Molly Brown's Freshman Days

“How are you, Judith? I’m so glad to see you,” answered Cousin Grace in a tone without much heart to it. “Why didn’t you come sooner? We’ve just finished lunch.”

“Thanks, I had a sandwich early. I suppose you are off for the grounds. Go ahead. I’ll get Cousin Edwin to help me tie up this old animal somewhere. We’ll follow right behind.”

Molly was almost certain that Cousin Edwin was about to place this office on the shoulders of his younger brother, but glancing again at the flushed and happy face of Dodo at the side of Judy, the Professor relented and dropped behind to look after his relation.

Never had Molly been so wildly excited as she was over the football game that afternoon. It was a wonderful picture, the two teams lined up against each other; crowds of people yelling themselves hoarse; the battle cry of the Repton team mingling with the warlike cry of the Exmoor students. The cheer leaders at the heads of the cheer sections made the welkin ring continuously. At last a young man, who seemed to be a giant in size and strength, dashed like a wild horse across the Russian steppes straight up the field with the ball under his arm, and from the insane behavior of the green men, including Professor Edwin Green and his fair sister, Molly became suddenly aware that the game was over and Exmoor had won.

The cheering section could yell no more, because to a man it had lost its voice; but, oh, the glad burst of song from the Exmoor students as they leaped into the field and bore the conquering giant around on their shoulders. And, oh! the dejection of the men of crimson as they stalked sadly from the scene of their humiliation.

At last the whole glorious day was over and the girls found themselves on the way to the trolley station. Richard Blount and his cousin, Miss Green, had hastened on ahead. They were to take the six o’clock train back to New York.

“Cousin Edwin, why can’t you hire a horse in the village and ride back to Wellington with me?” asked Judith, when they paused at the Chapter House for her to mount her black steed.

“Because I’m engaged to take these young ladies home by trolley, Judith,” answered the Professor firmly.

Judith leaped on her horse without assistance, gave the poor animal a savage lash with her whip and dashed across the campus without another word.

The ride back at sunset was even more perfect than the morning trip. The Professor of English Literature appeared to have been temporarily changed into a boy. He told them funny stories and bits of his own college experiences, and made them talk, too. Almost before they knew it, the conductor was calling: “Wellington!”

CHAPTER XII

SUNDAY MORNING BREAKFAST

It was quite the custom at Wellington for girls to prepare breakfasts on Sunday morning in their rooms. There was always the useful boneless chicken to be creamed in one’s chafing dish; and in another, eggs to be scrambled with a lick and a promise, at these impromptu affairs; and it was a change from the usual codfish balls of the Sunday house breakfast.

On this particular Sunday morning, Judy was very busy; for the breakfast party was of her giving, in Molly’s and Nance’s room; her own “singleton” being too small. She was also very angry in her tempestuous and unrestrained way, and having emptied the vials of her wrath on Molly’s head, she was angrier with herself for giving away to temper.

Although it was Judy’s party, Molly, as usual kind-hearted and grandly hospitable, had invited Frances Andrews. Then she had gone and confessed her sins to Judy, who flared up and said things she hadn’t intended, and Molly had wept a little and owned that she was entirely at fault. But what could be done? Frances was invited and had accepted. To atone for her sins, poor Molly had made popovers as a surprise and arranged to bake them in Mrs. Murphy’s oven. But the hostess being gloomy, the company was gloomy, since the one is apt to reflect the humor of the other. However, as the coffee began to send forth its cheerful aroma from Judy’s Russian samovar, discord took wings and harmony reigned. It was a very comfortable and sociable party. Most of the girls wore their kimonos, it being a time for rest and relaxation; but when Frances Andrews swept into the room in a long lavender silk peignoir trimmed with frills of lace, all cotton crepe Japanese dressing gowns faded into insignificance.

“There is no doubt that college girls are a hungry lot,” remarked Margaret Wakefield, settling herself comfortably to dispose of food and conversation and arouse argument, a thing she deeply enjoyed.

“So much brain work requires nourishment,” observed Mabel Hinton.

“There is not much brain nourishment at Queen’s,” put in Frances Andrews. “I’ve been living on raw eggs and sweet chocolate for the last week. The table has run down frightfully.”

Sallie Marks was a loyal Queen’s girl, and resented this slur on the table of the establishment which was sheltering her now for the third year.

“The food here is quite as good as it is at any of the other houses,” she said coldly to the unfortunate Frances, who really had not intended to give offence.

“Pardon me, but I don’t agree with you,” replied Frances, “and I have a right to my own opinion, I suppose.”

Judy gave Molly a triumphant glance, as much as to say, “You see what you have done.”

Everybody looked a little uncomfortable, and Margaret Wakefield, equal to every occasion, launched into a learned discussion on how many ounces of food the normal person requires a day.

Once more the talk flowed on smoothly. But where Frances was, it would seem there were always hidden reefs which wrecked every subject, no matter how innocent, the moment it was launched.

“Molly, I can trade compliments with you,” put in Jessie Lynch, taking not the slightest notice of her roommate’s discourse. “It’s one of those very indirect, three-times-removed compliments, but you’ll be amused by it.”

“Really,” said Molly, “do tell me what it is before I burst with curiosity.”

“I said ‘trade,’” laughed Jessie, who liked a compliment herself extremely.

“Oh, of course,” replied Molly. “I have any number I can give you in exchange. How do you care for this one? Mary Stewart thinks you are very attractive.”

“Does she, really? That’s nice of her,” exclaimed Jessie, blushing with pleasure as if she hadn’t been told the same thing dozens of times before. “I think she’s fine; not exactly pretty, you know, but fine.”

“I suppose you don’t know how her father made his money?” broke in Frances.

There was a silence, and Molly, feeling that she was about to be mortified again by something disagreeable, cried hastily:

“Oh, dear, I forgot the surprise. Do wait a moment,” and dashed from the room.

While she was gone, Nance and Judy began filling up the intervals with odd bits of conversation, helped out by the other girls, and Frances Andrews did not have another opportunity to put in her oar. Suddenly she rose and swept to the door.

“You would none of you feel interested to know, I suppose, that Mary Stewart’s father started life as a bootblack – ”

“That’s what I’m starting life as,” cried Molly, who now appeared carrying a large tray covered with a napkin. “I am the official bootblack of Queen’s, and I make sometimes one-fifty a week at it. I hope I’ll do as well as Mr. Stewart in the business. Have a popover?”

She unfolded the napkin and behold a pile of golden muffins steaming hot. There were wild cries of joy from the kimonoed company.

“And now, Jessie, I’ll take my second-hand, roundabout compliment – ” she began, when Judy interrupted her.

“Won’t you have a popover, Miss Andrews?” she asked in a cold, exasperated tone.

“Thanks; I eat the European breakfast usually – coffee and roll – ”

“Yes, I’ve been there,” answered Judy.

“I’ll say good morning. I’ve enjoyed your little party immensely,” and Frances marched out of the room and banged the door.

“I should think you would have learned a lesson by this time, Molly Brown,” cried Judy hotly. “There is always a row whenever that girl is around. She can’t be nice, and there is no use trying to make her over.”

“I’m sorry,” said Molly penitently. “I wish I could understand why she behaves that way when she knows it’s going to take away what few friends she has.”

“I think I can tell you,” put in Mabel Hinton. “Nobody likes her, and nobody expects any good of her. If you are constantly on the lookout for bad traits, they are sure to appear. It’s almost a natural law. Everybody was expecting this to-day, and so it happened, of course. If we had been cordial and sweet to her, she never would have said that about Mary Stewart or the food at Queen’s, either.”

“Dear me, are we listening to a sermon,” broke in Judy flippantly.

But, in spite of Judy’s interruption, Mabel’s speech made an impression on the girls, some of whom felt a little ashamed of their attitude toward Frances Andrews.

“Did you ever see a dog that had been kicked all its life?” went on Mabel; “how it snarls and bites and snaps at anybody who tries to pet it? Well, Frances is just a poor kicked dog. She’s done something she ought not to have done, and she’s been kicked out for it, and she’s so sore and unhappy, she snarls at everybody who comes near her.”

“Mabel, you’re a brick!” exclaimed Sallie Marks. “I started the fight this morning and I’m ashamed of it. I’m going to make a resolution to be nice to that poor girl hereafter, no matter how horrid she is. It will be an interesting experiment, if for no other reason.”

“Let’s form a society,” put in Molly, “to reinstate Frances Andrews, and the way to do it will be to be as nice as we can to her and to say nice things about her to the other girls.”

“Good work!” cried Margaret Wakefield, scenting another opportunity to draw up a constitution, by-laws and resolutions. “We will call a first meeting right now, and elect officers. I move that Molly be made chairman of the meeting.”

“I second the motion,” said Sallie heartily. “All in favor say ‘aye.’”

There was a chorus of laughing “ayes” and a society was actually established that morning, Molly, as founder, being elected President. It consisted of eight members, all freshmen, except the good-natured Sallie Marks, who condescended, although a junior, to join.

“Suppose we vote on a name now,” continued Margaret who wished to leave nothing undone in creating the club. “Each member has a right to suggest two names, votes to be taken afterward.”

It was all very business-like, owing to Margaret’s experienced methods, but the girls enjoyed it and felt quite important. As a matter of fact, it was the first society to be established that year in the freshman class, and it developed afterward into a very important organization.

Among the various names suggested were “The Optimists,” “The Bluebirds,” “The Glad Hands,” mentioned by Sallie Marks, and “The Happy Hearts.”

“They are all too sentimental,” said the astute Margaret, looking them over. “There’ll be so many croaks about us if we choose one of these names that we’ll be crushed with ridicule. How about these initials – ‘G.F.’ What do they stand for?”

“Gold Fishes,” replied Mabel Hinton promptly. The others laughed, but the name pleased them, nevertheless. “You see,” went on Mabel, “a gold fish always radiates a cheerful glow no matter where he is. He is the most amiable, contented little optimist in the animal kingdom, and he swims just as happily in a finger bowl as he does in a fish pond. He was evidently created to cheer up the fish tribe and I’m sure he must succeed in doing it.”

The explanation was received with applause, and when the votes were taken, “G.F.” was chosen without a dissenting voice.

It was decided that the club was to meet once a week, it’s object, to be, in a way, the promotion of kindliness, especially toward such people as Frances Andrews, who were friendless.

“We’ll be something like the Misericordia Society in Italy,” observed Judy, “only, instead of looking after wounded and hurt people, we’ll look after wounded and hurt feelings.”

It was further moved, seconded and the motion carried that the society should be a secret one; that reports should be read each week by members who had anything to report; and, by way of infusing a little sociability into the society, it was to give an entertainment, something unique in the annals of Wellington; subject to be thought of later.

It was noon by the time the first meeting of the G. F. Society was ready to disband. But the girls had really enjoyed it. In the first place, there was an important feeling about being an initial member of a club which had such a beneficial object, and was to be so delightfully secretive. There was, in fact, a good deal of knight errantry in the purpose of the G. F.’s, who felt not a little like Amazonian cavaliers looking for adventure on the highway.

“Really, you know,” observed Jessie, “we should be called ‘The Friends of the Wallflowers,’ like some men at home, who made up their minds one New Year’s night at a ball to give a poor cross-eyed, ugly girl who never had partners the time of her life, just once.”

“Did they do it?” asked Nance, who imagined that she was a wallflower, and was always conscious when the name was mentioned.

“They certainly did,” answered Jessie, “and when I saw the girl afterward in the dressing room, she said to me, ‘Oh, Jessie, wasn’t it heaven?’ She cried a little. I was ashamed.”

“By the way, Jessie, I never got my compliment,” said Molly. “Pay it to me this instant, or I shall be thinking I haven’t had a ‘square deal.’”

“Well, here it is,” answered Jessie. “It has been passed along considerably, but it’s all the more valuable for taking such a roundabout route to get to you. I’ll warn you beforehand that you will probably have an electric shock when you hear it. You know I have some cousins who live up in New York. One of them writes to me – ”

“Girl or man?” demanded Judy.

“Man,” answered Jessie, blushing.

There was a laugh at this, because Jessie’s beaux were numerous.

“His best friend,” she continued, “has a sister, and that sister – do you follow – is an intimate friend – ”

“‘An intimate friend of an intimate friend,’” one of the girls interrupted.

“Yes,” said Jessie, “it’s obscure, but perfectly logical. My cousin’s intimate friend’s sister has an intimate friend – Miss Green – ”

“Oh, ho!” cried Judy. “Now we are getting down to rock bottom.”

“And Miss Green told her intimate friend who told my cousin’s intimate friend’s sister – it’s a little involved, but I think I have it straight – who told her brother who told my cousin who wrote it to me.”

“But what did he write,” they demanded in a chorus.

“That one of Miss Green’s brothers was crushed on a charming red-headed girl from Kentucky.”

Molly’s face turned crimson.

“But Dodo is crushed on Judy,” she laughed.

“It may be,” said Jessie. “Rumors are most generally twisted.”

The first meeting of the G. F.’s now disbanded and the members scattered to dress for the early Sunday dinner. They all attended Vespers that afternoon, and in the quiet hour of the impressive service more than one pondered seriously upon the conversation of the morning and the purpose of the new club.

CHAPTER XIII

TRICKERY

It was several days before the G. F.’s had an opportunity to practise any of their new resolutions on Frances Andrews. The eccentric girl was in the habit of skipping meals and eating at off hours at a little restaurant in the village, or taking ice cream sundaes in the drug store.

At last, however, she did appear at supper in a beautiful dinner dress of lavender crêpe de chine with an immense bunch of violets pinned at her belt. She looked very handsome and the girls could not refrain from giving her covert glances of admiration as she took her seat stonily at the table.

It was the impetuous, precipitate Judy who took the lead in the promotion of kindliness and her premature act came near to cutting down the new club in its budding infancy.

“You must be going to a party,” she began, flashing one of her ingratiating smiles at Frances.

Frances looked at her with an icy stare.

“I – I mean,” stammered Judy, “you are wearing such an exquisite dress. It’s too fine for ordinary occasions like this.”

Frances rose.

“Mrs. Markham,” she said to the matron of Queen’s, “if I can’t eat here without having my clothes sneered at, I shall be obliged to have my meals carried to my room hereafter.”

Then she marched out of the dining room.

Mrs. Markham looked greatly embarrassed and nobody spoke for some time.

“Good heavens!” said Judy at last in a low voice to Molly, “what’s to be done now?”

“Why don’t you write her a little note,” replied Molly, “and tell her that you hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings and had honestly admired her dress.”

“Apologize!” exclaimed Judy, her proud spirit recoiling at the ignoble thought. “I simply couldn’t.”

But since her attack on Molly, Judy had been very much ashamed of herself, and she was now taking what she called “self-control in broken doses,” like the calomel treatment; that night she actually wrote a note to Frances and shoved it under the door. In answer to this abject missive she received one line, written with purple ink on highly scented heavy note paper:

“Dear Miss Kean,” it ran, “I accept your apology.

“Yours sincerely,“FRANCES LE GRAND ANDREWS.”

“Le Grand, that’s a good name for her,” laughed Judy, sniffing at the perfumed paper with some disgust.

But she wrote an elaborate report regarding the incident and read it aloud to the assembled G. F.’s at their second meeting.

In the meantime, Sallie Marks had her innings with the redoubtable Frances, and retreated, wearing the sad and martyred smile of one who is determined not to resent an insult. One by one the G.F.’s took occasion to be polite and kind to the scornful, suspicious Frances. Her malicious speeches were ignored and her vulgarities – and she had many of them – passed lightly over. Little by little she arrived at the conclusion that refinement did not mean priggishness and that vulgarity was not humor. Of course the change came very gradually. Not infrequently after a sophomore snub, the whipped dog snarled savagely; or she would brazenly try to shock the supper table with a coarse, slangy speech. But with the persistent friendliness of the Queen’s girls, the fires in her nature began to die down and the intervals between flare-ups grew longer each day.

Frances Andrews was the first “subject” of the G.F.’s, and they were as interested in her regeneration as a group of learned doctors in the recovery of a dangerously ill patient.

In the meantime, the busy college life hummed on and Molly felt her head swimming sometimes with its variety and fullness. What with coaching Judy, blacking boots, making certain delicious sweetmeats called “cloudbursts,” – the recipe of which was her own secret, – which sold like hot cakes; keeping up the social end and the study end, Molly was beginning to feel tired. A wanness began to show in the dark shadows under her eyes and the pinched look about her lips even as early as the eventful evening when she posed for the senior living picture show.

“This child needs some make-up,” the august senior president had exclaimed. “Where’s the rouge and who’s got my rabbit’s foot? No, burned cork makes too broad a line. Give me one of the lighter colored eyebrow pencils. You mustn’t lose your color, little girl,” she said, dabbing a spot of red on each of Molly’s pale cheeks. “Your roses are one of your chief attractions.”

A great many students and some of the faculty had bought tickets for this notable occasion, and the gymnasium was well filled before the curtain was drawn back from a gigantic gold frame disclosing Mary Stewart as Joan of Arc in the picture by Bastien Le Page, which hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. There was no attempt to reproduce the atmospheric visions of the angel and the knight in armor, only the poor peasant girl standing in the cabbage patch, her face transfigured with inspiration. When Molly saw Mary Stewart pose in this picture at the dress rehearsal, she could not help recalling the story of the bootblack father.

“She has a wonderful face, and I call it beautiful, if other people don’t,” she said to herself.

As for our little freshman, so dazed and heavy was she with fatigue, the night of the entertainment, that she never knew she had created a sensation, first as Botticelli’s “Flora,” barefooted and wearing a Greek dress constructed of cheesecloth, and then as “Mrs. Hamilton,” in the blue crepe with a gauzy fichu around her neck.

After the exhibition, when all the actors were endeavoring to collect their belongings in the confusion of the green room, Sallie Marks came running behind the scenes.

“Prexy has specially requested you to repeat the Flora picture,” she announced, breathlessly.

“Is Prexy here?” they demanded, with much excitement.

“She is so,” answered Sallie. “She’s up in the balcony with Professor Green and Miss Pomeroy.”

“Well, what do you think, we’ve been performing before ‘Queen Victoria and other members of the royal family,’ like P. T. Barnum, and never knew a thing about it,” said a funny snub-nosed senior. “‘Daily demonstrations by the delighted multitude almost taking the form of ovations,’” she proceeded.

“Don’t talk so much, Lulu, and help us, for Heaven’s sake! Where’s Molly Brown of Kentucky?” called the distracted President.

Molly came forth at the summons. Overcome by an extreme fatigue, she had been sitting on a bench in a remote corner of the room behind some stage property.

“Here, little one, take off your shoes and stockings, and get into your Flora costume, quick, by order of Prexy.”

In a few minutes, Molly stood poised on the tips of her toes in the gold frame. The lights went down, the bell rang, and the curtains were parted by two freshmen appointed for this duty. For one brief fleeting glance the audience saw the immortal Flora floating on thin air apparently, and then the entire gymnasium was in total darkness.

A wave of conversation and giggling filled the void of blackness, while on the stage the seniors were rushing around, falling over each other and calling for matches.

“Who’s light manager?”

“Where’s Lulu?”

“Lulu! Lulu!”

“Where’s the switch?”

“Lulu’s asleep at the switch,” sang a chorus of juniors from the audience.

“I’m not,” called Lulu. “I’m here on the job, but the switch doesn’t work.”

“Telephone to the engineer.”

“Light the gas somebody.”

But there were no matches, and the only man in the house was in the balcony. However, he managed to grope his way to the steps leading to the platform, where he suddenly struck a match, to the wild joy of the audience. Choruses from various quarters had been calling:

“Don’t blow out the gas!”

“Keep it dark!”

And one girl created a laugh by announcing:

“The present picture represents a ‘Nocturne’ by Whistler.”

Then the janitor began lighting gas jets along the wall and finally a lonesome gas jet on the stage faintly illumined the scene of confusion.

The gigantic gilt frame outlined a dark picture of hurrying forms, and huddled in the foreground lay a limp white object, for Botticelli’s “Flora” had fainted away.

The confusion increased. The President joined the excited seniors and presently the doctor appeared, fetched by the Professor of English Literature. “Flora” was lifted onto a couch; her own gray cape thrown over her, and opening her eyes in a few minutes, she became Molly Brown of Kentucky. She gazed confusedly at the faces hovering over her in the half light; the doctor at one side, the President at the other; Mary Stewart and Professor Green standing at the foot and a crowd of seniors like a mob in the background.

Suddenly Molly sat up. She brushed her auburn hair from her face and pointed vaguely toward the hall:

“I saw her when she – ” she began. Her eye caught Professor Green’s, and she fell back on the couch.

“You saw what, my child?” asked the President kindly.

“I reckon I was just dreaming,” answered Molly, her Southern accent more marked than ever before.

The President of the senior class now hurried up to the President of Wellington University.