CHAPTER III.--HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF.
Molly and Nance were very busy with their special courses, Nance workingat French literature as though she had no other interest in the world,and Molly at English and Domestic Science.
"Thank goodness, I shall not have to tutor! Since we 'struck ile' I amsaved that," said Molly one day to her roommate, who was as usualoccupied, in spite of its being "blind man's holiday," too early tolight the gas and too late to see without it. "Nance, you will put outyour eyes with that mending. I never saw such a busy bee as you are.Melissa tells me you are going to help her with a dress, too."
"Yes, I am so glad she will let me. I told her how we made the Empiregown for you in your Freshman year, and she seemed to feel that if herdear Molly allowed that much to be done for her, it was not for her toobject to a similar favor. I know you will laugh when I tell you that Iam going to get a one-piece dress and an extra skirt for shirtwaists outof the blue homespun. It is beautiful material, spun with anold-fashioned spinning wheel and woven on a hand loom by Melissa'sgrandmother. Did you ever see so much goods in one dress? It seems thatthe dear woman who has taught her everything she knows has not had anynew clothes herself for ten years, and could not give her much idea ofthe prevailing fashion; and Melissa made this dress herself from apattern her mother had used for her wedding dress. I hate to cut it up.It seems a kind of desecration, but Melissa has a splendid figure and ifher clothes were not quite so voluminous she would be as stylish as anyone. She improves every day in many ways and seems to be less shy."
"She has an instinct for good literature. Professor Green tells me hertaste is unerring. He says it is because her preference is for thesimple, and the simple is always the best. Little Otoyo has the samefeeling for the best in poetry. Haven't we missed that little Jap,though? I'll be so glad to have her back. I fancy I shall have sometutoring to do in spite of myself to get Otoyo Sen up with her class."
Otoyo Sen, the little Japanese girl who had played such a close part inthe college life of our girls, had been back in Japan, and had not beenable to reach America in time for the opening weeks of college, due tosome business engagements of her father. But she was trusting to Mollyand her own industry to catch up with her class, and was hurrying backto Wellington as fast as the San Francisco Limited could bring her.
Molly had been writing every moment that she could spare from her hardreading, and now she had two things she really wanted to show ProfessorGreen--a story she had worked on for weeks until it seemed to be part ofher, and a poem. She had sent the poem to a magazine and it had beenrejected, accompanied by a letter which she could not understand. At alltimes in earlier days she had gone frankly to the professor's study toask him for advice, but this year she could hardly make up her mind todo it.
"He is as kind as ever to me, but somehow I can't make up my mind to runin on him as I used to," said Molly to herself. "I know I am a sillygoose--or is it perhaps because I am so grown up? It is only five o'clockthis minute, it gets dark so early in November, and I have half a mindto go now." The temperament that goes with Molly's coloring usuallymeans quick action following the thought, so in a moment Molly had onher jacket and hat. "Nance, I am going to see Professor Green about somethings I have been writing. I won't be late, but don't wait tea for me.Melissa may be in to see us, but you will take care of her, I know."
There was a rather tired-sounding, "Come in," at Molly's knock onProfessor Green's study door.
"Oh, dear, now I am going to bore him!" thought the girl. "I have half amind to run back through the passage and get out into the Cloisterbefore he has a chance to open the door and see who was knocking. Butthat would be too foolish for a postgraduate! I'd better run the risk ofboring him rather than have him think I am some one playing a foolishSophomore joke, or even a timid little Freshman, afraid to call her soulher own."
"Come in, come in. Is any one there?" called the voice rather brisklyfor the usually gentle professor. And before Molly could open the doorit was actually jerked open. "Dearest Molly!--I mean, Miss Molly--Ithought you were going to be some one else. The fact is, I have had aregular visitation from would-be poets this afternoon, and, as it neverrains but it pours, I had a terrible feeling that it was another one. Iam so glad to see you; not just because you are not what I feared youwere, but because you are you."
Molly blushed crimson and tried to hide the little roll of manuscriptbehind her, but the young man saw it and kicked himself mentally for arash, talking idiot.
"I can't come in, thank you. I just stopped by to--to----I just thought I'dask you when your sister was coming."
"Oh, Molly Brown, what a poor prevaricator you do make! You knowperfectly well you have written something you want me to see; and youalso know, or ought to know, that I want to see what you have writtenabove everything; and what I said about would-be poets had nothing to dowith you and me. The fact is, I am a would-be myself and have beenworking on a sonnet this afternoon instead of looking over the thousandthemes that I must have finished before to-morrow's lecture. I had justgot the eighth line completed when you knocked, and the six others willbe easy. Please come in and take off your hat, and I'll get Mrs. Bradyto make us some tea; and while the kettle is boiling you can show mewhat you have been doing, and when I get my other six lines to my sonnetdone I'll show it to you."
Molly of course had to comply with a request made with so muchkindliness and sincerity. Mrs. Brady came, in answer to the professor'sbell which connected his study with his house, and was delighted to seeMolly, remembering with great pleasure the Christmas breakfast the younggirl had cooked for Professor Green the year before. Molly had a waywith her that appealed to old people as well as young, and she had wonMrs. Brady's heart on that memorable morning by telling her that she,too, boasted of Irish blood.
"And I might have known it, from the sweet tongue in your head," Mrs.Brady had replied.
The old woman hastened off to make the tea, and Molly reluctantlyunrolled her manuscript.
"Professor Green, I want you to think of me as some one you do not knowor like when you read my stuff."
"That is a very difficult task you have set me, and I am afraid one thatI am unequal to; but I do promise to be unbiased and to give you my realopinion, and you must not be discouraged if it is not favorable,because, after all, it is worth very little."
"I think it is worth a lot. This first thing is something I have beenworking on very hard. It is called 'The Basket Funeral.' I rememberedwhat you told me about trying to write about familiar things, and then,on reading the 'Life and Letters of Jane Austen,' I came on her adviceto a niece who was contemplating a literary career. It was, 'Send yourcharacters where you have never been yourself, but never take them.' Ihad never been out of Kentucky, except to row across the Ohio River toIndiana, when I came to Wellington, and so I put my story in Kentuckywith Aunt Mary as my heroine. Now be as hard on me as you want to. I canstand it."
There was perfect silence in the pleasant study while Edwin Greencarefully perused the well-written manuscript. An occasional involuntarychuckle was all that broke the quiet when one of Aunt Mary's witticismsbrought back the figure of the old darkey to his mind. When he hadfinished, which was in a very few minutes, as the sketch was a shortone, he carefully rolled the paper and remained silent. Molly felt asthough she would scream if he did not say something, but not a word didhe utter, only sat and rolled the manuscript and smiled an inscrutablesmile. Finally she could stand it no longer.
"I am sorry to have bothered you, Professor Green. I know it is hard foryou to have to tell me the truth, so I won't ask you." She reached forthe roll of paper, her hand shaking a little with excitement.
"Oh, please excuse me. Do you know, I took you at your word and forgot Iknew you, and forgot how much I liked you; forgot everything in fact butAunt Mary and the 'Basket Funeral.' My dear girl, you have done awonderful little bit of writing, simple, natural, sincere. Icongratulate you and envy you."
And what should Molly do
, great, big, grown-up postgraduate that shewas, but behave exactly as the little Freshman had four years beforewhen this same august professor had rescued her from the lockedCloisters: she burst into tears. At that crucial moment the rattle oftea cups was heard as Mrs. Brady came lumbering down the hall, and Mollyhad to compose herself and make out she had a bad cold.
"Have some hot soup," said the young man, and both of them laughed.
"It was natural for me to blubber, after all," said Molly, after Mrs.Brady had taken her departure. "When you sat there so still, with yourlips so tightly closed, I felt exactly as I did four years ago, shut outin the cold with all the doors locked; and when you finally spoke it waslike coming into your warm pleasant study again with you being kind tome just as you were to the little scared Freshman. Do you know, I likemy picture of Aunt Mary, too, and when I thought you didn't like it Ifelt forlorn indeed."
"I notice one thing, Miss Molly Brown of Kentucky doesn't cry untileverything is over. The little Freshman didn't blubber while she waslocked out, but waited until she got into the pleasant study, and nowthe ancient postgrad is able to restrain her tears until the awful ogreof a critic praises her work. Now let's have another cup of tea allaround and show me what else you have brought."
"I hesitate to show you this more than the other thing, after yourcutting remarks about would-bes. But I want you to read this so you cantell me what this letter means that I got from the editor of a magazine,when he politely returned my rejected poem."
"Read me the poem yourself. Would you mind? Poetry should always be readaloud, I think; and afterward I will see what I think the editor meant."
"Read me the poem yourself. Would you mind?"--Page 218.]
"All right, but I am afraid it is getting late and Nance will worryabout me."
The study was cosy indeed with its rows and rows of books, itscomfortable chairs and the cheerful open grate. This was his oneextravagance in a land of furnace heat and drum stoves, so Edwin Greendeclared. "But somehow the glow of the fire makes me think better," hesaid in self-defence.
Molly read any poetry well, her voice with its musical quality beingpeculiarly adapted to it. This was her poem:
"My thoughts like gentle steeds to-day Rest quiet in the paddock fold, Munching their food contentedly. Was it last night? When up--away! Through spaces limitless, untold, Like storm clouds lashed before the wind, Nor strength, nor will could check nor hold, Manes flying--through the night they dashed 'Til the first glimmering sun's ray flashed Its blessed light; 'til the first sigh Of dawn's awak'ning stirred the leaves. Then back to quiet fold--the night was done-- Bend patient necks--the yoke--and day's begun."
"Let me see it. Your voice would make 'Eany, meany, miney, mo' soundlike music. I should have read it first to myself to be able to pass onit without prejudice."
He took the poem and read it very carefully. "Miss Molly, you are awareof the fact that you may become a real writer? How old are you?"
"Almost twenty."
"Well, I consider that a pretty good poem for almost twenty. I bet Iknow what that saphead of an editor had to say without reading hisletter. Didn't he say something about your having only thirteen lines?"
"Oh, is that what he meant? I have puzzled my brains out over his note.I didn't even know I had only thirteen lines. Of course I knew it wasn'texactly sonnet form, but somehow I started out to make fourteen linesand thought I had done it. Here is his cryptic note."
"Dear M. B.: We are sorry to say we are too superstitious to print your poem. Are the poor horses too tired to go a few more feet? If you can urge them on, even if you should lame them a bit, we might reconsider and accept your verses.
"The Editor of ----"
"Fools, fools, all of them are fools! Don't you change it for the wholeof the silly magazine. It is a good poem, and its having thirteen linesis none of his business. Haven't you as much right to create a form ofverse as Villon or Alfred Tennyson? That editor would have rejected'Tears, idle tears,' because it hasn't a rhyme in it and looks as thoughit might have."
The professor was so excited that Molly had to laugh.
"You are certainly kind to me and my efforts. I must go now. Please givemy love to Mrs. Brady and thank her for her tea. You never did tell mewhen you expect your sister."
"Bless my soul," said Edwin Green, looking at his watch, "she will behere in a few minutes now!"
"Don't forget to let me see your sonnet, and please put all the linesin. I am so glad your sister is to be with you, and hope to see heroften."
And Molly flew away, happy as a bird that her writing was coming on, andthat she felt at home again with the most interesting man she had evermet.