Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School

by Josephine Chase

  CHAPTER II

  THE SPONSOR OF THE FRESHMAN CLASS

  "Grace," asked Mrs. Harlowe, the day of the famous freshman tea, "haveyou asked some of the girls to help this afternoon? Bridget can attendto the sandwiches, but some one ought to pour the lemonade and generallylook after the wants of the others."

  Grace was arranging a bowl of China asters on the piano in her mother'scharming drawing room. The shining mahogany chairs and tables reflectedthe glow of the wood fire, for the day was chilly, and bright chintzcurtains at the windows gave a cheerful note of color to the scene.

  "Oh, yes, mother," replied Grace. "Nora and Jessica, of course, and AnnePierson."

  "And who is Anne Pierson?"

  "I don't know who she is," answered Grace. "I never knew her until sheentered the High School. But she is terribly poor. Her mother is aninvalid and her sister takes in plain sewing. I really asked her atfirst because Miriam Nesbit was rude to her one day. But I'm beginningto like her so much, now, that I'm glad I did it. She's as quiet as alittle mouse, but she is fast taking first place in class. I believe shewill outstrip Miriam before the end of the year. Don't ask me who sheis, though. I haven't the least idea, but she's all right, I can promiseyou that. I'm sorry for her because she is poor. They live in a littlebroken-down cottage on River Street."

  Mrs. Harlowe looked dubious. Grace was always bringing home stray peopleand animals, and the mother was accustomed to her daughter's whims. Theyoung girl was familiar to all the ragamuffins of the town slum, andwhen she sometimes found one gazing wistfully through the fence palingsof her mother's old-fashioned garden, she promptly led him around to thekitchen, gave him a plate of food on the back steps, picked him a smallbouquet and sent him off half-dazed with her gracious and impetuouskindness.

  "Well, my dear, I shall be prepared for anything," exclaimed Mrs.Harlowe; "but remember that feeding people on the back steps and askingthem into the parlor to meet your friends and acquaintances are twodifferent matters altogether."

  "Don't be afraid, mother," replied Grace. "You will like Anne as well asI do, once you get to know her. You must be careful not to frighten herat first. She is the most timid little soul I ever met."

  Just then the front gate clicked and two girls strolled up the red-brickwalk, their light organdie dresses peeping out from the folds of theirlong capes.

  "Here come Nora and Jessica," cried Grace excitedly, running to the doorto meet her friends.

  Mrs. Harlowe smiled. In spite of Grace's sixteen years she was still herlittle girl.

  There was another click at the gate and Mrs. Harlowe saw through theparlor window a little, dark figure, pathetically plain in its shabbycoat and hat.

  "Poor little soul," thought the good woman. "How I wish I could put herinto one of Grace's muslins, but, of course, I couldn't think ofoffering to do such a thing."

  "Mother," said Grace some minutes later, when the girls had laid asidetheir wraps and descended into the drawing room, "this is Anne Pierson,our new friend."

  Anne Pierson, small and shrinking, was dressed in a queer, old-fashionedblack silk that had evidently been taken up and made short for theoccasion. Mrs. Harlowe's heart was touched to the quick and she bent andkissed the young girl gently.

  "How do you do, my dear?" she said kindly. "I am always glad to meetGrace's friends, and you are most welcome."

  Anne was too frightened almost to speak. This was the first party shehad ever attended, and the beautiful room, the girls in their light,pretty dresses, the bowls of flowers and the cheery firelight nearlystupefied her.

  Mrs. Harlowe disappeared into the little conservatory off the diningroom, returning in a moment with two big red roses which she pinned toAnne's dress.

  "These red roses have been waiting for you all morning," she said, "andthey're just in their prime now."

  More guests began to arrive, and soon the room was full of young girlstalking gayly together in groups or walking about, their arms aroundeach other's waists after the manner of fifteen and sixteen.

  Grace had seated Anne at the dining room table behind a large cut glassbowl which almost hid her small figure. Grace knew from experience thatthis would be the most popular spot in the room, and she cautioned manyof her friends to be kind to the timid little stranger. She knew alsothat giving Anne something to keep her occupied would relieve herembarrassment. Anne conscientiously filled and refilled the glasses, andin the intervals answered the questions put to her; but never asked anyherself.

  Miriam Nesbit came in late with her two most intimate friends. She worea resplendent dress of old rose crepe and a big black hat. Anne forgother resentment when she caught sight of the vision and was lost inadmiration. But she was brought sharply to her senses by a rude,sneering laugh from the ill-bred girl, who was staring insolently at theold black silk gown.

  Anne flushed and hung her head.

  "I am glad Mrs. Harlowe gave me the flowers," she thought. "They hide ita little, I think."

  Meantime there was the bustle of a new and important arrival. Grace andher mother ushered in a charming little old lady and seated her in theplace of honor, a big leather chair between the windows. She wore a graysilk dress and a lavender bonnet daintily trimmed in lace and whiteostrich tips.

  "Girls," said Grace, as a hush fell over the room, "there is no need forme to introduce any of you to Mrs. Gray, who is the sponsor for thefreshman class."

  There was a buzz of laughter and conversation again, and through thedouble doors Anne caught sight of the little old lady, talking gayly toher subjects, seated, like a diminutive queen, on a large throne.

  "Why is she the sponsor of the class?" Anne asked of Jessica, who washovering near by.

  "Oh, have you never heard?" returned Jessica. "Mrs. Gray's daughter diedduring her freshman year at High School, long ago, and ever since then,Mrs. Gray has offered a prize of twenty-five dollars for the girl whomakes the highest average in her examinations at the end of the freshmanyear. She was made sponsor of the freshman class about ten years ago, soeach year, soon after school opens, some one of the freshmen gives a teaand invites her to meet the new girls. You must come in and beintroduced, too, as soon as you are through here."

  "A prize of twenty-five dollars," repeated Anne. "How I wish I might winit!"

  "It's even more than that," said Jessica. "For a perfect examination sheoffers one hundred dollars. But, needless to say, no one has ever wonthe hundred. It is considered impossible to pass a perfect examinationin every subject."

  "One hundred dollars!" exclaimed Anne. "Oh, if I only could!"

  "Well, you may win the twenty-five dollars, anyway, Anne," said Jessica."I suppose the one hundred dollar prize is beyond the reach of humanbeings."

  "And now, young ladies," Mrs. Gray was saying, smiling at the group ofgirls who surrounded her, as she examined them through her lorgnette,"most of you I have known since you were little tots, and your fathersand mothers before you; but I don't know which of you excels in herstudies. Is it you, Grace, my dear?"

  Grace shook her head vigorously.

  "No, indeed, Mrs. Gray," she replied. "I could never be accused ofoverstudy. I suppose I'm too fond of basketball."

  "It won't hurt you, my dear," said the old lady, tapping the girlindulgently with her lorgnette; "the open air is much better than thatof the schoolroom, and so long as you keep up an average, I daresay youwon't disappoint your mother. But none of you have told me yet who leadsthe freshman class in her studies."

  "Miriam Nesbit," said several voices in unison.

  "Ah!" said Mrs. Gray, looking intently at Miriam. "So you are the goldmedal girl, Miriam? Dear me, what a young lady you are growing to be!But you must not study too hard. Don't overdo it."

  Mrs. Gray had gone through this same conversation every year since anyof the girls could remember, and never failed to caution the head girlnot to overstudy.

  "There's no fear of that, Mrs. Gray," replied Miriam boastfully. "Mylessons give me very little trouble."r />
  "Mrs. Gray," broke in Nora O'Malley mischievously, "Miriam Nesbit has aclose second in the class. The first girl who has ever been known tocome up to her."

  Miriam flushed, half-angry and half-pleased at the adroit compliment.

  "And who may that be, my dear?" queried Mrs. Gray, searching about theroom with her nearsighted blue eyes.

  "It's Anne Pierson" replied Nora.

  "Pierson, Pierson?" repeated the little old lady. "Why have I not mether? I do not seem to remember the name in Oakdale. But where is thiswonderful young woman who is outstripping our brilliant Miriam? I feel agreat curiosity to see her."

  "Anne Pierson, Anne Pierson!" called several voices, while Grace beganto search through the rooms and hall.

  At the first mention of her name Anne had darted from her seat behindthe lemonade bowl, and rushed to the nearest shelter, which was theconservatory.

  Grace found her, at last, in the conservatory crouched behind a palm.

  "Come here, you foolish child!" exclaimed Grace. "You are wanted atonce. Why did you run and hide? Mrs. Gray--the great Mrs. Gray--wishesto meet you. Think of that!"

  Anne clasped the girl's strong hand with her two small ones.

  "Oh, Grace," she whispered, "won't you excuse me? I--I----"

  "You what? Silly, come right along!"

  Grace fairly dragged the trembling little figure into the drawing room,where a silence had fallen over the group of young girls who watched thescene.

  "Tut, tut, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray gently. "You mustn't be afraidof me. I'm the most harmless old woman in the world."

  Then she tried to get a glimpse of Anne's downcast, crimson face.

  "I wanted particularly to meet you, child," went on Mrs. Gray, "becauseI hear you are a formidable rival of the best pupil in the freshmanclass. That is a great boast for your friends to make for you, my dear.Miriam Nesbit is a famously smart girl, I'm told. But I wanted to meetyou, too, because you bear the name I love best in the world."

  Here the old lady's voice became very soft, and the girls suddenlyremembered that the young daughter had been called Anne. Was there not amemorial window, in the chapel of the High School, of an angel carryinga lily and underneath an inscription familiar to them all: "In Memory ofAnne Gray, died in her freshman year, aged sixteen"?

  The girls moved off quietly, conversing in low voices, leaving Annealone with her new friend.

  "You are a very little girl to be so clever," said Mrs. Gray, pattingone of Anne's small wrists as she looked into the dark eyes. "Where doyou live, dear?"

  "On River Street," replied Anne undergoing the scrutiny calmly, now shefound herself alone.

  "River Street?" repeated Mrs. Gray, trying to recall whom she had everknown living in that strange quarter of the town. "Have you been long inOakdale?" she went on.

  "A few years, ma'am," replied Anne.

  "And what is your father's business, my child?" continued the old ladyremorselessly.

  Anne blushed and hung her head, and for a moment there was no reply tothe question. Presently she drew a sharp breath as if it hurt her tomake the confession.

  "My father does not live here," was what she said. "My mother is aninvalid. My sister supports us with sewing. As soon as I finish in theHigh School, I shall teach."

  Mrs. Gray put an arm around the girl's waist and drew her down besideher.

  "I'm a stupid old woman, child. You must forgive me. Old people forgettheir manners sometimes. Will you come and see me very soon? Perhapsto-morrow after church you will take luncheon with me? I want to knowyou better."

  She drew a card from the beaded reticule that hung at her side.

  "Remember, at half-past twelve," she said, giving the girl's hand anextra squeeze as she rose to go.

  After Mrs. Gray had taken her departure a free and easy atmosphere wasrestored and the girls began talking and laughing without therestriction of an older person's presence. Mrs. Harlowe shortly afterthis also left them to themselves.

  "Let's do some stunts," proposed Grace. "Nora, will you give us yourimitations?"

  "Certainly," replied Nora, "if Miriam will promise to sing, and Jessicawill do her Greek dance, and Georgie will play for us."

  "All right!" came a chorus of voices.

  "We've done it oft before, but we'll do it o'er again if the company sowishes," said Georgie Pine, one of the brightest and gayest girls in theclass.

  The others seated themselves in a semicircle, while each girl gave herlittle performance, and, at the conclusion, was applaudedenthusiastically. Nora had a real talent for mimicry; she convulsed heraudience with imitations of some of the High School teachers. When itcame Miriam's turn she sat down at the piano with a queer look on herface.

  "I believe she means mischief," thought Grace to herself, as she watchedthe girl curiously.

  Miriam ran a brilliant scale up the piano, for music was another of hermany accomplishments. Then she paused and turned to the others.

  "I won't sing," she said, "unless Miss Pierson promises to recite ussomething first, Poe's 'Raven,' for instance."

  Grace flushed angrily and was about to interfere when, to her surprise,Anne herself replied:

  "I shall be glad to if that is the poem you like best. I alwayspreferred 'Annabel Lee.'"

  Miriam was too amazed to answer. She could never form an idea of what itcost Anne in self-control to acquiesce; but the young girl had gained anew strength that day. So many people had been kind to her, and what ismore, interested in her welfare. She rose quietly and walked to themiddle of the semicircle.

  Grace and her chums were in an agony of fear lest poor Anne should breakdown, and so distress them all except the unkind Miriam. However, theyneed not have troubled themselves. Anne fixed her eyes on the far wallof the dining room and commenced to recite "The Raven" in a clear,musical voice that deepened as she repeated the stanzas. The girlsforgot the shabby little figure in its ill-fitting black silk and sawonly Anne's small, white face and glowing eyes. Not Miss Tebbs, herself,teacher of English and elocution at the High School, could have improvedupon the performance.

  "It was perfectly done," said Grace afterwards, telling the story to hermother. "It was almost uncanny and quite creepy toward the last."

  When the performance was over the girls crowded around little Anne witheager congratulations; but, strange to say, everyone forgot that Miriamhad given her promise to sing.

  What the crestfallen Miriam kept wondering was: "Wherever did she learnto do it?"