Molly Brown's Junior Days

Molly was delighted to see the craftsmanship of this unusual young woman, who appeared to be a peculiar mixture of pretentiousness and genius.

When, presently, she led Molly into the little den where her silver work was spread out on view it was almost as if she had turned into a little old man and was taking a customer into the back of his shop.

Some of the other girls had followed and they now stood in an admiring circle around the table whereon were displayed rings and necklaces, buckles and several silver platters.

“You are a wonder,” cried Molly, deeply impressed.

Millicent accepted this compliment with a complacent smile.

“Papa and mamma think I am,” she remarked, “but I have artistic knowledge enough to know that this is only a beginning. When I am able to make a bas-relief of Greek dancing figures on a silver box, I shall call myself really great. At present I am only near-great.”

“What are you going to do with these things?” asked Margaret.

“Oh, nothing. They just accumulate and I pack them away. I don’t have to sell any of them, of course.”

“Don’t you want to exhibit some of them at the George Washington Bazaar?” asked Margaret. “The Bazaar will sell them for you at ten per cent commission. The money goes to the student fund. You can have a booth if you like and dress up as Benvenuto Cellini or some famous worker in silver. I am chairman and can make any appointments I choose.”

Molly could hardly keep from smiling over the expression on Millicent’s face. The worker in silver and the dealer in antiques were struggling for supremacy in the soul of their descendant.

“Oh,” she cried in great excitement, “I will fix it up like a Florentine shop, full of beautiful old stuffs and curios. It will be the most beautiful booth in the Bazaar. And I will choose Miss Brown to assist me. You shall be dressed as a Florentine lady of the Renaissance. I have the very costume.”

Now Margaret, as Chairman of the Bazaar, preferred all appointments to be made officially, but seeing that Millicent was very much in earnest and that such a booth would greatly add to the picturesqueness of the affair, she made no objections.

“There is one thing I would advise you to do, Miss Porter,” she said when the plan was settled, “and that is to keep your silver things under lock and key because there is a thief about in Wellington. You might as well know it, because, sooner or later, you’ll lose something. We all of us have. My monogram ring went this morning. I left it on the marble slab in the wash room and when I came back for it not three minutes later it was gone.”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Molly, “I do hate things like that to happen. Why will people do such things?”

Millicent shrugged her shoulders.

“Perhaps they can’t help themselves,” she answered. “I’ve lost a few little things myself,” she added. “But come into my room, Miss Brown, and let’s talk about your costume. I have a gold net cap that will be charming.”

For the next half hour Molly was lost in the delights of Millicent’s collection of beautiful theatrical costumes, pieces of old brocades and velvets. She drew them carelessly from a carved oak chest and tossed them on the bed in a shimmering mass of rich colors. Molly lingered so late over these “rich stuffs” that she was obliged to run all the way back to the Quadrangle and fell breathless and exhausted on a stone bench just inside the court as the watchman closed the gates.

Nance and Judy were late, too. Nance had been to a secret conclave of the Octogons and Judy had been having a jolly, convivial time with the Olla Podridas. The three girls met in their sitting room as the last stroke of ten vibrated through the building. They were undressing in the dark stealthily, in order to avoid the eager eye of the housekeeper, who was not popular, when they heard a great racket in the corridor.

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” called several voices through half open doors.

The housekeeper making her rounds for the night passed them on the run.

“I’ve been robbed! I’ve been robbed!” wailed the voice of Minerva Higgins. “I won’t stand having my things stolen from me. Who has dared enter my room?”

“What have you been robbed of?” asked the matron sharply. She was a lazy woman and detested disturbances.

“Two of my best gold medals I won at Mill Town High School. They were pure gold and very valuable.”

“Good riddance,” laughed Judy. “If anything in school could be spared, it is her gold medals.”

“You’re only in the same box with all the rest of us, Miss Higgins,” called a student who roomed across the hall. “Everybody in the Quadrangle has lost something.”

“They haven’t lost gold medals,” cried Minerva. “They haven’t had them to lose. I could have spared anything else. I valued them more than everything I possess. They will be heirlooms some day for my children to show with pride.”

There were stifled laughs from several of the rooms, and someone called out:

“Suppose you don’t have any?”

“Then she’ll leave ’em to her grandchildren,” called another voice.

“Poor, silly, little thing,” exclaimed Molly, as the matron, intensely annoyed, went heavily past.

“Old Fatty’s gone now. Let’s light a lamp,” suggested Judy, who either felt intense respect or none at all for all persons. There was no moderation in her feelings one way or the other.

“It’s a queer thing about this thief-business,” sighed Molly. “It makes me uncomfortable. I can’t think of anyone I could even remotely suspect of such a thing.”

“She must be a real klep.,” observed Judy, “or she never would want the fair Minerva’s gold medals. They’re of no use to anybody but Minerva.”

“Do you suppose Miss Walker will get another detective like Miss Steel?” asked Nance. “She was a fine one. The way she tipped around on noiseless felt slippers and listened outside people’s doors was enough to scare any thief.”

“Oh, yes,” said Judy. “She was the real thing. And she wanted everything quiet. If Minerva Higgins had set up a yowl like that at Queen’s she would have been properly sat upon by Miss Steel.”

If Molly’s mind had been especially acute that evening she would have noticed that her two friends were keeping up a sort of continuous duet as they lingered over their undressing. As it was, she barely heard their chatter because she was thinking of something far removed from thieves and detectives.

“We’ll be called down about the light if you don’t hurry, girls,” she cautioned. “Why are you so slow?”

“By the way, did you know there was a package over here on the table addressed to you, Molly?” said Nance.

“Why, no; what can it be?”

Filled with curiosity, Molly made haste to cut the string around a square pasteboard box. Whatever was inside had been wrapped in quantities of white tissue paper.

“It feels like china,” cried Molly, tearing off the wrappings. “Why it’s – ”

“It’s after ten, young ladies,” said a stern voice outside the door.

Judy turned out the light.

“It’s Martin Luther, girls,” whispered Molly.

Judy crept to her room and returned presently with a little electric dark lantern her father had given her. This she flashed on the china pig.

“One sinner hath repented,” she whispered. “It is Martin.”

Nance reached for the hammer.

“Break him open,” she ordered. “Let’s, see if the money’s safe. He might be filled with stage money, too.”

Molly struck Martin Luther with the hammer, muffling the sound with a corner of the rug. The flashlight revealed quantities of silver.

“Oh, girls!” she exclaimed, “I’ve got it all back. I’m glad the thief repented and I’m glad, oh, so glad, to get the money.”

“And now the sale is on again,” said Judy, jumping about the room in a wild, noiseless dance.

“I can’t resist it,” ejaculated Molly. “I’ll buy the dress if you really want to sell it, Judy.”

They looked carefully at the address on the box. It was printed with a soft pencil and merely said: “Miss M. Brown.”

“I suppose the girl felt sorry,” Molly remarked. “But it’s a pity she started up so soon again after her repentance and took Minerva’s medals.”

CHAPTER XIII.

“THE MOVING FINGER WRITES.”

The girls had agreed to pack all their clothes in one trunk and carry a suitcase apiece to the Junior Week-End Party at Exmoor. Nance was official packer and stood knee-deep in finery while she considered whether it was better to begin with party capes or slippers. Molly was studying and Judy was stretched on the divan idly swinging one foot.

Otoyo poked her head in the door.

“May I ask advice of kind friends?”

Molly looked up and smiled. She had once heard a preacher say that humility was as necessary to a well-rounded character as a sense of humor and she could see now what he meant. Otoyo was an excellent illustration. She was filled with humble gratitude for little kindnesses, never boasted and never forgot her perfect manners.

“Indeed, you may, little one,” spoke up Judy. “Come right in and state your grievances.”

“Oh, I have no grievances. I have only happinesses,” said Otoyo. “But I am packing and I wish to ask advices regarding clothes.”

“Clothes for what?”

“For Exmoor,” replied Otoyo, blushing and casting down her eyes.

“Why, you dear little Jap, you didn’t tell us,” exclaimed Molly.

“I have obtained the knowledge of it myself only this morning. Mrs. McLean has so kindly offered to look after little Japanese girl.”

“And who is your escort?” they demanded in one chorus.

“Professor Green,” said Otoyo, trying not to show how intensely proud she felt of the honor. “He is what you call ‘a-lum-nus,’” she said, “and he invites me to go with him, and Mr. Andrew McLean, junior, is making out a card of dances for me. Is it not wonderful? And is it not of great good fortune that I have now learned to dance?” She began circling about the room. “Only I can do it much better alone. Poor little Japanese girl will be frightened to dance with American gentleman.”

The girls laughed again.

“You are an adorable little person,” exclaimed Molly, kissing her, “and young American gentleman will be only too glad to dance with little Japanese girl.”

Otoyo was now well provided with clothes, and there being still plenty of room in the trunk, they allowed her to pack two evening dresses and a diminutive black satin party wrap with their things.

Molly was half sorry that Professor Green was going. Except at classes, she had never seen him since that Sunday morning on Round Head. Once he had smiled at her like an old friend when they had met in the main hall, but she was careful not to return the smile and bowed coldly.

“Yes, I am disappointed,” she had thought. “I am glad Prexy found out about us that night, but he needn’t have been the one to tell. I hope I shall be too much engaged in having a good time at Exmoor to see him. I am glad Lawrence Upton is going to look after me, because he always does so much for one. It was nice of Professor Green to take Otoyo. He is kind, of course.”

However, that afternoon when the trolley started with its load of Wellington guests for Exmoor – there were several other parties – Molly found herself seated between Mrs. McLean and Professor Green. How it had happened she could not tell. She had intended to sit anywhere but next the Professor, whom she regarded as a false friend. But there she was and the Professor was saying:

“Miss Brown, you and I have been almost strangers of late. Are you working so hard that you have no time for old friends this winter?”

Molly paused for an instant to consider what she should reply to this question. Then she said a thing so bitter and foreign to her nature that the Professor gave a start of surprise and Molly felt that someone else must have said it.

“I have plenty of time for really loyal friends, Professor Green,” she said in a frigid tone of voice. She turned her back and began to talk to Mrs. McLean, and for the rest of the trip the Professor devoted himself to Otoyo.

Molly was in high spirits when she reached Exmoor. She was determined not to let her cruel speech ruin her good time. But through all the gayeties of that afternoon and evening, at the teas, the dinner and the Glee Club concert, the tang of its bitterness reached her. Across the aisle at the concert she could see Professor Green sitting by Otoyo, smiling gravely while the little Japanese girl entertained him, but never once did he look in Molly’s direction. A lump rose in her throat and she dropped her gaze to the program.

“It is never right to make mean speeches,” she decided, “no matter how much provocation one has.”

“Aren’t you having a good time?” asked Lawrence Upton at her side. “You look a little tired.”

“I’m having a lovely time,” answered Molly, “and I thought I was looking my best.”

“Oh, you couldn’t look any better. I think you are – well, the prettiest girl in the room. I meant there was a kind of sad look in your eyes.”

“Don’t try to cover it up with compliments,” answered Molly. “When a thing’s said, you can’t change it, you know. It’s like this:

“‘The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,Moves on; nor all your Piety nor WitShall lure it back to cancel half a line,Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.’”

“Please don’t be so severe, Miss Molly,” said Lawrence humbly.

“I wasn’t thinking of what you said, particularly,” said Molly. “I was thinking of any speech one might make and regret and never be able to recall.”

“You are sad,” said Lawrence. “I was certain of it. Will it make you any gladder to hear about to-morrow? You are engaged for every hour in the day. I had a great to-do keeping a little time for myself. Three fellows wanted to take you driving in the morning, but I reserved that privilege for yours truly. Dodo and I are going to drive you and Miss Judy over to Hillesdell after breakfast. Then there’s the Junior Lunch. That’s quite a big affair, you know. It’s like a reception. Prexy always comes to that and any of the alumni who happen to be down. A crowd of them come usually. Andy’s giving a tea in the Chapter rooms and there are some other teas, and then come the dinner and the ball.”

“If there’s anything left of us by then,” said Molly, laughing.

It was an intermission and everybody was visiting as they did at the Wellington Glee Club concerts. Molly, the center of a jolly crowd of young people, joined in the merriment and talk and all the time there was a taste of bitterness on her lips and in her ear a voice kept dinning over and over:

“I have plenty of time for really loyal friends, Professor Green.”

That night, when they had gone to bed in their rooms in the Chapter House, they were serenaded by a roving band of juniors. When at last the serenaders moved away and the house was still, Molly could not go to sleep.

Dozens of times she repeated her cruel speech. She analyzed and parsed it, as she used to parse sentences years before in her first lessons in grammar. She named the subject, the predicate, the object, and modifying words. She tried to define the meaning of the word loyal. What were its synonyms? Faithful was one, of course. When she closed her eyes, she could see her speech written in red across a black background like a flaming sign. Was the Professor hurt or angry or both? She recalled every kindness he had ever done for her and there were many. She remembered with a burning blush what pains he and his sister had taken to make her have a happy Christmas a year ago. He had informed President Walker on her, of course, but he was only doing his duty. And she had made that cruel speech!

“I have plenty of time for really loyal friends, Professor Green.”

Her mind traveled in a circle. She tossed and turned, trying one side until it ached and then trying the other; resting on her back for a moment and finding the position intolerable.

At last she fell asleep and woke up stiff and weary in the morning, devoutly wishing the day were well over.

She had hoped to see Professor Green in the morning, if only for a moment, but he had returned to Wellington, leaving the entertainment of Otoyo in charge of some of his brother’s friends.

Of what earthly pleasure is a beautiful corn-colored evening gown when one’s heart is like a lump of lead and one’s conscience heavy within?

All her numerous partners at the ball could not console Molly, nor could the knowledge that she was looking her best as she floated through the dances in her diaphanous dress.

“I know now how Judy felt after she was so unkind to me at the junior play,” she thought, “and, if heaven is kind to me, I hope never to say anything to hurt anyone again.”

In the meantime there were those who were enjoying themselves to the utmost limit of enjoyment.

Otoyo Sen, in a seventh heaven, was dancing with young Andy, who towered above her like a lighthouse over a cottage.

Judy in her black dress was sparkling with vivacity. Her fluffy light brown hair gleamed yellow and her skin was cream white, against the dark folds of her chiffon frock. Could this be the same Judy who, only a few weeks ago, was contemplating – heaven knows what?

Nance, with one eye on Andy, was also happy and light-hearted. How trim and charming she looked in her white silk dress!

Molly found herself laughing and talking a great deal, and all the time she was thinking:

“We’ll be back to-morrow at noon. On Monday the holidays begin. Oh, if I can only see him before he goes!”

A great many young men came down to the station to see them off next morning. There was a din of farewells. On all sides girlish voices were calling:

“Good-bye!”

“It was the jolliest dance!”

“I never had a better time in all my life!”

“Awfully nice of you to ask us.”

Molly had joined in the chorus with the others and had grasped many outstretched hands and smiled and waved her handkerchief and listened to Otoyo in one ear, crying:

“Oh, Mees Brown, I do like the American young gentleman veree much,” while Judy in the other was saying:

“Wasn’t it glorious fun? I never saw you look better. I have a dozen compliments for you.”

The car fairly crept back to Wellington, so it seemed to poor Molly. At last they arrived and a carry-all took them back to the Quadrangle.

Without waiting to explain, she left her suitcase in the hall and ran to the cloisters. Pausing at the door marked “E. A. Green,” she knocked urgently.

There was no answer. A door farther down the corridor was opened and the professor of French looked out.

“Professor Green has gone away,” he said. “He will not return until after the holidays.”

CHAPTER XIV.

AN INVITATION AND AN APOLOGY

Millicent Porter invited Molly to go to New York with her for the holidays and visit in the grand Porter mansion. Molly understood it was a palace filled with tapestries and fine pictures. Millicent had mentioned all those things casually. They would go to the theaters and the opera and ride about in motor cars. But Molly was glad she had kept her head and declined.

“I have some work to do, Millicent,” she said. “I appreciate your invitation, but I can’t accept it.”

“You must,” exclaimed Millicent, too accustomed to having her own way to take no for an answer. “Is it clothes?” she added. Somehow, she gave the impression of not being used to wealth.

Molly hardly felt intimate enough with her to go into the subject of her own poverty and answered briefly:

“Not entirely.”

Millicent was not famous for generosity and the basket of red roses sent to Molly on the night of the junior play had been her one outburst; but she was determined to have Molly go home with her at any cost.

“Because,” she continued, “if it’s a question of clothes, I can arrange that perfectly. My dresses will fit you if they are lengthened and – well, there’ll be plenty of clothes. Don’t bother about that. Your yellow dress is good enough for anything – ”

“I should say it was,” thought Molly, rather indignantly. “Good enough for the likes of you or anybody else.”

“I’ll lend you my mink coat and turban,” went on this munificent young person, “and I have a big black velvet hat that would look awfully well on you. Now, you must come, please. I want you to see my studio at the top of the house. To tell you the truth, I’m rather lonesome in New York. I don’t know any girls well, because I’ve never stayed at one school long enough to make friends.”

“What’s the reason of that?” asked Molly.

“Oh, I always get tired or something,” answered the other carelessly. “But say you’ll come, do, please,” she went on pathetically. Then, unable to stifle her grand airs, she said: “I doubt if you have such fine houses as ours in the south.”

“Oh, no,” answered Molly, quickly, “I doubt if we have. Our homes are very old and simple. The only works of art are family portraits. We have no tapestry or statuary. The house I was born in,” she went on half-smiling to herself, “was built by my great-grandfather. Most of the furniture came down from him, too. Some of it’s quite decrepit now, but we keep it polished up. My earliest recollection is rubbing the mahogany. You would doubtless think our house very empty and plain. We have some old crimson damask curtains in the parlor, but the rest of the curtains are made of ten-cent dimity. There is no furnace. We depend on coal fires in the bedrooms and wood fires in the other rooms and we nearly freeze if there’s a cold winter. We have no plumbing. Every member of the family has his own tub and there are six extra ones for company. A little colored boy named Sam brings us hot water every morning for our baths. He gets it from a big boiler attached to the kitchen stove, and when we are done bathing he has to carry it all down again. Rather a nuisance, isn’t it? But Sam doesn’t mind. Oh, I daresay you’d think our house was a kind of a hovel.” Molly paused and looked at Millicent strangely. There was a hidden fire in her deep blue eyes. “As for me,” she said, “no palace in all New York or anywhere else could be as beautiful to me as my home.”

Millicent looked uncomfortable.

“Be it ever so homely, there’s no face like one’s own,” cried Judy, who at that moment had come into the room and caught Molly’s last words. “What’s all this talk about home?”

“I was just telling Millicent about the old-fashioned, whitewashed brick palace wherein I was born,” answered Molly.

“I’m sorry you won’t accept my invitation,” said Millicent, taking no notice of Judy whatever. “Perhaps, after you think about it awhile you’ll change your mind.” Her manner was heavy and patronizing, and implied without words:

“After you have had time to consider the honor I am paying you and the advantages of visiting in my splendid home, you cannot fail to accept.”

“You are very kind, Millicent, but I shall not reconsider it,” announced Molly coldly. “I have made up my mind to spend Christmas right here in the Quadrangle. I hope you’ll have a beautiful time. Good-bye.” They shook hands formally.

“I’ll try to see the best in her,” she thought, “but I’d rather not see it at close hand. She grates on me.”

Judy waved an open letter with a dramatic gesture.

“Oh, Molly, dearest, I’m glad you didn’t accept. It’s my own selfish pleasure that makes me glad, but I’m going to spend Christmas right here in the Quadrangle, too.”

Molly looked at her friend’s eager, excited face in surprise.

“Do you mean your mother and father are coming here?”

“No, no. They’re on the Pacific Coast, you know, and will be detained until spring. It’s too far for me to take the trip just for the few days I could spend with them, so I’m going to stay here.”

A year ago Judy would have been in the depths of despair over a separation from her beloved parents at this holiday time. But whether she had gained poise by her recent sufferings or whether spending Christmas with her friend in the big empty Quadrangle appealed to her romantic nature, it would be difficult to tell. Through all the complexities of her nature her devotion to Molly was interwoven like a silver thread, and the shame and remorse she still felt in looking back on that unhappy evening when she had denounced her friend only seemed to draw the two girls more closely together.

Molly gave her a joyous hug.

“Oh, Judy, I am so happy. I never dreamed of such a blessing as this. Even Otoyo is going away this year and hardly half a dozen girls are left in the Quadrangle. I am truly glad I had the courage to decline Millicent’s invitation. It was only for one instant I was tempted to go, but she ruined it by a patronizing speech.”