Beatrice Leigh at College Part 27

"Ah, Miss Abbott!" The messenger girl overtook her at the foot of the broad staircase. "Here is a special delivery letter for you. It was brought from town five minutes ago."

Berta glanced at the address. Yes, it was from her sister-in-law as she had expected. Eva was always falling into foolish little flurries and rus.h.i.+ng to consult friends and relatives by mail or wire or word of mouth. Possibly this important communication was a request for advice about the babies' pique coats. It could wait for a reading till Berta had found a safe refuge from the girls who would certainly surround her as soon as chapel was over. They would follow Robbie and Bea.

Where could she go to escape the enthusiasm? Her room would be the first point of attack, and Bea's the second. Ah, now she recalled Miss Thorne's speech about calling for the commencement essay at this hour. She might as well go there now and wait till her critic should return from services, if indeed she had attended them to-night.

At the door Berta knocked and bent her head to listen, then knocked again. Still no answer. She waited another minute, her eyes absently hovering over the plants that banked the wide window there at the end of the transverse corridor. The evening breeze sweet from loitering in clover fields drifted in through the open cas.e.m.e.nt. Miss Thorne was very fond of flowers. That was a queer trait in a person who seemed to care so little for persons. There always seemed something frozen about this gray-haired, immobile-faced woman with her stern manner and steely eyes.

Sometimes Berta thought of her as like a dying fire that smoldered under smothering ashes.

Berta turned the k.n.o.b gently and entered. A faint rosy glow from the lowered drop-light shone on the piles of papers and scattered books on the library table. The curtains rippled in the sudden draught caused by the opening of the door, and a whiff of fragrance from a jar of apple-blossoms on the bookcase floated past the visitor. Berta glanced around with a little shrug that was half a s.h.i.+ver. A room frequently partakes of the nature of its occupant; and the atmosphere of this one always made her heart sink with a quiver of loneliness over the strange chill of lifelessness there in spite of the rosy drop-light, the fluttering curtains, and the drifting breath of flowers. It was a large room with many easy chairs in it--and they were all empty. Even when Miss Thorne was there it seemed lonesome, perhaps because she was such a slender little woman and so icily quiet.

Berta chose one of the empty chairs and read the letter. Then she let the sheets fall loose in her lap and sat there without moving while the minutes went creeping by and the transparent curtains rippled now and then in the evening breeze. Through the window she could see a great star hanging above the peak of a shadowy evergreen that stirred softly to and fro against the fading sky. Once the twilight call of a distant robin sounded its long-drawn plaintive music, and Berta felt her lip tremble.

She raised her hand half unconsciously to soothe the ache in her throat.

Miss Thorne glided in. "Good evening, Miss Abbott. May I add my congratulations, or am I right in concluding that you have taken refuge here from the persecutions of your friends? It is a great pleasure to me to know that you will have the opportunity to keep on with your studying this next year. You must allow me to say so much at least. And now, with regard to the essay----"

Berta watched the slight figure move noiselessly about in the act of making tea.

"I wished to call your attention particularly, Miss Abbott, to the qualities which strike me as most promising. A vast amount of futile effort is wasted every year by workers who have not yet recognized their special talents. There is continual friction between the round peg and the square hole, and vice versa. Now in your case, when you are ready to plan your course of study for your graduate work abroad----"

"Don't!"

The tone was so sharp that Miss Thorne lifted her head quickly and shot a keen glance at the girl before her. The attractive face had grown strained and the eyes were burning restlessly.

"What is it, Berta?" No student had ever heard her voice so soft before.

"You are in trouble."

Berta looked at her for a moment without replying. Then she picked up her letter, folded it carefully in its original creases, and fitted it into the envelope. "Yes," she said at last, "I am in trouble. My sister-in-law has lost her income from a foolish investment, entirely her own fault, and she is utterly helpless. My parents have no money to spare. There is n.o.body else but me to support her and the three babies. She writes that a position in the high school will be vacant next year and I ought to apply at once."

Miss Thorne sat silent. "And there is no other way?" she asked after what seemed a long, long time.

"None," answered Berta.

"You will give up the fellows.h.i.+p, your hopes of doing exceptional work?

You will sacrifice all your ambition and take up the drudgery of teaching in an uncongenial sphere for the rest of your life?"

"Well, I can't let the babies go to an orphan asylum, can I?" demanded the girl brusquely to conceal the pain, "there is no one else, I tell you."

The woman rose and put both arms around the girl. "Berta, dear," she said, "you are right. Once I hesitated at the point where you are now. I had to choose between the demands of home and the invitation of ambition.

I let the home-ties snap, and--here is my empty room. Now there is n.o.body that cares."

Berta glanced around again with a little s.h.i.+ver. "There isn't any question about it for me," she said, "I've got to take care of the babies. And"--she straightened her shoulders suddenly as if throwing off a weight, "it won't be so hard when I get used to the idea, because, you see, I--love them."

Faithful Robbie Belle had found out her refuge somehow and was waiting in the corridor. With that comforting arm across her shoulders, Berta poured out the story of her sudden disappointment.

At first Robbie was silent. Then she spoke gently: "But, Berta, you have had the four years at college, you know, and four years are a good deal.

There are thousands and thousands of girls who never have even that."

"I know," answered Berta, her voice smothered against the convenient shoulder. "And that thought helps--at least, I think it will help to-morrow."

Robbie's strong, warm hand sought and clasped Berta's nervous fingers.

"All right," she acquiesced cheerily. "Now who do you suppose wrote that epilogue in last year's Annual?

"'We go to meet the future, strong of soul, In sunlight or in shadow, holding fast The inviolable gift the years enroll; The Past is ours; nothing can change the Past.'"