Betty Wales Senior
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Margaret Warde >> Betty Wales Senior
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And then they would settle themselves to watch the stage and listen to
the music for a while.
"It's all good, but what I'm looking forward to is this," said Ashley
Dwight, pointing out the Glee Club's last number on his program. "I
can't wait to hear 'The Fames of Miss Ames.'"
"The what?" asked Betty, consulting her card. "Why, Georgia Ames, is it
about you? Did you know they were going to have it?"
Georgia nodded. "The leader came and asked me if I cared. She seemed to
think it would take, so I told her to go ahead. But I didn't realize
that this concert was such a big thing," she added mournfully, "and I
didn't know I was going to sit in a box."
"Pretty grand to be sitting in a box with the celebrity of the evening,
isn't it, Ashley?" said Tom.
And Ashley said something in a low voice to Georgia, which made her
laugh and blush and call him "too silly for anything."
Finally, after the Mandolin Club had played its lovely "Gondolier's
Song," and the Banjo Club its amusing and inevitable "Frogville Echoes,"
the Glee Club girls came out to sing "The Fames of Miss Ames," which a
clever junior had written and a musical sophomore had set to a catchy
melody. A little, short-haired girl with a tremendous alto voice sang
the verses, which dealt in witty, flippant fashion with the career of
the two Georgias, and the whole club came in strong on the chorus.
"And now she's come to life,
(Her double's here).
And speculation's rife,
(It's all so queer).
The ghost associations,
Hold long confabulations,
And the gaiety of nations
Is very much enhanced by Georgia dear!"
It was only shameless doggerel, but it took. Topical songs always take
well at Harding, and never had there been such a unique subject as this
one. Between the verses the girls clapped and laughed, nodded at
Georgia's box, and whispered explanations to their escorts; and when at
last the soloist answered their vociferous demands for more with a
smiling head-shake and the convincing statement that "there wasn't any
more--yet," they laughed and made her sing it all over.
This time Georgia asked one of the men to change seats with her, and
slipped quietly into the most secluded corner of the box, behind Betty's
chair, declaring that she really couldn't stand it to be stared at any
longer. She looked positively pretty, Betty thought, having a chance for
the first time to get a good look at her. The sparkle in her eyes and
the soft color in her cheeks that the excitement and embarrassment had
put there were very becoming. So was the low dress, in spite of the fact
that Georgia was undoubtedly right in considering herself a "shirt-waist
girl." Her neck wasn't particularly thin, or if it was the lovely old
chain that she wore twisted twice around it kept it from seeming so.
Betty turned to ask her something about the song and noticed the pendant
that hung from her chain. It was of antique pattern--an amethyst in a
ring of little pearls, with an odd quaint setting of dull gold. It
looked familiar somehow. It was--yes, it was just like Nita Reese's lost
pin--the one that belonged to her great grandmother and that had
disappeared just before the Belden House play--one of the first thefts
to be laid to the account of the college robber. Only, instead of a pin
this was a pendant, fastened to the chain by a tiny gold ring. That was
the only difference, for--yes, even the one little pearl that Nita had
lost of the circle was missing here.
Betty didn't hear Georgia's answer to her question. She turned back to
the stage, which swayed sickeningly as she watched it. At last the song
ended, and while she clapped mechanically with the rest she gave herself
a little shake, and told herself sternly that she was being a goose,
that it was absurd, preposterous, even wicked--this thought that had
flashed into her head. Nita's pin wasn't the only one of its kind; there
might be hundreds just like it. Georgia's great grandmother probably had
had one too.
Betty talked very fast on the way up to the Belden. She was thankful
that Tom and his friend were going back to New Haven that night and
would have time for only the hastiest of good-byes.
"See you later, Miss Ames," Ashley Dwight called back as he ran down the
steps after Tom.
"He's asked me to the prom, Betty. Think of that!" explained Georgia,
her eyes shining.
"How--nice," said Betty faintly. "I'm awfully tired, aren't you?"
"Tired!" repeated Georgia gaily. "Not a bit. I should like to begin all
over again this minute. I'm hot though. We walked pretty fast up the
hill." She threw back her coat and unwound the scarf that was twisted
over her hair and around her throat. It caught on the amethyst pendant
and Georgia pulled it away carefully, while Betty watched in fascinated
silence, trying to make up her mind to speak. She might never have a
good chance again. Ordinarily Georgia wore no jewelry,--not a pin or a
ring. She had certainly never worn this pendant before at Harding. It
would be so easy and so sensible to say something about it now and set
her uncomfortable thoughts at rest.
Betty wet her lips nervously, made an heroic effort, and began.
"What a lovely chain that is, Georgia." She hoped her voice sounded more
natural to Georgia than it did to herself. "Is it a family heirloom?"
Georgia put up her hand absently, and felt of the chain. "Oh,
that,--yes, it is. It really belongs to mother, but she let me bring it
here. She's awfully fond of old jewelry, and she has a lot. I hate all
kinds, but this covers my bones so beautifully."
"The pendant is lovely too," put in Betty hastily, as Georgia moved off
toward her room. "Is that old too?"
"I don't know," said Georgia stiffly. "That isn't a family thing. It was
given to me--by somebody I don't like."
"The somebody must like you pretty well," said Betty, trying to speak
lightly, "to give you such a stunning present."
Georgia did not answer this, except by saying, "Good-night. I believe I
am tired," as she opened her door.
Up in her own corridor Betty met Madeline Ayres. "Back so soon?" said
Madeline, who refused to take Glee Club concerts seriously. "I've had
the most delicious evening, reading in solitary splendor and eating
apples that I didn't have to pass around. I'm sure your concert wasn't
half so amusing. How did Georgia's song go?"
"Finely," said Betty without enthusiasm. "Did she tell you about it
while you helped her dress?"
"No, for I didn't help her. I went over to the Hilton right after
dinner. Lucile told me, in a valiant attempt to persuade me that I was
foolish to miss the concert."
"Oh," said Betty limply, opening her own door.
Madeline hadn't seen the pendant then. Probably some freshman who didn't
know about Nita's loss had helped Georgia to dress. Well, what did that
matter? She had Georgia's own word that the pin was a gift. Besides it
was absurd to think that she would take Nita's pin and wear it right
here at Harding. And yet--it was just the same and the one little pearl
was gone. But a person who would steal Nita's pin, wouldn't make a
present of it to Georgia. Then the pin couldn't be Nita's.
"I'm getting to be a horrid, suspicious person," Betty told the green
lizard. "I won't think about it another minute. I won't, I won't!"
And she didn't that night, for she fell asleep almost before her head
touched the pillow. Next morning she woke in the midst of a long
complicated dream about Georgia and the green lizard. Georgia had stolen
him and put a ring around his tail, and the lizard was protesting
vigorously in a metallic shriek that turned out, after awhile, to be the
Belden House breakfast-bell jangling outside her door.
"They never ring the rising-bell as loud as that," wailed Betty, when
she had consulted her clock and made sure that she had slept over.
Before she was dressed Georgia Ames appeared, bringing a delicious
breakfast tray.
"Helen said that you have a nine o'clock recitation," she exclaimed,
"and I thought you probably hadn't studied for it and would be in a
dreadful hurry."
Betty thanked her, feeling very guilty. Georgia was wearing a plain
brown jumper dress, with no ornament of any kind, not even a pin to
fasten her collar; and she looked as cool and self-possessed and
cheerful as usual. In the sober light of morning it seemed even more
than absurd to suppose that she was anything but a nice, jolly girl,
like Rachel and K. and Madeline,--the sort of girl that you associated
with Harding College and with the "Merry Hearts" and asked to box
parties with a nice Yale man, who liked her and invited her to his prom.
In the weeks that followed Betty saw a great deal of Georgia, who seemed
intent on showing her gratitude for the splendid time that Betty had
given her. Betty, for her part, felt that she owed Georgia far more than
Georgia owed her and found many pleasant ways of showing her contrition
for a doubt that, do her best, she couldn't wholly stifle. The more she
saw of Georgia, the more clearly she noticed that there was something
odd about the behavior of the self-contained little freshman, and also
that she was worrying a good deal and letting nobody know the reason.
"But it's not conditions or warnings or anything of that sort,"
Georgia's round-eyed roommate declared solemnly to Betty, in a burst of
confidence about the way she was worrying over Georgia. "She sits and
thinks for hours sometimes, and doesn't answer me if I speak to her. And
she says she doesn't care whether she gets a chance to play in the big
game or not. Just imagine saying that, Miss Wales."
"She's tired," suggested Betty loyally. "She'll be all right after
vacation."
Meanwhile, in the less searching eyes of the college world, Georgia
continued to be the spoiled child of fortune. She came back from the
prom, with glowing tales of the good times she had had, and whether or
not she cared about it she was the only "sub" who got a chance to play
in the big game. She made two goals, while Betty clapped for her
frantically and her class made their side of the gallery actually
tremble with the manifestations of their delight.
It was just as Betty was leaving the gym on the afternoon of the game
that Jean Eastman overtook her.
"Could you come for a walk?" she asked abruptly. "There is something I
want to get settled before vacation. It won't take long. It's about
Bassanio," she went on, when they had gotten a little away from the
crowd. "I want to give up my part. Do you suppose Mary Horton would take
it now?"
"You want to give up Bassanio?" Betty repeated wonderingly.
"Yes. There's no use in mincing matters. I did have a condition in
French, and Miss Carter was tutoring me, just as you thought. I had
worked it off the day I answered your note, but of course that doesn't
alter anything. They say mademoiselle never hands in her records for one
semester until the next one is almost over, so nothing would have come
to light until it was too late for a new person to learn the part. Don't
look so astonished, Betty. It's been done before and it may be done
again, but I don't care for it myself." Then, as Betty continued to
stare at her in horrified silence, "If you're going to look like that, I
might as well have kept the part. The reason I decided to give it up was
because I didn't think I should enjoy seeing your face at the grand
denouement. You see, when you and Eleanor came in that afternoon I
thought you'd guessed or that Barbara Gordon and Teddie Wilson, who knew
of a similar case, had, and had sent you up to make sure. But after
you'd apologized for your note and squared things with Eleanor, I--well,
I didn't think I should enjoy seeing your face," ended Jean, with a
little break in her voice. "I--told you I had a sense of honor, and I
have."
Betty put out her hand impulsively. "I'm glad you changed your mind,
Jean. It's too bad that you can't have a part, but you wouldn't want it
in any such way."
"I did though," said Jean, blinking back the tears. "I knew it would
come out in the end,--I counted on that, and I shouldn't have minded
Miss Stuart's rage or the committee's horror. But you're so dreadfully
on the square. You make a person feel like a two-penny doll. I don't
wonder that Eleanor Watson has changed about a lot of things. Anybody
would have to if they saw much of you."
Betty's thoughts flew back to Georgia. "I wish I thought so."
"Well," said Jean fiercely, "I do. That's why I've always hated you. I
presume I shall hate you worse than ever to-morrow. Meanwhile, will you
please tell Barbara? I can't help what they all think, and I don't care.
I only wanted you to see that I've got a little sense of obligation
left and that after I've let a person apologize--Don't come any further,
please."
Jean ran swiftly down the steep path leading to the lower level of the
back campus and Betty turned obediently toward home, feeling very small
and useless and unhappy. Jean's announcement had been so sudden and so
amazing that she didn't know what she had said in response to it, and
she was quite sure that she hadn't done at all what Jean expected. Then
this confirmation of her suspicions about Jean gave her an uneasy
feeling about Georgia. That baffling young person was just leaving the
gym as Betty got back to it, and the sight of her surrounded by a bevy
of her admiring friends reassured Betty wonderfully. Nevertheless she
decided to go and see Miss Ferris. There was something she wanted to ask
about.
After half an hour spent in Miss Ferris's cozy sitting-room, she started
out to find Barbara, armed with the serene conviction that everything
would come out right in the end.
"How do people influence other people?" she had demanded early in her
call. "There is some one I want to influence, if I could, but I don't
know how to begin."
"That's a big question, Betty," Miss Ferris assured her smilingly. "In
general I think the best way to influence people is to be ourselves the
things we want them to be--honest and true and kind."
Betty mused on this advice as she crossed the campus. "That was a good
deal what Jean said. I guess I must just attend to my own affairs and
wait and let things happen, the way Madeline does. This about Jean just
happened."
She passed Georgia's door on her way up-stairs. The room was full of
girls, listening admiringly to their hostess's reminiscences of the
afternoon. "That sophomore guard was so rattled. She kept saying, 'I
will, I will, I will,' between her teeth and she was so busy saying it
that she forgot to go for the ball. But she didn't forget to stick her
elbow into me between times--not she. I wanted to slug her a little just
for fun, but of course I wouldn't. I perfectly hate people who don't
play fair."
Betty went on up the stairs smiling happily. She wanted to hug Georgia
for that last sentence.
CHAPTER XIV
THE MOONSHINERS' BACON-ROAST
Jean's sudden retirement from the cast of "The Merchant of Venice" was
the subject of a good deal of excited conjecture during the few days
that remained of the winter term. Betty explained it briefly to Barbara,
who in turn confided Jean's story to the rest of her committee. All of
them but Clara Ellis thought better of Jean than they ever had before
for the courage she had shown in owning herself in the wrong. Teddie
Wilson, being in Jean's French division, remembered her letter from the
last year's girl and made a shrewd guess at the true state of affairs;
but realizing just how sorely Jean had been tempted she was generous
enough not to ask any questions or tell anybody what she thought. So the
Harding world was divided in its opinions, one party asserting that
Jean's acting had proved a disappointment, the other declaring that she
had wanted to manage the whole play, and finding that she couldn't had
resigned her part in it. Jean herself absolutely refused to discuss the
subject, beyond saying that she was tired and had found it necessary to
drop something, and she was so sarcastic and ill-tempered that even her
best friends began to let her severely alone. Toward Eleanor her manner
was as contemptuous as ever, and she kept haughtily aloof from Betty.
But one day when two of the Hill girls, gossiping in her room, made some
slighting remarks about Betty's prominence in class affairs, Jean
flashed out an indignant protest.
"She's one of the finest girls in 19--, and if either of you amounted to
a third as much, you could be proud of it. No, I don't like her at all,
but I admire her immensely, so please choose somebody else to criticise
while you're in here."
Meanwhile the winter term had ended, the spring vacation come and gone,
and the lovely spring term was at full tide in Harding. If you were a
freshman, it made you feel sleepy and happy and utterly regardless of
the future terrors of the conditioned state in comparison with the
present joys of tennis and canoeing or the languorous fascination of a
hammock on the back campus,--where one goes to study and remains to
dream. If you were a senior it made a lump come in your throat,--the
fleeting loveliness of this last spring term, when all the trials of
being a Harding girl are forgotten and all the joys grow dearer than
ever, now that they are so nearly past.
"But it's not going to be any daisy-picking spring-term for 19--," Bob
Parker announced gaily to a group of her friends gathered for an
after-luncheon conference on the Westcott piazza. "Isn't that a nice
expression? Miss Raymond used it in class this morning. She wanted to
remind us, she said, that the Harding course is four full years long.
Then she gave out a written lesson on Jane Austen for Friday."
"What a bother!" lamented Babbie, who hadn't elected English novelists.
"Now I suppose we can't have either the Moonshiners' doings or the
'Merry Hearts' meeting on Thursday."
"Who on earth are the Moonshiners?" asked Katherine Kittredge curiously.
"Learn to ride horseback and you can be one," explained Babbie.
"They're just a crowd of girls, mostly seniors, who like to ride
together in the cool of the evening and make a specialty of moonlight.
We're going to have a bacon-roast the first moonlight night that
everybody can come."
"Which will be the night after never," declared Madeline Ayres sagely.
"What's the awful rush about that bacon-roast?" asked Babe. "I should
think it would be nicer to wait awhile and have it for a sort of grand
end-up to the riding season."
"Why, there isn't but one more moon before commencement," explained
Babbie, "and if we wait for that it may be too hot. Who wants to go on a
bacon-roast in hot weather?"
"The 'Merry Hearts' are going to decide about passing on the society,
aren't they?" asked Rachel. "That's a very important matter and we ought
to get it off our hands before too many other things come up. Girls, do
you realize that commencement is only five weeks off?"
"Oh, please don't begin on that," begged Babe, who hated sentiment and
was desperately afraid that somebody would guess how tear-y she felt
about leaving Harding. "I'll tell you how to settle things. Let's go
over all the different afternoons and evenings and see which ones are
vacant. Most of the 'Merry Hearts' are here and several Moonshiners. We
can tell pretty well what the other girls have on for the different
days."
"I'll keep tab," volunteered Katherine, "because I belong to only one of
these famous organizations. Shall I begin with to-morrow afternoon? Who
can't come then to a 'Merry Hearts' meeting?"
"We can't. Play committee meets," chanted Rachel and Betty together.
"Mob rehearsal from four to six," added Bob.
"Helen Adams has to go to a conference with the new board of editors,"
put in Madeline. "I heard her talking to Christy about it. It begins
early and they're going to have tea."
"To-morrow evening--Moonshiners' engagements please," said Katherine
briskly.
"Class supper committee meets to see about caterers," cried Babe. "We
can't put it off either. Last year's class has engaged Cuyler's
already,--the pills! That committee takes out me and Nita and Alice
Waite."
"Rehearsal of the carnival dance in the play," added Babbie promptly,
"and Jessica, alias me, has to go."
"Thursday as I understand it is to be devoted to picking, not daisies,
but the flowers of Jane Austen's thought for Miss Raymond." Katherine
looked at Babbie for directions. "Shall I go on to Friday afternoon?"
"Class meeting," chanted several voices at once.
"It won't be out a minute before six," declared Bob. "We've got to elect
the rest of our commencement performers----"
"Which isn't very many," interposed Madeline.
"Well, there'll be reports from dozens and dozens of committees,"
concluded Bob serenely, "and there'll be quantities of things to
discuss. 19-- is great on discussions."
"In the evening," Betty took her up, "Marie is going to assign the
junior ushers to the various functions, and she's asked most of us to
advise her about it, hasn't she?"
Several girls in the circle nodded.
"Then we come to Saturday," proclaimed Katherine. "Evening's out, I
know, for Dramatic Club's open meeting."
"I'm on the reception committee," added Betty. "We shall have to trim up
the rooms in the afternoon."
"All the play people have rehearsals Saturday."
"Saturday seems to be impossible," said Katherine. "How about Monday
afternoon?"
"The Ivy Day committee has a meeting," announced Rachel in apologetic
tones. "But don't mind me, if the rest can come then."
"The Prince of Morocco has a special audience granted him by Miss
Kingston for Monday at five," said Madeline. "But don't mind him."
"Dear me," laughed Betty. "I hadn't any idea we were such busy ladies.
Is everybody in 19-- on so many committees, do you suppose?"
"Of course not, simple child," answered Bob. "We're prominent
seniors,--one of the leading crowds in 19--. I heard Nan Whipple call
us to a freshman that she had at dinner last Sunday."
"And all of us but Madeline work early and late to keep up the
position," added Babbie grandly.
"The Watson lady is an idler too," put in Madeline, with quick tact,
remembering that Eleanor had mentioned no engagements. "We're content to
bask in the reflected glory of our friends, aren't we, Eleanor?"
Eleanor nodded brightly and Babbie returned to the matter in hand. "We
shall never get a date this way," she declared. "Let's put all the days
of next week after Monday into Bob's cap. The first one that K. draws
out will be the 'Merry Hearts' afternoon; and the next the Moonshiners'
evening. Those that can't come at the appointed times will have to stay
at home."
Everybody agreed to this, and Madeline gallantly sacrificed a leaf from
her philosophy note-book to write the days on.
"Friday," announced Katherine, drawing out a slip, "and Thursday."
"Those are all right for me," said Madeline.
"And for me."
"Same here."
"And here."
"We'd much better have drawn lots in the first place," said Babbie. "Now
if it only doesn't rain on Thursday and spoil the full moon! Tell the
others, won't you, girls? I'm due at the Science Building this very
minute."
It didn't rain on Thursday. Indeed the evening was an ideal one for a
long gallop, with an open-air supper to follow. This was to be cooked
and eaten around a big bonfire that would take the chill off the spring
air and keep the mosquitoes at a respectful distance. Most of the
Moonshiners belonged to the Golf Club, and they had gotten permission to
have their fire in a secluded little grove behind the course. Babbie,
who had organized the Moonshiners and was their mistress of ceremonies,
held many secret conferences with Madeline Ayres and the two spent a
long afternoon sewing behind locked doors, on some dark brown stuff,
which Babbie subsequently tied into a big, untidy parcel and carried up
to Professor Henderson's. So the Moonshiners expected a "feature" in
addition to the familiar delights of a bacon-roast, and they turned out
in such numbers that Bob had to ride a fat little carriage horse and
Babbie bravely mounted the spirited mare "Lady," who had frightened her
so on Mountain Day. But there was no storm this time to agitate Lady's
nerves, and they kept clear of the river and the ferries; so everything
went smoothly and the Moonshiners cantered up to the Club house at half
past eight in the highest possible spirits.
They could see the grove as they dismounted and every one but Babbie was
surprised to find the fire already lighted. The dishes and provisions
had been carried out in big hampers in the afternoon, and the wood
gathered, so there was nothing to do now but stroll over to the fire and
begin.
"Why, somebody's there," cried Betty suddenly. She was walking ahead
with Alice Waite. "I can see two people. They're stooping over the fire.
Why, Alice, it's two dear little brown elves."
"Just like those on my ink-stand," cried Alice, excitedly. "How queer!"
Everybody had seen the picturesque little figures by this time, and the
figures in their turn had spied the riding-party and had begun to dance
merrily in the fire-light. They were dressed in brown from head to foot,
with long ears on their brown hoods and long, pointed toes curling up at
the ends of their brown shoes. They looked exactly like the little iron
figures of brownies that every Harding girl who kept up with the
prevailing fads had put on her desk that spring in some useful or
ornamental capacity. They danced indefatigably, pausing now and then to
heap on fresh wood or to poke the fire into a more effective blaze, and
looking, in the weird light, quite fantastic enough to have come out of
the little hillside behind the fire, tempted to upper earth by the
moonlight and the great pile of dry wood left ready to their hands. For
a few minutes after the Moonshiners' arrival the trolls resolutely
refused to speak.
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