And now to help her with her writing, and she your most dangerous rival for the editorship!"

"Ah, but she doesn't know it, you understand. She doesn't know that I am eligible. The editors have been so awfully kind to me and gave me book reviews to do and reports to make, and they printed my verses and two editorials. Every freshman who has had so many words published is eligible for election on the board at their annual meeting next month.

Lucine's last story was clipped so much that she is short about two thousand words; and this is her last chance to qualify by getting her essay accepted for the next issue. I've got to help."

"Yes, certainly you've got to help a rival qualify for a compet.i.tion in which she is likely to defeat you. Do you realize that?" Berta swung Laura around in front of her and studied her curiously while she spoke.

"You are a good steady worker, you understand. You have critical ability and a simple, sincere style. If elected you would make an excellent editor, but--now listen, but, I say, you are not a genius like Lucine Brett. She is brilliant. Oh, I acknowledge that, even if I do despise her for being selfish and disagreeable and ego----"

"Hush! She tries--she doesn't understand----You mustn't talk that way. I won't listen. I promised to be her friend. She wonders why the girls don't like her."

"And yet she expects you to help her defeat you! She is willing to accept that sacrifice from you! When it means so much to you that----"

"Oh, hush, Berta!" Laura slipped out of the range of that keen straight-ahead gaze and nestled under the protecting arm again. "She doesn't know that I am eligible, I tell you. My articles weren't signed usually except with initials. And she is not thinking about other girls'

qualifications--she's bothered about her own. It's got to be a fair race with everybody in it, if they want to be. Of course she will be elected--there isn't a doubt--and I'll be as glad as any one."

"Yes!" Berta's voice veered from sarcasm to genuine anxiety. "You'll be glad--but you'll be glad at home. You can't come back to college--you told me so yourself--unless you are elected editor. That's why I called you out just now. Did your uncle really say that he was disappointed in your career here?"

Laura cleared her throat. "He doesn't like it because I haven't won any honors yet. Don't you know how almost every girl here came from a school where she was the brightest star and carried off all the prizes and things like that? My uncle doesn't understand. He thinks it is the fault of the college because I haven't done anything great. Oh, you know, Berta. I--I do hate to talk in such a conceited way. He doesn't realize that I am not brighter than the rest and can't dazzle. He wants me to win an honor that he can put in the papers at home. He says if I don't distinguish myself this year, I might as well stop and go to the Normal next fall. He thinks college is too expensive. This editorship is the only chance, because--because there isn't anything else for our cla.s.s now that the offices are filled and committees appointed. He didn't like it because my articles in the magazine were signed with initials and not the whole name. He said, 'Well, niece Laura, let me see your name printed plain in that list of editors, and then we'll decide about next year.'

He--he's disappointed."