Marjorie Dean, College Freshman

Leila took it and shook it vigorously. “Now we have a bargain,” she said. “Never forget it.”

In the lower hall they found Ronny and Vera Mason waiting, and the four stopped only long enough to cover their fine raiment, temporarily, with evening capes. During the short walk through the soft fall night Leila made them all laugh with her funny sallies. She had apparently lost her recent pensive mood. Nevertheless at intervals that evening the hopeless melancholy of her tone came back to Marjorie. She thought Leila must have been born in Ireland, for she was at times utterly un-American in her manner of speaking.

The scene of festivity upon which they presently came was one of color and light. The great room was already well-filled with merry-makers, each in her prettiest gown. From a corner of the room, screened by palms and huge branches of red and yellow autumn leaves, an orchestra was playing a valse lente. That the sophs had outdone anything for several years in the way of artistic decorations was the opinion of the faculty, present almost to a member. Though they graciously lent their presence to an affair, such as the freshmen’s frolic, they obligingly left the dance early, rarely remaining more than an hour.

The San Soucians were well represented in the receiving line, the majority having been appointed to it by their ally, Joan Myers. Lined up, they made a gorgeous appearance. The majority of them were attired in frocks of striking colors and displayed considerable jewelry. Looking up and down the long row, it seemed to Marjorie that she glimpsed the white fire of diamonds on every girl that composed it. It struck her as rather ridiculous that, so long as the Sans Soucians snubbed the majority of the students, they should wish to be on a committee to receive the very girls they affected not to know.

“Be easy,” remarked Leila, in a tone which only Ronny, Vera and Marjorie heard. “We are to run the one-sided gauntlet, it seems. Let us be about it and have it done. Follow your leader and not too much cordiality. They have none for us, though they will be sweet on the surface.”

These being the first remarks of the kind Marjorie had heard Leila make, she glanced at the latter rather searchingly. Leila was not looking at her. Her eyes were playing up and down the receiving line, a world of veiled contempt in their blue depths.

As the quartette approached the row of brightly-garbed young women, Joan Myers, who stood at its head, bent a steady stare upon Marjorie. Next she turned to the girl on her left and muttered in her ear. The latter chanced to be Natalie Weyman, resplendent in an apricot satin frock, with over panels of seed pearls on satin and a garniture of the same at the very low bodice. The gown was sleeveless, and smacked more of the stage than of a college frolic. A cluster of peculiar orange and white orchids trailed across one shoulder. These Marjorie could honestly admire. Of Natalie’s gown she did not approve.

At sight of Marjorie, Natalie’s face grew dark. Nor did the further sight of Veronica improve her sulky expression. How she managed to smile and murmur a few words of welcome she hardly knew. She was literally seething with jealous rage at the two freshmen. Her eyes did not deceive her as to the distinction of their frocks. She knew after a first appraising glance that there were no others in the room to compete with them. They were the unobtainable so far as money went. They were the kind of frocks that only proper influence might secure. She forgot her earlier grudge against Marjorie’s loveliness in jealousy viewing her later offense.

Piloted by Leila, the quartette made short work of being received by as chilly a lot of young patronesses as jealousy could furnish. When they had won clear of the receiving line, Leila indulged in a subdued ripple of laughter.

“Oh, my heart, but were they not icy?” she inquired, her eyes dancing. “Vera, did you see Nat Weyman’s face? She used to be jealous of you. Now she has other trouble to worst.”

“Don’t mind Leila’s outbreak,” Vera turned to Marjorie and Ronny who were looking eagerly about them, charmed by the animated scene. “She can’t endure Natalie Weyman, and neither can I. This is not the place to say such things, but we are not fond of the Sans and we had rather you knew it. It will help you to understand much that may happen later on.” Vera colored as she said this. She felt that it would in a measure mitigate any displeasure that Marjorie in particular might afterward feel for Leila.

“We do not know much of the Sans Soucians, but we are not in favor of snobs,” Ronny made steady utterance. She had seen the dark glance Natalie Weyman had leveled at Marjorie, and quite understood Leila’s comments. She could also understand why Vera had aroused the vain sophomore’s jealousy. Vera’s white chiffon frock over pale green taffeta, made her look like a fairy queen who might have stepped from the heart of a white flower to attend the frolic.

“We know that. Otherwise you might be escorting yourselves here for all Vera and I should care,” returned Leila with a genial smile that was irresistible. “Let us bury them deep, as we say in Kilarney, and have a good time. I wish you to meet two or three pets of mine among the seniors. Then off to the dance we shall wend. I tell you now, I am a fine Irish gentleman when it comes to playing the part at a hop.”

With Leila doing the honors, the two Lookouts had a lively time for the next half hour. Though the dancing had begun, she insisted upon parading the three girls from one end of the gymnasium to the other. She appeared to have a wide acquaintance among the juniors and the seniors. Consequently Ronny and Marjorie met girls they had seen on the campus, but whom as upper class young women they had hardly hoped to meet.

When they finally joined in the dancing, which both had been longing to do, they were soon besieged with invitations. It was such a complete surprise to both, which they refused mentally to stop and think about it, preferring to drift comfortably along on the tide of youthful enjoyment. It was an hour after their arrival before they had an opportunity to talk with Jerry, Lucy and Muriel. All three had been enjoying themselves hugely. Lucy had had an interesting, though short, talk with Professor Wenderblatt, the director of the biology department, whose daughter, Lillian, was a freshman. She had met them both through Katherine. The latter and herself were now rejoicing in an invitation to dinner at the Wenderblatts on the following Sunday.

Jerry, according to her own enthusiastic version, was simply falling all over herself with happiness. Helen was the “Prince of Hamilton” when it came to playing escort. Muriel was no less pleased. She gigglingly confided to her chums that Moretense was considerably less tense when she danced than she had expected to find her.

The delightful evening had winged its way toward eleven o’clock when, after a spirited fox trot, the bell in the gymnasium clanged out the five strokes which stood for “attention” at Hamilton. Instant with the last stroke, a breathless silence fell. It was broken by a high-pitched call from one side of the gymnasium. From an ante room a figure in a page’s costume of hunter’s green darted out and ran to the center of the floor. Trumpet to her lips, the sophomore page played a lively little rondelay. It was answered from the ante room on the oppo-side and another page, similarly clad, joined the first. Another fanfare of trumpets and three figures in dark brown robes with immense snow-white wigs appeared from the left-hand ante-room.

“Hear ye! Hear ye! Comes now a friende to Beautye brighte. An ye are fair, O, maid, the Beautye crowne shall win ye! Mayhap, mayhap! An ye are fair!”

The voice of the central be-wigged figure echoed through the room. The owner was a senior who sang bass in the Idlehour Glee Club, hence the robust tones.

“What is it to be? I don’t understand,” was whispered about the room.

CHAPTER XIX. – THE GIFTE OF BEAUTYE

“Oh, I know what this is going to be,” Helen Trent informed Jerry under her breath. “It’s an old Celtic beauty contest. Away back in the history of the Celts, they set aside one day in the year for games and contests. Just at sunset came the beauty contest. The Brown Judges, there are always three, who were in charge of all ethical matters, for the Celts had their own ideas about ethics, came down from their writing in the court tower and made this proclamation. All the pretty girls and women in the village would enter it. The judges would take their places on the fiddler’s platform and the beauty line had to pass them three times in slow succession. As they knew everyone in their village, I suppose it wasn’t very hard for them to pick the winner! She was accorded thereupon,” Helen quoted from memory, “‘the acclamation of her people, and, added to the joy of knowledge of Beauty, a silver purse, containing three heavy gold pieces, together with a solemn adjuration to do well, breed no vanity of the mind and say a prayer of thankfulness at even for the gift of Beauty, by the grace of God.’”

“How pretty,” Jerry said softly. “Well, if this is a beauty contest, I hope the judges won’t be partial. I know whom I think ought to win it.”

“You mean Marjorie?” Helen asked guardedly. “I think so too. Now listen to this charge to the contestants. I know it pretty well. Leila Harper let me take a book on the Celts. She brought it with her from Ireland. She was born in Dublin and came to this country when she was twelve. She is at the bottom of this and I know why. The clever maneuverer that she is!” Helen laughed, then her face suddenly sobered. She glanced anxiously at Marjorie, who stood not far away, her brown eyes riveted on the three judges. The conditions of the contest were about to be laid down by one of them.

“One makes this charge to winsome maids, not all may win the crowne! All ye who are to Beautye bent have had the assurance long. No mirrore ’flects a fairness back there be no fairenesse there. The twisted eye, the fanged tooth, the loose-lippede mouth, the mottlede skin, the unclassike nose, the sharpenede chin are not of Beautye’s kin. Beare this in mind and venture not ’fore the Judges’ critike heighte an ye are cursede with these. Now not too talle, nor yet too lowe; e’re be ye passinge faire. The heighte of man, five feete and nine, is not our favore gainede. Nor is the midge of four feete teyne, more than the olde, olde childe. Of grace we thinke on heavilye and note the free lighte step, the slendyre carriage of the budding flower, whiche she of grace does have. Of frank sweete looke, yet not so bolde, we rank as beautied worth. No countenance is perfecte yet when guile lurkes backe its eyese. So shalle ye rate yourselvese in mind upon our honeste scale, spokyne in hones klaryte to save the injuryede feeling of the sex, and we who judge ye much of vexede delaye and crude annoye. Beare last of all this sacrede truthe, goode Beautye needs no artifyce. The cosmetykes of cheatynge maides are instante knowne to use to be abhorrede.”

With this pointed laying down of entrance conditions to the contest, His Honor, the center judge, and the tallest of the three, fell back a little, to allow his companion on the left to speak. With a dramatic wave of the arms he began:

“Upon yon heighte we now shalle stand to sighte ye as ye passe.” A second sweep of the arm designated a small platform profusely decorated in hunter’s green, the freshman class color, and old gold, that of the sophomore class. It stood near the big Japanese lemonade bowl and had excited considerable curiosity during the evening, as no one seemed to know its purpose.

The third judge, who had thus far been silent, now called out in a veritable town-crier voice: “Heede ye! Heede ye! Beautye waites her worthynge. Lyne ye single fylinge. Passe ye once before us! Passe ye twice before us! Passe ye thryce before us! Walke ye to slowe measure.”

Having delivered himself of these succinct directions, the speaker joined his companions in bowing low to the enthralled assemblage. Whereupon, all three turned and strode majestically toward the fateful platform. Luckily the builders of the stand had not forgotten to place two makeshift steps of soap boxes, carpeted in green. The august judges had also been cautioned beforehand to tread upon them lightly or run a chance of disgracing their high and mighty personages by an ignominious tumble.

While they were disposing themselves on the platform with as much dignity as a wary ascent would allow, their hearers were fascinatedly considering the proclamation. Hardly a young girl who does not take a pardonable interest in a beauty contest. While she may be honestly sure that she would never be chosen the winner, she has a secret desire to enter it simply because she is a young girl.

From all parts of the gymnasium a subdued murmur of voices now arose, mingled with much soft laughter. Thus far the proclamation was too new to court action. Besides, it took temerity, after hearing the conditions, to walk boldly forth, an aspirant for beauty honors. Finally a knot of juniors, who had been loitering near the Judges’ stand exchanging pleasantries with the brown-robed critics, obeyed a mischievous impulse to start the ball rolling. Forming into line, these six, none of whom had a claim to more than fairly good looks, marched solemnly out onto the floor and approached the stand at an exaggeratedly slow walk. A shout of mirth arose, which they acknowledged with wide smiles. The ice was broken, however, and the line began to grow amazingly. At each end of the room, the two pages had now taken up their station in order to direct the progress of the beauty line.

“Catch me joining that line,” declared Jerry. “I know just how beautiful I am without any opinions from those three old wigs.”

“You goose!” exclaimed Helen, in an undertone. “Come on. There’s Muriel just going into line with Miss Barlow.” She giggled at the idea of stiff Moretense courting beauty honors. “If Marjorie sees all of us in it she will join, too. Otherwise she will stay out of it, and Veronica along with her. Either one of them are positively stunning types. Only I would vote for Marjorie. She really is the prettiest girl I ever saw. Why, on the campus now, the really worth-while girls rave over her.”

“Maybe the judges won’t see it that way,” deprecated Jerry. “Do you know them?”

“Yes, I do. They are all right. Leila picked them and she is always fair. I told you this was her work. Now come on.” Helen slipped an arm into Jerry’s and towed her, unresisting, into the long line that was now moving decorously around the gymnasium. Needless to say, the Sans had joined it. Even Lola Elster, accompanied by Leslie Cairns, had swaggered into line. Both had arrived late, attired in expensive, but somewhat flashy fall sports suits and hats. Neither removed her hat when dancing, a proceeding which many of the juniors and seniors present regarded with no leniency. The Sans appeared to consider this rude ignoring of convention a huge joke. Lola Elster’s impudent face bespoke her satisfaction in having thus defied the canons of good taste.

By the time the entire procession had passed the judges’ stand once, fully two-thirds of the company had joined it. Marjorie had been among the last to do so. Even then she would have preferred to stay out of the contest, had not Leila insisted that she must take part in it, pointing out to her Jerry, Muriel, and greatly to her surprise, Ronny, among the aspirants.

“It is only for fun, modest child,” argued Leila, in her most persuasive tones. She had foreseen this very snag in the way of her plan. Already the line had passed the stand for the second time. “Ah, come on!” she implored, catching Marjorie by the hand.

With a half sigh of reluctance, Marjorie yielded. Next second, Leila was hurrying her across the lower end of the room where the last of the procession was just rounding a corner. At least a third of the guests had elected to stay out of the contest. From different points of the gymnasium arose an energetic clapping of hands as Marjorie and Leila caught up with the line. Leila chuckled under her breath. Marjorie’s reluctance had only served to strengthen her chances for winning. Leila knew that the judges’ decision could not be attacked. She had been careful to select three seniors whose word was law at Hamilton. If they pronounced Marjorie Dean the most beautiful girl present, then, undoubtedly, she was.

As for Marjorie, she felt her face flame until it seemed to her that it must be bright vermilion. She experienced a momentary desire to upbraid Leila for thus bringing her into such undesired notice. She had not realized how conspicuous their cutting across the corner had made them until the applause had begun. Walking ahead of Leila, she was so chagrined at her own stupidity that she moved along mechanically, hardly cognizant of what was happening.

It seemed a long time to her before the line completed its third tour of the room. Came an echoing order from one of the judges to halt and the contestants obeyed with admirable alacrity. Part of them were viewing the beauty judges with smiles, perfectly content in knowing they would not be chosen. To a number, however, the contest had taken on a serious aspect. Two very pretty freshmen, pets of the Sans, stood looking at the judges as though determined to force their approval. Among the Sans Soucians there was an element of alertness that pointed to a smug belief in their claim to beauty.

Of the contestant, none was more concerned in the decision than Natalie Weyman. For a whole college year she had been acclaimed as the Hamilton College beauty. While considerable of this reputation had been built up for her by the Sans, it had gained ground, for one reason or another. She had taken care to live up to it, spending time and money in the cause of her personal adornment. Now, after having fought hard for it, she did not propose to relinquish it. She was inwardly furious over the contest. There were half a dozen girls whom she feared, all looking radiantly lovely. Vera Mason had never looked prettier. Martha Merrick was simply stunning in that maize tissue gown. More than once that evening Natalie had watched Muriel with a frown. But those other two hateful girls! Her envy had been thoroughly aroused by Marjorie’s and Ronny’s gowns. Her jealousy was rampant because of the beauty of their wearers. Though nothing could have forced from her the truth, she knew that the palm belonged to Marjorie.

Standing a little in front of a group of her friends, where she might be plainly seen by the judges, she assumed an attitude in which a portrait painter had posed her for a portrait the previous winter. Having slyly loosened one of the orchids from the cluster she was wearing, she began picking it to pieces, her head slightly bent. Falling into the pose with consummate art of the practiced deceiver, she really made an attractive study.

Marjorie and Leila had halted almost the length of the gymnasium from Natalie, to Leila’s inward vexation. She had hoped to see the two brought close together. She was sternly determined to see the false colors stripped from Natalie Weyman, whom she despised for a just reason which no one but herself knew.

“Let us have faith that the judges have good eyesight,” she muttered, as the judge who had delivered the charge to “Beautye brighte” held up a brown-winged arm for silence.

If the single gesture had been a wizard’s charm, it could hardly have taken effect more quickly. A hush, almost painful, ensued. The roll of the spokesman’s announcing tones fairly jarred the absolute stillness.

“Upon our queste of Beautye brighte, we have not soughte in vaine. So manye maides of faire young pryde make hard the chosynge then. Nor had the taske been done e’en yet, walkyede Beautye not amongst ye. On Mystresse Marjorie, of the Deans, our critike favor falles. Beautye has she to bless the eye and satisfye the heart.”

A murmur of acclamation began with the announcement of Marjorie’s name. It increased in volume until it drowned the judge’s speech. “Delighted,” that dignitary managed to shout so as to be heard, and, with a profound bow, waited for the noise to subside.

Standing beside Leila, who was applauding vigorously, a positive Cheshire-cat grin on her usually indifferent face, Marjorie fervently wished that she might suddenly drop through the floor. Her embarrassment was so great that she hardly knew in which direction to look or what to do. When quiet again descended the judge went on with the rest of a very complimentary speech. It ended in a summons to come to the stand and be acclaimed Beautye and receive Beautye’s guerdon.

At this Marjorie absolutely balked. Neither could Leila nor several other students, who had gathered round her, persuade her to go forward. It ended by a flushed and half indignant Beautye being forcibly marched up to the stand by a crowd of laughing girls. The guerdon was an immense bunch of long-stemmed American Beauty roses. Marjorie made a never-to-be-forgotten picture, as surrounded by her body guard, she stood with her arms full of roses and listened to the quaint adjuration to Beautye.

Unbidden tears crowded to her eyes as the judge ended with fine dramatic expression: “Brede ye, therefore sweete maids, no vanitye of the mind, but, say ye raythere, at even, a prayer of thankfulnesse for the gifte of Beautye, by the grace of God.” The emotional side of her nature touched by the fineness of the sentiment, she forgot herself as its object.