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Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College

<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> <h3>THE UNFORESEEN</h3> Following Elfreda, the girls ran upstairs as fast as their weight of bags and suit cases would permit. Miriam pushed open her door, which stood slightly ajar, with the end of her suit case. "Any one at home?" she inquired saucily as she stepped inside. "Looks like the same old room," remarked Elfreda. "No, it isn't, either. We have a new chair. We needed it, too. You may sit in it occasionally, if you're good, Miriam." "Thank you," replied Miriam. "For that gracious permission you shall have one piece of candy out of a five-pound box I have in my trunk." "Not even that," declared Elfreda positively. "I said good-bye to candy last July. I've lost ten pounds since I went home from school, and I'm going to haunt the gymnasium every spare moment that I have. I hope I shall lose ten more; then I'll be down to one hundred and forty pounds and—" Elfreda stopped. "And what?" queried Miriam. "I can make the basketball team," finished Elfreda. "What is going on in the hall, I wonder?" Stepping to the door she called, "What's the matter, Grace? Can't you get into your room?" "Evidently not," laughed Grace. "It is locked. I suppose Mrs. Elwood locked it to prevent the new girls from straying in and taking possession." "H-m-m!" ejaculated Elfreda, walking over to the door and examining the keyhole. "Your supposition is all wrong, Grace. The door is locked from the inside. The key is in it." "Then what—" began Grace. "Yes, what?" quizzed Elfreda dryly. "'There was a door to which I had no key,'" quoted Miriam, as she joined the group. "Don't tease, Miriam," returned Grace, "even through the medium of Omar Khayyam. The key is a reality, but there is some one on the other side of that door who doesn't belong there. Whether she is not aware that she is a trespasser I do not know. However, we shall soon learn." Grace rapped determinedly on one of the upper panels of the door. "I'll help you," volunteered Elfreda. "And I," agreed Anne. "My services are needed, too," said Miriam Nesbit. Four fists pounded energetically on the door. There was an exclamation, the sound of hasty steps, the turning of a key in the lock, and the door was flung open. Facing them stood a young woman no taller than Anne, whose heavy eyebrows met in a straight line, and who looked ready for battle at the first word. "Will you kindly explain the reason for this tumult?" she asked in a freezing voice. "We were rather noisy," admitted Grace, "but we did not understand why the door should be locked from the inside." "Is it necessary that you should know?" asked the black-browed girl severely. Grace's clear-cut face flushed. "I think we are talking at cross purposes," she said quietly. "The room you are using belongs to my friend Anne Pierson and to me. During our freshman year it was ours, and when we left here last June it was with the understanding that we should have it again on our return to Overton." "I know nothing of any such arrangement," returned the other girl crossly. "The room pleases me, consequently I shall retain it. Kindly refrain from disturbing me further." With this significant remark the door was slammed in the faces of the astonished girls. A second later the click of the key in the lock told them that force alone could effect an entrance to the room. "Open that door at once," stormed Elfreda, beating an angry tattoo on the panel with her clenched fist. From the other side of the door came no sound. "Never mind, Elfreda," said Grace, fighting down her anger. "Mrs. Elwood will be here soon. There is some misunderstanding about the rooms. I am sure of it." "See here, Grace Harlowe, you are not going to give up your room to that beetle-browed anarchist, are you?" demanded Elfreda wrathfully. A peal of laughter went up from three young throats. "You are the funniest girl I ever knew, J. Elfreda Briggs," remarked Miriam Nesbit between laughs. "That new girl looks exactly like an anarchist—that is, like pictures of them I've seen in the newspapers." "That's why I thought of it, too," grinned Elfreda. "I once saw a picture of an anarchist who blew up a public building and he might have been this young person's brother. She looks exactly like him." "Stop talking about anarchists and talk about rooms," said Anne. "I must find some place to put my luggage. Besides, time is flying. Remember, we are to be at Vinton's at half-past six." "I should say time was flying!" exclaimed Grace, casting a hurried glance at her watch. "It's ten minutes to six now. It will take us fifteen minutes to walk to Vinton's. That leaves twenty-five minutes in which to get ready." "There is no hope that the trunks will arrive in time for us to dress," said Miriam positively. "Come into our room and we'll wash the dust from our hands and faces and do our hair over again." "All right," agreed Grace, casting a longing glance at the closed door. "We'll have to put our bags in your room, too. I don't wish to leave them in the hall for unwary students to stumble over." "Bring them along," returned Miriam. "No one shall accuse us of inhospitality." "I wish Mrs. Elwood were here." Grace looked worried. "We mustn't stay at Vinton's later than half-past seven o'clock. There are so many little things to be attended to, as well as the important question of our room." Arriving at Vinton's at exactly half-past six o'clock, they found Arline Thayer and Ruth Denton waiting for them at a table on which were covers laid for six. "We've been waiting for ages!" exclaimed Arline. "But you said half-past six, and it is only one minute past that now," reminded Grace, showing Arline her watch. "Of course, you are on time," laughed the little girl. "I should have explained that I'm hungry. That is why I speak in ages instead of minutes." "Your explanation is accepted," proclaimed Elfreda, screwing her face into a startling resemblance to a fussy instructor in freshman trigonometry and using his exact words. The ready laughter proclaimed instant recognition of the unfortunate professor. "You can look like any one you choose, can't you, Elfreda?" said Arline admiringly. "I think your imitations of people are wonderful." "Nothing very startling about them," remarked the stout girl lightly. "I'd give all my ability to make faces to be able to sing even 'America' through once and keep on the key. I can't sing and never could. When I was a little girl in school the teachers never would let me sing with the rest of the children, because I led them all off the key. It was very nice at the beginning of the term, and I sang with the other children anywhere from once to half a dozen times, never longer than that. I had the strongest voice in the room and whatever note I sang the rest of the children sang. It was dreadful," finished Elfreda reminiscently. "It must have been," agreed Miriam Nesbit. "Can you remember how you looked when you were little, Elfreda?" "I don't have to tax my brain to remember," answered Elfreda. "Ma has photographs of me at every age from six months up to date. To satisfy your curiosity, however," her face hardened until it took on the stony expression of the new student who had locked Grace out of her room, "I will state that—" "The Anarchist! the Anarchist!" exclaimed Ruth and Miriam together. "What are you two talking about?" asked Ruth Denton. "About the Anarchist," teased Miriam. "Wait until you see her." "You have seen her," laughed Grace. "Elfreda just imitated her to perfection." Thereupon Grace related their recent unpleasant experience to Arline and Ruth. "What are you going to do about it?" asked Arline. "We will see Mrs. Elwood as soon as we return to Wayne Hall, and ask her to gently, but firmly, request the Anarchist to move elsewhere." "Why do you call her the Anarchist?" asked Arline. "Elfreda, please repeat your imitation," requested Miriam, her black eyes sparkling with fun. Elfreda complied obediently. "You understand now, don't you?" laughed Grace. "I should be very stupid if I didn't," declared Arline. "Of course she's dark, with eyebrows an inch wide. You can't expect me to give an imitation of anything like that," apologized Elfreda. "I think I should recognize her on sight," smiled Ruth Denton. "We are miles off our original subject," remarked Grace. "Elfreda hasn't told us how she looked as a child." "All right. I'll tell you now," volunteered J. Elfreda graciously. "I had round, staring blue eyes and a fat face. I wore my hair down my back in curls—that is, when it was done up on curlers the night before—and it was almost tow color. I had red cheeks and was ashamed of them, and my stocky, square-shouldered figure was anything but sylphlike. I was not beautiful, but I was very well satisfied with myself, and to call me 'Fatty' was to offer me deadly insult. That is about as much as I can remember," finished the stout girl. "Really, Elfreda, while you were describing yourself I could fairly see you," smiled Arline. "Now it's your turn," reminded Elfreda. "I imagine you were a cunning little girl." Arline flushed at the implied compliment. "Father used to call me 'Daffydowndilly,'" she began. "My hair was much lighter than it is now, but it has always been curly. I am afraid I used to be very vain, for I loved to stand and smile at myself in the mirror simply because I liked my yellow curls and was fascinated with my own smile. No one told me I was vain, for Mother died when I was a baby, and even my governess laughed to see me worship my own reflection. When I was twelve years old, Father engaged a governess who was different from the others. She was a widow and had to support herself. She was highly educated and one of the sweetest women I have ever known. When she took charge of me I was a vain, stupid little tyrant, but she soon made me over. She remained with me until I entered a prep school, then an uncle whom she had never seen died and left her some money. She's coming to Overton to see me some day. Overton is her Alma Mater, too." "You are next, Grace," nodded Ruth. "There isn't much to tell about me," began Grace. "I was the tomboy of Oakdale. I loved to climb trees and play baseball and marbles. I was thin as a lath and like live wire. My face was rather thin, too, and I remember I cried a whole afternoon because a little girl at school called me 'saucer-eyes.' There wasn't a suspicion of curl in my hair, and I wore it in two braids. I never thought much about myself, because I was always too busy. I was forever falling in with suspicious looking characters and bringing them home to be fed. Mother used to throw up her hands in despair at the acquaintances I made. Then, too, I had a propensity for bestowing my personal possessions on those who, in my opinion, needed them. Mother and I were not always of the same opinion. I wore my everyday coat to church for a whole winter as a punishment for having given away my best one without consulting her. With me it was a case of act first and think afterward. I don't believe I was particularly mischievous, but I had a habit of diving into things that kept Mother in a state of constant apprehension. Father used to laugh at my pranks and tell Mother not to worry about me. He used to declare that no matter into what I plunged I would land right side up with care. I was never at the head of my classes in school, but I was never at the foot of them. I was what one might call a happy medium. My little-girl life was a very happy one, and full to the brim with all sorts of pleasant happenings." "I never heard you say so much about yourself before, Grace," observed Elfreda. "I'm usually too much interested in other people's affairs to think of my own," laughed Grace. "I have never heard Anne say much about her childhood, either. She must have had all sorts of interesting experiences." "Mine was more exciting than pleasant," returned Anne. "Practically speaking, I was brought up in the theatre and knew a great deal more about things theatrical than I did about dolls and childish games. I was a solemn looking little thing and wore my hair bobbed and tied up with a ribbon. I never cried about the things that most children cry over, but I would stand in the wings and weep by the hour over the pathetic parts of the different plays we put on. Father was a character man in a stock company. We lived in New York City and I used to frequently go to the theatre with him. My father wished me to become a professional, but my mother was opposed to it. When I was sixteen I played in a company for a short time. Then mother and sister and I went to Oakdale to live, and the nicest part of my life began. There I met Grace and Miriam and two other girls who are among my dearest friends. Nothing very exciting has ever happened to me, and even though I have appeared before the public I haven't as much to tell as the rest of you have." "But countless things must have happened to you in the theatre," persisted Arline, looking curiously at Anne. "Not so many as you might imagine," replied Anne. Then she said quickly, "Miriam must have been an interesting little girl." "I was a very haughty young person," answered Miriam. "In the Oakdale Grammar School I was known as the Princess. Do you remember that, Grace?" Grace nodded. "Miriam used to order the girls in her room about as though they were her subjects," she declared. "She had two long black braids of hair and her cheeks were always pink. She was the tallest girl in her room and the teachers used to say she was the prettiest." "I was a regular tyrant," went on Miriam. "I had a frightful temper. I was a snob, too, and looked upon girls whose parents were poor with the utmost contempt." "Miriam Nesbit, you can't be describing yourself!" exclaimed Arline incredulously. "Ask Grace if I am not giving an accurate description of the Miriam Nesbit of those days," challenged Miriam. "It isn't fair to ask me," fenced Grace. "You always invited me to your parties." "There, you can draw your own conclusions," retorted Miriam triumphantly. "I don't object to telling about my past shortcomings as I have at last outgrown a few of my disagreeable traits." "Were you and Grace friends then?" asked Arline. "We played together and went to each other's houses, but we were never very chummy," explained Grace. "We were both too headstrong and too fond of our own way to be close friends. It was after we entered high school that we began to find out that we liked each other, wasn't it, Miriam?" "Yes," returned Miriam, looking affectionately at her friend. In two sentences Grace had effectually bridged a yawning gap in Miriam's early high school days of which the latter was heartily ashamed. "Every one has told a tale but Ruth," declared Elfreda. "Now, Ruth, what have you to say for yourself?" "Not much," said Ruth, shaking her head. "So far, my life has been too gray to warrant recording. That is, up to the time I came to Overton," she added, smiling gratefully on the little circle. "My freshman year was a very happy one, thanks to you girls." "But when you were a child you must have had a few good times that stand out in your memory," persisted Elfreda. Ruth's face took on a hunted expression. Her mouth set in hard lines. "No," she said shortly. "There was nothing worth remembering. Perhaps I'll tell you some day, but not now. Please don't think me hateful and disobliging, but I don't wish to talk of myself." Arline Thayer eyed Ruth with displeasure. "I don't see why you should say that, Ruth. We have all talked of ourselves," she said coldly. Ruth flushed deeply. She felt the note of censure in Arline's voice. "I think we had better go," announced Grace, consulting her watch. "It is now half-past seven. We ought to be at Wayne Hall by eight o'clock. You know the Herculean labor I have before me." "Herculean labor is a good name for our coming task," chuckled Anne. "The Anarchist will make Wayne Hall resound with her vengeful cries when she is thrust out of the room with all her possessions." Jesting light-heartedly over the coming encounter, the diners strolled out of Vinton's and down College Street in the direction of the campus. Arline was the first to leave them. Her good night to the four girls from Wayne Hall was cordial in the extreme, but to Ruth she was almost distant. A little later on they said good night to Ruth, who looked ready to cry. "Cheer up," comforted Grace, who was walking with Ruth. "Arline will be all right to-morrow." "I hope so," responded Ruth mournfully. "I did not mean to make her angry, only there are some things of which I cannot speak to any one." "I understand," rejoined Grace, wondering what Ruth's secret cross was. "Good night, Ruth." Elfreda, Miriam and Anne bade Ruth goodnight in turn. "Now, for the tug of war," declared Elfreda as they hurried up the steps of Wayne Hall. "On to the battlefield and down with the Anarchist!" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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