Marjorie Dean, College Junior

“Glad of it.” Jerry promptly tendered her gift to Portia. “I always feel silly giving a present.”

The others from Wayland Hall very willingly surrendered their good-will offerings. Their bouquets they kept. Entering the reception hall, Elaine stepped forward to welcome them and received a sudden flower pelting, to the accompaniment of a lively chorus of congratulations.

“How lovely! Umm! The dear things!” she exclaimed, as the rain of blossoms came fast and furious. Her sweet, fair face aglow with the love of flowers, she gathered them up in the overskirt of her white chiffon frock and sat down on the lower step of the stairs to enjoy their fragrance. “I am not allowed in the living room, girls. Everyone can go in there but poor me. I thank you for these perfectly darling bouquets. I’ll have a different one to wear every day this week. If you want to fix your hair or do any further beautifying go up to Robin’s room. If not, go into the living room.”

Lingering for a little further chat with Elaine, whom they all adored, they entered the living room to be met by a vociferous welcome from the assembled Silvertonites. When the last guest had arrived and been ushered into the reception room, from somewhere in the house a bell suddenly tinkled. In order to give more space the chairs had been removed and the guests lined the sides of the apartment and filled one end of it halfway to the wide doorway opening into the main hall.

At sound of the bell a hush fell upon the merry-makers. Again it tinkled and down the stairs came a procession that might have stepped from a tapestry depicting the life of the greenwood men. Four merry men, their green cambric costumes carefully modeled after the attire of Robin Hood and his followers, had come to the party. The first, instead of being Robin Hood, was Robin Page. She bowed low to Elaine, who was still languishing in exile in the hall, and offered her arm.

“Delighted; I am so tired of hanging about that old hall!” Elaine seized Robin’s arm with alacrity and the two passed into the adjoining room. The other three faithful servitors followed their leader. The last one carried a violin and drew from it an old-time greenwood melody as Elaine and Robin joined forces and paraded into the living room.

Straight toward the green curtain Robin piloted Elaine to the fiddler’s plaintive tune. Stationed before the curtain, Blanche Scott drew it aside.

A surprised and admiring chorus of exclamations arose. There stood a real greenwood tree. Portia and Blanche could have amply testified to this fact as the two of them, armed with a hatchet, had laboriously chopped down a small maple and brought it to the house from the woods on the afternoon previous. Its branches were as well loaded with packages of various sizes as those of a Christmas tree. Under the tree was a grassy mound built up of hard cushions, the whole covered with real sod dug up by the patient wood cutters.

On this Elaine was invited to sit. She formed a pretty picture in her fluffy white gown in conjunction with the greenery. The four merry men gathered round her and bowed low, then sang her an ancient ballad to the accompaniment of the violin. Followed a short speech by the tallest of the four congratulating her, in stately language on the anniversary of her birth. Three of the four then busied themselves with stripping the tree of its spoils and laying them at her feet. During this procedure the fiddler evoked further sweet thin melodies from his violin.

Last, Elaine’s gallant escort, who had left her briefly, returned to the scene with a large green and white straw basket, piled high with gifts. These duly presented, the quaint bit of forest play was over and the enjoying spectators crowded about the lucky recipient of friendly riches.

“I don’t know what I shall ever do with them all,” she declared in an amazed, quavering voice. “I’m not half over the shock of so much wealth yet. I simply can’t open them now. I’ll weep tears of gratitude over every separate one of them.”

“You aren’t expected to look at them now,” was Robin’s reassurance. “Your merry men are going to carry Elaine’s nice new playthings up to her room. So there! Tomorrow’s Saturday. You can spend the afternoon exploring. We are going to have a stunt party now. Anyone who is called upon to do a stunt has to conform or be ostracized.”

“If we are going to do stunts there is no use in bringing back the chairs. After Elaine’s presents have all been carted upstairs everybody can stand in that half of the room. We can roll the rug up from the other end exactly half way. That will give room and a smooth floor for dancing stunts. We shall surely have some,” planned Blanche. “I had better inform the company of what’s going to happen next. It will give them a chance to think up a stunt.”

While the faithful greenwood men busied themselves in Elaine’s behalf, Blanche proceeded to make a humorous address to the guests. Her announcement sent them into a flutter. At least half of the crowd protested to her and to one another that they did not know any stunts to perform.

When the deck was finally clear for action and the show began, it was amazing the number of funny little stunts that came to light. The first girl called upon was Hortense Barlow. She marched solemnly to the center of the improvised stage and announced “‘Home Sweet Home,’ by our domestic animals.” A rooster lustily crowed the first few bars of the old song, then two hens took it up. They relinquished it in favor of a bleating lamb. It was succeeded by a pair of grunting pigs. The opening bars of the chorus were mournfully “mooed” by a lonely cow, and the rest of it was ably sung by a donkey, a dog and a guinea hen. She then repeated the chorus as a concerted effort on the part of the barnyard denizens.

The manner in which she managed to imitate each creature, still keeping fairly in tune, was clever in the extreme. Her final concert chorus convulsed her audience and she was obliged to repeat it.

Hers was the only encore allowed. Portia announced that, owing to the lack of time, encores would have to be dispensed with. The guests had received permission to be out of their house until half-past eleven and no later.

Leila was the next on the list and responded with an old-time Irish jig. Vera Ingram and Mary Cornell gave a brief singing and dancing sketch. Jerry responded with the one stunt she could do to perfection. She had half closed her eyes, opened her mouth to its widest extent, and wailed a popular song just enough off the key to be funny. Heartily detesting this class of melody, she never failed to make her chums laugh with her mocking imitation.

Portia being in charge of the stunt programme, she called upon Blanche who gave the “Prologue from Pagliacci” in a baritone voice and with expression which would have done credit to an opera singer. Lucy Warner surprised her chums by a fine recital of “The Chambered Nautilus,” giving the quiet dramatic emphasis needed to bring out Holmes’ poem. Marie Peyton danced a fisher’s hornpipe. Vera Mason borrowed one of Robin’s kimonos and a fan and performed a Japanese fan dance. Several of the Silvertonites sang, danced, recited, or told a humorous story.

“As we shall have time for only one more stunt, I will call on Ronny Lynne,” Portia announced, smiling invitingly at Ronny. “Wait a minute until I call the orchestra together. We will play for you,” she added.

“Play for me for what?” Ronny innocently inquired. Nevertheless she laughed. Though she had yet to dance for the first time at Hamilton, she knew that her ability as a dancer was an open secret.

“For your dance, of course. What kind of dance are you going to do? Mustn’t refuse. Everyone else has been so obliging.” Portia beamed triumph of having thus neatly caught Ronny.

“I suppose I must fall in line. I don’t know what to dance. Most of my dances require special costumes.” Ronny glanced dubiously at the white and gold evening frock she was wearing. “I know one I can do,” she said, after a moment’s thought.

Raising her voice so as to be heard by all, she continued in her clear tones: “Girls, I am going to do a Russian interpretative dance for you. The idea is this: A dancer at the court of a king, who is honored because of her art, loses her sweetheart. She becomes so despondent that no amount of praise can lift her from her gloom. She tries to decide whether she had best kill her rival or herself. Finally she decides to kill her rival. I shall endeavor to make this plain in a dance containing two intervals and three episodes. The first depicts the dancer in her glory. The second, in her dejection. The third, her decision to kill.”

A brief consultation with the orchestra as to what they could play, suitable to the interpretation, and Ronny was ready. Phyllis, the reliable, who had been proficient on the violin from childhood, and possessed a wide musical repertoire, both vocal and instrumental, played over a few measures of a valse lente. Her musicians were familiar enough with it to follow her lead. Moskowski’s “Serenade” was chosen for the second episode, and Scharwenki’s “Polish Dance” for the third.

Every pair of eyes was centered on Ronny’s slight, graceful figure as she stood at ease for an instant waiting for the music to begin. Many of the girls present had never seen an interpretative dance. With the first slow, seductive strains of the waltz, Ronny became the court dancer. In perfect time to the music she made the low sweeping salutes to an imaginary court, then executed a swaying, beautiful dance of intricate steps in which her whole body seemed to take part in the expression of her art. The grace of that symphonic, white and gold figure was such the watchers held their breath. At the end of the episode there was a dead silence. Applause, when it came, was deafening.

Ronny claimed the tiny interval for rest, merely raising her hands in a despairing gesture at the hub-bub her dance had created. By the time she was ready to continue it had subsided. All were now anxious to see her interpretation of the jilted woman.

The second, though much harder to execute, Ronny liked far better than the first. Particularly fond of the Russian idea of the dance, she threw her whole heart into the story she was endeavoring to convey by motion. When she had finished she was tired enough to gladly claim a rest while Portia went upstairs for a paper knife which would serve as a dagger for the third episode.

The wild strains of the “Polish Dance” were well suited to the character of the episode. The flitting, white and gold figure of indolent grace had now become one of tense purpose. Every line of her figure had now become charged with the desire for revenge. Every step of the dance and movement of the arms were in accordance with the mood she was portraying. She enacted the dancer’s plan to steal upon her rival unawares and deliver the fatal knife thrust.

Had Ronny not explained the dance beforehand, so vivid was her interpretation, her audience could have gained the meaning of it without difficulty. A united sighing breath of appreciation went up as she concluded the Terpsichorean tragedy by a triumphant flinging of her arms above her head, one hand tightly grasping the murder knife.

Carried out of life ordinary by the glimpse of another world of emotion, it took the admiring girls a minute or so to realize that Ronny was herself and a fellow student. She had cast over them the perfect illusion of the tragic dancer; the sure measure of her art. When they came out of it they crowded about her asking all sorts of eager questions.

“Ronny has brought down the house, as usual. Look at those girls fairly idolizing her.” Jerry’s round face was wreathed with smiles over Ronny’s triumph. “I shall go in for interpretative dancing myself, hereafter. It’s about time I did something to make myself popular around here.”

“What are you going to interpret?” Muriel demanded to know.

“I haven’t yet decided,” Jerry vaguely replied. “Anyway, I wouldn’t tell you if I had. I should expect to practice my dance awhile before I sprang it on anyone. It might give my victim a horrible scare.”

“You wouldn’t scare me,” was the valorous assurance. “You had better try it on me first when you are ready to burst upon the world as a dancer. I will give you valuable criticism.”

“Laugh at me, you mean. Come on. Let’s interview the orchestra. Phil is certainly some little fiddler.”

Taking Muriel by the arm, Jerry marched her up to Phyllis, who, with the other members of the orchestra, were also coming in for adulation. The addition of Jerry and Muriel to the group was soon noticeable by the burst of laughter which ascended therefrom. Good-natured Jerry had not the remotest idea of how very popular she really was.

Promptly on the heels of the stunt party followed a collation served in the dining room. An extra table had been added to the two long ones used by the residents. When the company trooped into the prettily-decorated room with its flower-trimmed tables, the Wayland Hall girls were pleasantly surprised to see Signor Baretti in charge there. While he had repeatedly refused at various times to cater for private parties given at the campus houses, Elaine had secured his valued services without much coaxing. He had long regarded her as “one the nicest, maybe the best, all my young ladies from the college.”

It was one minute past eleven when the guests rose from the table after a vigorous response to Portia’s toast to Elaine, and joined in singing one stanza of “Auld Lang Syne.” With the last note of the song hasty goodnights were said. “Not one minute later than half-past eleven” had been the stipulation laid down with the permission for the extra hour.

“We’ll have to walk as though we all wore seven league boots,” declared Jerry, as the Wayland Hall girls hurried down the steps of Silverton Hall. “But, oh, my goodness me, haven’t we had a fine time? Tonight was like our good old Sanford crowd parties at home, wasn’t it? It looks to me as though the right kind of times had actually struck Hamilton!”

CHAPTER IX – HER “DEAREST” WISH

It did not need Elaine’s party to cement more securely the friendship which existed between the Silvertonites and the group of Wayland Hallites who had co-operated with them so loyally from the first. They had fought side by side for principle. Now they were beginning to glimpse the lighter, happier side of affairs and experience the pleasure of discovering how much each group had to admire in the other.

“What we ought to do is organize a bureau of entertainment and give musicales, plays, revues and one thing or another,” Robin proposed to Marjorie as the two were returning from a trip to the town of Hamilton one afternoon in early October. “We would charge an admission fee, of course, and put the money to some good purpose. I don’t know what we would do with it. There are so few really needy students here. We’d find some worthy way of spending it. I know we would make a lot. The students simply mob the gym when there’s a basket-ball game. They’d be willing to part with their shekels for the kind of show we could give.”

“I think the same,” Marjorie made hearty response. “At home we gave a Campfire once, at Thanksgiving. We held it in the armory. We had booths and sold different things. We had a show, too. That was the time Ronny danced those two interpretative dances I told you of the other night. We made over a thousand dollars. Half of it went to the Sanford guards and the Lookouts got the other half.”

“We could make a couple of hundred dollars at one revue, I believe. We could give about three entertainments this year and three or four next,” planned Robin. “It would have to be a fund devoted to helping the students, I guess. Come to think of it, I would not care to get up a show unless our purpose was clearly stated in the beginning. A few unjust persons might start the story that we wanted the money for ourselves. By the way, the Sans are not interesting themselves in our affairs this year, are they? Do you ever clash with them at the Hall?”

“No; they never notice us and we never notice them. It isn’t much different in that respect than it was in the beginning. I’d feel rather queer about it sometimes if they hadn’t been so utterly heartless in so many ways. This is their last year. It will seem queer when we come back next fall as seniors to have almost an entirely new set of girls in the house. I can’t bear to think of losing Leila and Vera and Helen. Then there are Rosalind, Nella, Martha and Hortense; splendid girls, all of them. I wish they had been freshies with us. That’s the beauty of the Silvertonites. They will all be graduated together.”

“We are fortunate. Think of poor Phil! She is going to be lonesome when we all leave the good old port of Hamilton. To go back to the show idea. I’m going to talk it over with my old stand-bys at our house. You do the same at yours. Maybe some one of them will have a brilliant inspiration. I mean, about what we ought to do with the money, once we’ve made it.”

A sudden jolt of the taxicab in which they were riding, as it swung to the right, combined with an indignant yell of protest from its driver, startled them both. A blue and buff car had shot past them, barely missing the side of the taxicab.

“Look where you’re goin’ or get off the road!” bawled the man after it. His face was scarlet with anger, he turned in his seat, addressing his fares. “That blue car near smashed us,” he growled. “The young lady that drives it had better quit and give somebody else the wheel. This is the third time she near put my cab on the blink. She can’t drive for sour apples. I wisht, if you knew her, you’d tell her she’s gotta quit it. I don’t own this cab. I don’t wanta get mixed up in no smash-up. If she does it again I’ll go up to the college boss and report that car.”

“Neither of us know her well enough to give her your message,” Marjorie smiled faintly, as she pictured herself giving the irate driver’s warning to Elizabeth Walbert. She had recognized the girl at the wheel as the blue and buff car had passed her.