Chapter XIV: In Disguise

“Learned Sophomores! full of information,
‘Yes, we know it all,’ your manner seems to say.
Learned Sophomores! In each generation,
Sophomores will be Sophomores in the same old way.”

Thus under her breath Clarissa, from her seat in the Auditorium, hummed a strain from a Radcliffe song. Girls were gathering in the room to witness an Idler play.

“Sometime,” said Clarissa, “I’ll be a Senior, and have a front seat. But if you can’t have the first, the fifth row isn’t so very bad.”

While waiting for the play to begin, the girls in Clarissa’s neighborhood chatted gaily. The play had attracted many of the Alumnæ, because it was the work of a Radcliffe girl who had been out of college a year or two. They waited a little impatiently, for the Auditorium was really overcrowded, with girls sitting on the steps and leaning on the ledges of the windows leading into the conversation room.

“Oh, I do wish that they would begin!”

“Why can’t girls ever do anything on time? It is _so_ uncomfortable sitting in this stuffy room!”

These and other murmurs came from various parts of the Auditorium. It was certainly much past the hour, and yet the curtain did not rise. At last the President came forward. “I must ask your indulgence,” she said, as she stood in front of the curtain. “Something has gone wrong with the curtain, we cannot raise it; but while we are waiting for a carpenter, Miss Harmon has kindly consented to read.” At this there was much applause, for Annabel had a well-trained voice, and sufficient self-confidence to make whatever she did very effective. Accordingly, she came forward attired in a white muslin gown, pale blue sash, and a leghorn hat lined with blue. She was to wear the costume in the play, and no one could deny that it was most becoming. Annabel read in a plaintive tone. She read old ballads and modern love songs, two of each, and the audience applauded most heartily. Then she tried a bolder flight, a dramatic monologue, and still her hearers were enthusiastic. She bowed her thanks, smiled, and then a movement of the curtain was seen. Annabel stood there unconscious of anything but the audience before her. There was a vigorous clapping of hands from a distant corner.

“Why, that sounds like a man, doesn’t it?” said a girl behind Julia, leaning over toward her. Just then a huge bunch of carnations fell at Annabel’s feet with a heavy thud, as if thrown by some one used to handling missiles. Again Annabel smiled and courtesied, and again the audience applauded, with one pair of hands sounding louder than the rest.

Clarissa looked at her watch, and closed the cover with a snap.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have the play begin; we didn’t come to a reading.”

The Idler President again appeared in front of the curtain and said something to Annabel. The latter, smiling pleasantly, opened a book. The curtain rose behind her, with the stage set for the play; but she began to read again, slowly and with great expression, while in the background the heads of various girls were seen peering from behind the scenes, evidently impatient for Annabel to stop.

Some of the audience, with a sense of the ridiculous, began to laugh, but Annabel was unconscious of everything but the applause. She stood as if waiting an encore.

“Is it a wonder,” whispered Julia to Clarissa, “that she got the Class Presidency? I believe that she hypnotizes people.”

“Ah, she reads like—like—a bird,” said Clarissa magnanimously.

“You couldn’t honestly say ‘like an angel,’” said Julia, and Clarissa shook her head.

How long this unpremeditated performance might have continued no one can say. Before Annabel could recite again the President came forward, announcing firmly that the play was to begin. On Annabel’s face as she withdrew there was a decidedly aggrieved expression. Nevertheless, when she appeared in the play she looked as cheerful as her wont, and said her lines in a melodious voice. Ruth was a middle-aged Englishwoman, with a becoming lace cap. The girl who played a man’s part wore high boots and a long drab coat, the skirts of which came below the tops of her boots.

The setting was good, the dialogue bright, and the audience at last dispersed with the feeling that the whole performance had been a great success.

“Who was that tall girl who passed us?” asked Julia, when the play was over.

“I am sure I do not know, at least I did not notice her.”

“I always feel,” Julia continued, “as if all the Alumnæ are acquainted. But I can see that it would be hard for them all to know one another. The girl that I speak of was tall and rather awkward, and she pushed her way through the crowd without speaking to a soul.”

“Oh, she may have been a friend of some one in the play. Each was allowed to invite a guest from outside. Somebody told me that Annabel Harmon thought that they might have been permitted to ask men.”

“Yes, because she thought that she would look particularly fetching. For a sensible girl, she is certainly almost as vain as they make them.”

“What is the objection to men spectators? The costumes are harmless enough, compared with what they were in my day,” said the graduate.

“Only that it’s against the rule,” replied a Junior. “But in _your_ day the girls who played men’s parts used to wear real clothes, didn’t they?”

“Yes, _real_ clothes,” and all laughed at the undergraduate’s slip.

“Yes, men’s real clothes,” the graduate added, “borrowed usually from some brother or cousin at the University. Really, some girls made up wonderfully like Harvard men.”

“I should like to have seen them. I hate our present stage dress for men; it is neither ancient nor modern.”

“Yet it’s very _proper_!” interposed Clarissa sarcastically. She had just joined the group.

“But why was manly attire given up? Since only girls saw the plays, it couldn’t have done any great harm.”

“Oh, it was a man who spoiled it all, you know; they deserve their reputation of marplots. I can’t vouch for the story, but they say that a Senior who came once to an Open Idler thought it necessary to express his gratification to some one in authority.”

“No one could find fault with that.”

“No, but he was awkward. ‘I’m delighted to be here,’ he said, ‘for I’ve often hoped to visit Radcliffe. My clothes have been here many times at the Idler dramatics, but this is the first opportunity that I have had for coming myself.’”

“What a stupid creature!”

“Well, it seems he had a sister in Radcliffe who was in the habit of borrowing his clothes. He had a rather small and neat figure, and a large wardrobe, so that he could be drawn upon for almost any kind of dress. The rule, however, was made immediately after this speech of his that men’s costumes were not to be worn at our performances, and great was the lamentation.”

“It isn’t as bad as it used to be,” said another; “we can wear a kind of man’s dress now, provided that the coat has a skirt effect. It isn’t exactly an up-to-date costume, but it is fairly picturesque.”

“And to think,” interposed Clarissa, in a tragic tone, “that at the Pudding plays, or indeed at the Cercle Française, or anything else at Harvard, the boys can put on ballet costumes or any dress that a woman might or mightn’t wear.”

“There’s no equality of rights, even in so frivolous a thing as theatricals,” cried one of the girls in mock sorrow. “Why, Polly, why are you so late? You’ve missed some fun.”

“I’m sorry, but I had to go to the City this afternoon. I suppose the play _was_ fun. But I’ve just seen something quite as funny,” and Polly began to smile at the remembrance.

“Oh, tell us, Polly, for if there is anything funny to be seen, you are sure to see it.”

“Well, I met a girl at the head of Garden Street smoking a big meerschaum pipe.”

“That isn’t funny, it’s pathetic!”

“She must have been ashamed, for when she saw me she tried to put the pipe in her pocket.”

“How ridiculous!”

“Then she couldn’t find the pocket, and so she started to put the pipe back in her mouth. It was clear that either she wasn’t used to pipes—or to dresses.”

“Why, Polly!”

“So I asked Frank Everton, who was with me—no, he hadn’t been in town with me, I only met him in the Square—I asked him to follow her into the college grounds. She crossed the street at a trot when she saw us coming, and it seemed to me that she was making for Weld Hall.”

All the girls in the group were now thoroughly interested.

“Consequently I stood at the corner of Appian Way until Frank came back with his report, and—”

Here Polly paused to note the effect of her words.

“Well, well, what was it?” asked the impatient listeners.

“Well, it was Loring Bradshaw. Frank followed him to his room, where he tore off his skirts. He had forgotten that he was masquerading as a woman when he lit his pipe. You see it was in the pocket of the waistcoat which he wore beneath his cape. I had recognized him almost immediately; you know he has a funny little scar under his eye, and then that manly stride! Even in Cambridge you wouldn’t see a girl with a gait like that.”

“But why was he parading in woman’s clothes? Was it a college bet?”

“Oh, I haven’t heard the whole story yet. Frank came back in a hurry because he had left me standing there.”

“What kind of a hat did he wear?” asked Julia with interest. “Was it large and drooping, with yellow roses?”

“The very hat. But I never knew you to take so much interest in a mere hat!”

“And was the cape a black one, with a chenille collar?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then he was here at the play. I wondered who she was. But why in the world did he do it?”

One afternoon soon after this, as Polly and Ruth loitered in the hall they noticed a young man entering the Secretary’s office.

“He’ll find no one there,” said Polly, “for I’ve just been in myself.”

Stepping out of the office door, the visitor happened to see Annabel Harmon crossing his path, and he stopped her, apparently to ask a question.

“I wonder who he is,” said Polly. “Annabel will think herself in luck if he asks her to show him the building. She loves to act as guide, philosopher, and friend to strangers.”

Apparently some such duty had fallen on Annabel, for she and the stranger ascended the stairs toward the Library.

“There,” cried Polly, “I don’t mind Annabel’s being the chief usher at all our social functions, and presenting herself everywhere as the typical Radcliffe girl. But the rest of us know something about the building and its contents—including the students. Why didn’t that youth ask us to show him over the building? In the Secretary’s absence, Annabel will be able to say whatever comes into her head.”

“Aren’t you a little unfair?”

“Perhaps, but I’ll run upstairs. Annabel might not give us a perfectly impartial account. Won’t you come?”

“No, thank you,” replied Ruth, “I was on the point of going home.” So Ruth went home, and Polly mischievously hastened up to the Library. She found Annabel and the stranger looking apparently for some book.

“Oh, Polly,” cried Annabel, “_couldn’t_ you find the Librarian? Mr. Radcliffe, excuse me. Mr. Radcliffe, let me introduce you to Miss Porson.” Polly started at the name, while acknowledging the introduction, and Annabel continued: “Mr. Radcliffe is deeply interested in our college on account of the name. You see he is descended from the same family as our foundress, and he thinks that it would be most interesting to establish some memorial of the family here. Didn’t I understand you to say that you thought of giving a collection of books, or something of that kind?”

Mr. Radcliffe modestly bowed his assent, for Polly broke in before he had time to reply in words. “I shouldn’t exactly call Anne Radcliffe our foundress.”

“Oh, well,” and Annabel’s smile was sweeter than ever, “the college certainly took its name from her, and it seems so interesting to have one of her descendants here.”

“Not exactly a descendant,” interposed Mr. Radcliffe, “but—”

“Oh, one of the family—it’s almost the same thing in these days when every one is so interested in genealogy.”

Although Annabel was always fluent, Polly looked at her in surprise, for she was soon launched on a long account of the origin, rise, and present condition of Radcliffe. Mr. Radcliffe listened attentively, apparently with no inclination to say more than “Yes,” “No,” “Indeed,” “Only fancy,” and the other little things that keep conversation from becoming entirely a monologue. Polly had moved to one side, and from time to time she gave the two a curious glance. Was it imagination, or did she really see a smile on the young man’s face?

Presently as they strolled into the hall, Polly heard Annabel say, “I am really sorry, Mr. Radcliffe, that we have no books relating to your family. To-morrow, however, when the Librarian is here she may find something. Her assistant is rather new to the work.”

“Oh, I can assure you,” the young man responded effusively, “I have been more than repaid for coming. To see the interior of this building is indeed an experience, and under such auspices!” Annabel accepted the compliment with a becoming blush. “She always can blush to order,” one of her critics had been known to say.

Mr. Radcliffe’s next remark was inaudible to Polly, but Annabel’s, “Why, certainly, I will see what I can do,” rang out quite distinctly. Leaving the young man alone for a moment, Annabel went into one of the smaller rooms leading off the hall. In a few minutes she returned.

“Excuse me for keeping you so long. I had some difficulty in getting it,” and she held out to Mr. Radcliffe a slip of white paper.

“Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times; no book-plate in my collection will be more valued than this.”

“Well, I declare,” thought Polly, “a book-plate for a souvenir! Perhaps it’s all right to give it to a descendant of the Radcliffes as we haven’t any relics of the immortal Anne Radcliffe to show; but really, I wonder if Mr. Radcliffe thinks that Annabel is President, Dean, and Secretary all combined? It’s a pity that he couldn’t have come at an hour when more of the powers could have been seen.”

When Polly reached the first floor of Fay House, Mr. Radcliffe was no longer there, and Annabel, seated in the conversation room, with a magazine before her on the table, had her eyes fixed dreamily on space.

“Thinking of Anne Radcliffe?” queried Polly, as she went by. But Annabel did not answer, and, passing on, Polly met Clarissa at the outer door.

“Such fun!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been laughing for five minutes.”

“Tell me,” responded Polly, “that I may laugh, too.”

“As I was crossing the Common I met my cousin Archibald apparently waiting for some one. I stopped for a second to speak to him, and of course I asked whom he was waiting for.”

“Of course.”

“Well, it seems that Somers Brown is up for one of those Greek letter societies,—I’ve forgotten which, and part of the programme, the novitiate, or whatever they call it, is for him to bring a book-plate away from the Radcliffe Library by means of some bluff. He wasn’t to get it by breaking and entering, but he was to have it freely given to him by some one in the college. So he decided to rig up as an Englishman, and call himself a descendant of Anne Radcliffe’s family, and—”

“I know,” said Polly, smiling.

“Oh, then you saw him? Perhaps it was you who gave him the book-plate?”

“Not I,” replied Polly, “although I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Radcliffe.”

“Surely neither the Dean nor the Librarian gave it to him.”

“No, indeed! It was Annabel. He ran across her when he started on his search for information. Poor Annabel, she believed every word he said, although she prides herself so on her insight. She gave him any amount of information about Harvard as well as about Radcliffe. But then, he really had an English accent.”

“Oh, yes, but imagine Annabel’s rage when she finds that she has been imposed on! I shouldn’t like to break the news to her.”

“But she ought to know.”

“Well, it isn’t our duty to tell her. Let us see what happens.”

The outcome was that Annabel the next morning was ready to tell the Dean of the honor paid the college by the visit of Mr. Radcliffe. “He is willing to make researches in England regarding Lady Moulson herself, and I should not be surprised if he should found a scholarship for us. From what he said I judge that he has a large estate in England, and he seems deeply interested in Radcliffe, especially after hearing my account of things.”

Julia happened to be the girl to whom Annabel had begun to unfold her great expectations from Mr. Radcliffe.

“But haven’t you heard the true story?” she asked.

“Why, no, what do you mean? What true story?”

“Why, Polly told me, she and Clarissa.”

Annabel began to lose her usual placidity. She suspected a practical joke.

“Why, who was—that is, wasn’t he—”

“No,” replied Julia, “at least as I understand it, he wasn’t a Radcliffe. It was a test quiz, you know, for one of the college societies.”

“Then who was the man?”

“His name was Brown, Somers Brown. He was ordered to get some girl he didn’t know to show him through Fay House, and to bring away a new book-plate to prove that he had been in the Library. At least that is as I understood the story from Clarissa.”

It would have been better had Julia not mentioned Clarissa’s name. Annabel turned from white to red and from red to white. Like most persons with a fair amount of self-love, she regarded a practical joke as almost unbearable. She remembered how Polly had stood about in the hall while she was talking with the Englishman, and she felt not unnaturally aggrieved. Beyond the change of color and a certain increase of dignity, Annabel did not express her feelings. “When there is any mischief brewing Polly and Clarissa are pretty sure to be in it,” she said. Then she moved off with a smile hardly less amiable than the one she usually wore, before Julia could explain that Polly and Clarissa had really had nothing to do with the visit of the pseudo Mr. Radcliffe, to Fay House. The story, however, had widely circulated, and most of those who knew Annabel, even her friends, were highly entertained that one who so prided herself on her insight should have been thus imposed upon.

“I saw Somers Brown walking about with Annabel yesterday, and I wondered why he held up his hand as if to enjoin silence on me. I had no idea that he was moving about under false colors. I can see, though, how he might impose on any one as an Englishman. He has lived abroad a great deal, and he really has an accent. Now that I think of it, his get-up yesterday was rather amusing, the plaids in his suit were so very plaid, and he used his monocle so steadily—and that cane!”

“He is so well known in Boston and Cambridge society that I wonder Annabel did not recognize him. I supposed that she knew everybody—at least by sight,” said one girl, sarcastically.

But so far as words were concerned, no one ever knew exactly how Annabel felt. An observer, however, might have noticed that from this time her demeanor toward Clarissa and Polly was far less cordial.

The book-plate episode led to a revival of interest in the story of Anne Radcliffe. Girls who had never heard just how the name came to be chosen for their college began to inform themselves more exactly.