Part 7

“You speak of Roger Arundel,” he said, glancing at the note he held in his hand. “I never knew any one by that name.”

“You didn’t, sir?” Dorothy exclaimed, looking greatly surprised. “Why, wasn’t he in your class at college?”

“No, he was not,” said Mr. Irving, decidedly. “What college did he attend?”

“I don’t know,” faltered Dorothy, “but—it must have been some other William Irving, then. But, please, can’t you find me some employment? I am greatly in need of it!”

Mr. Irving looked at the agitated girl, and felt sorry for her.

“What can you do?” he said, not unkindly. “Have you had any experience in clerical work?”

“Clerical work?” said Dorothy, opening her eyes. “Do you mean church work? I belong to the Sunday-school.”

It chanced that Dorothy had never heard the word “clerical” used before, and she imagined it referred to the clergy.

Mr. Irving bit his lips to keep from smiling.

“I mean office work,” he said; “have you ever been in an office?”

“Oh, no, sir; you see, we just lost our money lately. But I’m sure I could learn.”

“Are you a stenographer? Can you type-write?”

“No, not either. But I can write a good hand, and I’m quick at figures. Couldn’t I copy letters for you? I’m very tidy about my papers.”

“H’m, well, we don’t have our letters copied by hand. I’m afraid, Miss Arundel, I can’t give you a position.”

“Oh, please, sir,”—Dorothy’s lip quivered a little,—“we’re quite poor. Mother tried to take in sewing, but she’s ill now, and—and I’m the only support of the family. Do let me address envelopes or something!”

Mr. Irving was very much embarrassed. He had never had an experience just like this before. Clearly, the girl was a refined little gentlewoman, and all unused to the business world.

He judged her to be about eighteen or twenty, and wondered what he could do for her.

He looked over the letter again.

“You say your great-uncle spoke of me? Where is your uncle now?”

“He’s—he’s not living, sir,” said Dorothy, looking down. “And I’m sure you’re the Mr. Irving he meant, because he said you were so kind-hearted.”

Naturally this touched the old gentleman’s heart, and he truly wanted to help the girl. But in his office he employed only skilled workers, and there was no place for Dorothy.

“Bless my soul, child,” he exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do with you! Arundel—Roger Arundel. No, he was not in my class, but he may have been in the college while I was there. However, I’d be glad to help you if I could,—but I can’t think of a thing for you to do.”

“No?” said Dorothy, but with a hopeful inflection in her tone, as if perhaps he might yet think of something.

“You see,” she went on, “I simply _must_ get work. So of course I came here first, I felt so sure you’d help me if you could.”

“Yes—yes; of course. Now, let me see—let me see. You say you’re good at figures?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, suppose you try adding up these columns.”

Mr. Irving took down a book of accounts, and opened it at random.

“Here now, here now,” he said, “don’t put your figures on the page; they may be wrong. Add these columns on a separate sheet of paper—so—and let me think what I can do for you.”

Dorothy took the pad of paper and the pencil he gave her, and going to a seat at a side-table, she began to add. So excited was she over the way the plan was working, she could scarcely see the figures at all, but she added away industriously, now and then peeping at Mr. Irving.

He was intently studying the note, and occasionally he would look off into space, as if trying to recall Mr. Roger Arundel!

In a few moments the door opened, and the office boy said: “A lady to see you, sir.”

“What name?” said Mr. Irving.

“Here it is, sir; she just wrote it on this paper.”

Mr. Irving took the paper from the boy, and read on it, “Miss Frances Arundel.” He gave a start and glanced at Dorothy. She was looking at him with horror-stricken face, and just then Jeanette came in at the door, closing it behind her, and leaving the office boy outside.

Jeanette looked quietly at Mr. Irving, and said:

“Did you get my letter?”

“I got a letter from Frances Arundel, yes,” said the old gentleman, who was fast getting bewildered.

“I wrote it,” said Jeanette, calmly. “I hope you can give me some work to do.”

“You wrote it!” said Mr. Irving. “Then who is that lady there?”

Jeanette turned a casual glance at Dorothy.

“I don’t understand you, sir,” she said; “are you asking me who that lady is? Isn’t she your secretary or something?”

“She says she’s Frances Arundel,” said Mr. Irving, grimly.

“What!” cried Jeanette; “what nonsense! _I_ am Frances Arundel. I wrote that letter you hold in your hand, and I have called to see if you can give me a position.”

“You wrote this letter?”

“Of course I did. I also wrote on the paper which I just gave to your office boy. If you will compare the two, you’ll find them the same penmanship.”

This seemed sensible enough, and Mr. Irving looked at both papers, and as Jeanette had written the letter, a glance was sufficient to show that they were indeed by the same hand.

“What does this mean?” said Mr. Irving, looking sternly at Dorothy.

“Forgive me,” pleaded the little rogue, looking very sad and remorseful; “I oughtn’t to have done it, I know, but I overheard this lady in the street-car saying she was coming to see you to-day, to ask you for a position, so I thought I’d come ahead of her, and—and—maybe I could get it. I need it more than she does.”

Dorothy cast a beseeching glance at Jeanette, who returned it with a haughty look.

“I can’t help what she needs,” said Jeanette, turning away from Dorothy, who was pretending to be almost weeping. “I came to ask you for a position, not out of charity, but because my uncle was your chum at college, and—”

“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Irving; “I never heard of Roger Arundel.”

“Oh, you must have forgotten him, then,” said Jeanette, tossing her head, as if it were a matter of no moment. “But I’d like a position all the same. I’m a competent secretary, and can give satisfaction, I’m sure.”

Mr. Irving was at his wits’ end. He looked at the two young ladies—Dorothy crumpling her handkerchief into her eyes, and looking very forlorn and pathetic; Jeanette rather haughty and dignified, with an air of standing her ground in spite of the impostor who was trying to take her place.

“You are experienced, you say?” he said, turning to Jeanette, and thinking that, if she were indeed competent, he might find a place for her.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, taking off her gloves; “shall I go right to work?”

“Oh, bless my soul, no!” cried the flurried old gentleman. “I haven’t engaged you yet. I don’t do things on the jump like that. Look here, Miss—you first one—what’s your name?”

“Mary Crane,” said Dorothy, saying the first name that came into her head, and feeling that she couldn’t keep up the game much longer.

“Well, Miss Mary Crane, you go on with your adding, and I’ll look into your case later. It seems to me you were pretty sharp to pick up information on a street-car and put it to use so quickly! Did you overhear all that Arundel business, too?”

“Yes, sir,” stammered Dorothy, who was, in truth, nearly choking with laughter.

“Well, you’re a quick-witted young person, whatever else you may be. Now you go on and add. Miss Arundel, I’ll talk with you. You say you’ve had experience. Where have you worked?”

Jeanette looked blank. This question had not been in her rehearsals, and she was not as quick at invention as Dorothy. While she hesitated, the door opened again, and Betty walked in unannounced. She closed the door behind her, and said, in a hoarse whisper:

“Mr. Irving, I am Miss Arundel. I called to see you in hopes you could give me employment of some sort.”

“Three of ’em!” exclaimed Mr. Irving. “Bless my soul!” And he sat helplessly looking at the three girls.

He had no suspicion of Betty’s identity, for her long garments and thick veil and dark glasses were a complete disguise.

The other two he had seen but once or twice, and of course did not recognize them in grown-up attire.

Not a notion of a “joke” entered his mind, but he was mystified by what appeared to be a most extraordinary situation.

“You are Miss Frances Arundel?” he said, looking directly at Betty.

“Yes, sir,” she replied hoarsely, but steadily. “I came to see you about—”

“I have your note,” said Mr. Irving, the paper being still in his hand.

“I didn’t write you any note,” said Betty, in well-feigned surprise. “I just came in now, hoping I’d find you in, because I wanted to ask you—”

“For employment, because I used to know your Uncle Roger!” Mr. Irving almost shouted.

“Yes,” said Betty, seemingly pleased, “but how did you know about Uncle Roger?”

“I tell you I have your note.”

“And I tell you I wrote no note. Let me see it, please.”

Betty scanned the letter, and then said, very gravely:

“Mr. Irving, I didn’t write that. Some impostor must have represented me.”

“Two of them, in fact,” said Mr. Irving; “here they are.”

Betty looked at Dorothy and Jeanette, seeming to notice them for the first time.

“Oh, I understand,” she said angrily; “these two young women sat behind me in the street-car, and they must have overheard my conversation with a friend to whom I confided my plan of coming to you. Did they claim to be Miss Arundel? Which of them did?”

“Both!” said Mr. Irving, who had grown deeply interested in the queer affair. “They must have deceived each other as well as yourself.”

Dorothy and Jeanette were the personification of discovered culprits.

Dorothy’s face was buried in her handkerchief, and she shook convulsively, apparently with sobs, but really with suppressed laughter. Jeanette looked crestfallen, but still haughty and independent. Her manner seemed to say that she had been discovered, but she was ready to face the consequences.

“I own up,” she said, as Mr. Irving seemed to want an explanation. “This other young lady and myself overheard Miss Arundel, and we both tried to get the position ahead of her. I’m sorry we failed.”

Jeanette’s high and mighty air was almost too much for Betty, but, as a spasm of laughter seized her, she managed to turn it into a fit of coughing.

“I have a fearful cold,” she said, still whispering hoarsely, “but it will be better soon. Did you say you had a position for me? I need money very much and I know you’ll help me, won’t you?”

“Bless my soul! I don’t know!” exclaimed poor Mr. Irving, who was totally bewildered now by the trio of poverty-stricken girls. “I don’t give out positions. My assistants do that. What do you want, anyhow?”

A short pause followed this sentence, and then, throwing off her veil with one hand, and pulling off her glasses with the other, Betty cried:

“I want a hat, Grandpa! I want a hat!”

“Bless my soul!” gasped Mr. Irving, dropping back into his chair. “_Betty!_ bless my soul!” and then, as the other girls took off their veils and broke into bursts of laughter, Betty snatched up the desk calendar, which stood at April 1, and held it before her grandfather’s dazed eyes.

Rapidly, then, it dawned upon him. The laughing girls, the date of April 1, and Betty’s demand for a hat, were the missing links to a full understanding of it all.

“A perfect success, Betty!” cried Jack, coming up to the jolly group when he heard the laughter.

“Was it!” cried Betty; “_was_ it, Grandpa?”

“You scamp!” he cried; “you rogue! you mischief!” and seizing Betty, he kissed her rosy cheeks in hearty appreciation of her clever practical joke.

“Well, I should say it was!” exclaimed Mr. Irving, who was, as Mrs. McGuire had prophesied, quite as much pleased with the whole thing as were the jokers themselves. Then Dorothy and Jeanette were greatly complimented on their pretty acting; and Jack, as his share of the performance was explained, also received commendation from the old gentleman.

“The very best joke ever!” Mr. Irving exclaimed, going off again and again in peals of laughter. “How did you get in, Betty? I’ve given orders to admit no one when I’m busy.”

“Oh, I just told them I was Betty,” she replied. “The boy looked at me suspiciously at first, but when I spoke without my ‘cold,’ of course he knew me!”

“You little witch! Nobody ever tricked me before! Now, you, each of you, and Jack too, can get the very best hats you can find in Boston and send the bill to me.”

“Oh, goody, Grandpa, that will be great fun!” cried Betty. “But you go with us, won’t you, to pick them out?”

“Yes, I’ll go right now.”

“No; we can’t go in these rigs. But we’ll hurry home and put on our own frocks; then we’ll come back here for you, and we’ll all go hatting.”

“Very well; don’t be long.”

“No, sir; we’ll be back in half an hour.”

And so they were.

VII THE GREEN PAPER DOLL

“Oh, Betty, I’m so upset!” exclaimed Dorothy Bates, as she came into the McGuire library one afternoon in early May.

“What’s the matter, Dotty?” asked Betty. “The party isn’t off, is it?”

“No; we’re to go, all right; but Jeanette can’t go. She has such a cold, her mother won’t let her go away from home. And I’ve just come from there. She really is ill; isn’t it too bad?”

“Yes, indeed it is! We would have had such a lovely time, all together.”

“Well, we’ll go, anyhow. And, Betty, as Irene expects three of us, I think it would be nice to ask some one to go in Jeanette’s place. I’d like to ask Constance Harper, but I know you don’t like her very much.”

“Oh, I like Constance well enough, but she doesn’t like me.”

“Well, whichever way it is, you two never seem to get along very well together. But who else is there?”

Betty hesitated a minute, then she said:

“I’d like to ask Martha Taylor.”

“Martha! Why, Betty, nobody likes Martha. And well—you know Martha, poor girl, has to count every penny, and—and she never seems quite at her ease—not that that’s anything against her, but she wouldn’t have pretty dresses and hats, and the people at Halstead House are often dressy and gay.”

“I know it; but if Martha doesn’t mind that, we needn’t. And, Dorothy, you don’t know Martha as well as I do. She never has any good times, and it’s that that makes her shy and awkward. Oh, do ask her to go with us, if only for my sake.”

“Betty, what a queer girl you are! I like Martha well enough, but I don’t believe she’ll go with us. I’ll ask her, though, as you’re so set upon it.”

“What’s this enthusiastic discussion all about?” asked Mrs. McGuire, pausing at the library door, as she was passing through the hall.

“Oh, Mother, come in!” cried Betty. “What do you think? Jeanette is quite ill and she can’t go with us to the house-party at Irene Halstead’s.”

“That is too bad; I’m very sorry. Shall you ask any one in her place, Dorothy?”

“That’s just what we’re talking about, Mrs. McGuire. Betty thinks it would be nice to ask Martha Taylor, but I don’t think she quite fits in.”

“But think how she’d enjoy it! Martha almost never gets invited to a lovely outing like this one you have in prospect. Why, she’d be overjoyed to go.”

“Yes’m, I s’pose she would,” admitted Dorothy; “but she’s—she’s so bashful, you know.”

“That’s mostly because you girls slight her. Now you’ve a fine opportunity to give her a pleasure, do it, and do it heartily and kindly. Let her feel that you really want her to go with you.”

“Yes, do,” said Betty; “and, truly, Dot, if you ask her as if you wanted her, and if you treat her cordially, you’ll be surprised to see how gay and jolly Martha will be.”

“All right,” said Dorothy, agreeably; “I really do like her, and I’ll do my best. Come on, Betty, let’s go and ask her now.”

Betty whisked away, and returned in a few minutes with her hat on, ready to start. It was but a short walk through the bright May sunshine to Martha’s house, and they found her in the garden, watering some flower seeds she had just planted.

“Hello, Martha!” called the two girls, and she came running to meet them.

“Come, sit on the veranda,” she said; “it’s so pleasant there. I’m glad you came to see me.”

“We’ve come to invite you to a party,” said Dorothy, plunging into the subject at once.

“A party!” exclaimed Martha. “Where?”

“Oh, Martha,” cried Betty, “it’s more than a party—it’s a house-party! At a lovely country place,—Dorothy’s cousin’s,—and we’re to stay from Wednesday till Saturday! Isn’t that grand?”

It was so grand that Martha could scarcely realize it.

“I go?” she said. “For three whole days! Oh! what a party!”

“Yes, it’s going to be lovely,” said Dorothy. “A May party on Friday, and lots of picnics and things on the other days. Will you go with us, Martha?”

“Indeed, I will! I’m sure Mother’ll let me. But, girls, I don’t know if my clothes are good enough for such a grand place.”

“Oh, pshaw!” said Betty. “Don’t think about that. Just come on and have a good time, and never mind what you wear.”

Mrs. Taylor was delighted to have Martha go with the other girls, and at once set about furbishing up her wardrobe as best she could.

And, indeed, when at last the day came to start, Martha, in her trim, neat traveling-suit, looked almost as well dressed as the other two. They were to travel in charge of Mr. Halstead, Dorothy’s uncle, who was returning to his country home after a short business trip to Boston.

He was a genial, affable sort of man, but after a little kindly conversation he left the girls to entertain themselves, and became absorbed in his paper.

Martha was as happy as a bird. The prospect of the good time coming seemed to transform her, and she was so gay and merry that Dorothy concluded she had misjudged her, and that Betty was right about her.

When they at last reached Halstead House, Irene was on the veranda to greet them.

She kissed her cousin Dorothy and greeted her warmly, and then welcomed the other two as Dorothy introduced them.

Neither Betty nor Martha had ever met Irene before, but Mrs. Halstead had written for Dorothy to bring two friends with her, and so the girls were at once made welcome.

Two other girls were visiting Irene, so the house-party numbered six young people, and a gay flock they were. Maude Miller and Ethel Caswell were from New York, and proved to be pleasant and kindly, so Martha was not shy or embarrassed, and soon the half-dozen were chatting away like old friends.

Halstead House was a large colonial mansion with innumerable rooms and wide porches and gardens.

Irene was the eldest child, and there were also a small boy and a baby girl of three. The little Daisy reminded Betty of Baby Polly, and she made friends with her at once.

Friday was Irene’s birthday, and in honor of it there was to be a May party, with a May-queen, May-pole, and all the traditional features. Of course this was the principal event of their visit, but the six girls managed to have a lot of fun besides. There was a lake on which to row, a pony-cart to drive, tennis-courts, croquet-grounds, and everything that could make country life pleasant.

On Thursday afternoon the girls decided to walk down to the village.

It was a pleasant walk along shady roads, and in a short time they found themselves in the tiny hamlet, with its little post-office and two or three small shops.

Martha had been in especially gay spirits all the way. She had laughed and joked until Dorothy began to feel she had reason to be proud of her merry friend instead of ashamed of her.

But Betty looked at Martha curiously. She couldn’t quite understand her to-day. Several times Martha had started to say something to Betty, and then stopped, as if afraid the others would hear.

“What is it, Martha?” asked Betty, at last, dropping a little behind the others. “What are you trying to say?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Martha, turning red and looking embarrassed. Then, as if with a sudden determined effort, she turned to the whole group and said:

“Will you—won’t you—all come in and have ice-cream with me?”

It was a pleasant invitation, but Martha stammered so and seemed so nervous about it that Irene hesitated before replying. Betty hesitated, too, for she knew that Martha had little, if any, spending-money, and she wondered at this unexpected hospitality.

But Martha turned pleading eyes upon her.

“Make them come, Betty!” she said. “I’d be so glad if they would.”

“Come on, girls,” said Betty. “Indeed, Martha, we’re very glad to accept your invitation; it’s so warm and dusty.”

Dorothy, though mystified at Martha’s sudden rôle of Lady Bountiful, took her cue from Betty and said:

“Oh, how lovely! I’m just famishing for ice-cream.”

The others accepted gracefully, too, and they all went into the latticed inclosure where ice-cream was sold. There were many little tables and chairs, and pushing two tables together, the girls all sat round, and Martha asked each one to choose her favorite flavor.

Martha looked very happy and a little excited; her cheeks were red and her eyes bright, and Betty thought she had never seen her look so pretty.

“Aren’t we having a good time?” said Ethel Caswell, as they slowly ate the refreshing dainty.

“Yes, indeed,” said Maude Miller. “It’s my turn to treat next. Let’s come down here again to-morrow morning, and I’ll buy the ice-cream.”

“All right,” agreed the others, and Betty and Dorothy secretly resolved to find some pleasant way to do their share of the “treating.” Martha beamed with pleasure to think she had been the one to start a round of merry times, and, as an additional touch to their present feast, she ordered some small cakes. Betty and Dorothy looked frankly astonished, for it was an expensive little place, and they wondered if Martha knew how much her “spread” would cost.

But Martha smiled so gaily that they couldn’t offer any remonstrance, and the pretty cakes were brought and enjoyed by all.

When at last the little feast was over, the check was brought and handed to Martha. Betty didn’t see the amount, but she saw that again Martha turned scarlet and looked embarrassed. But, with an air of endeavoring to look unconcerned, she drew a crisp, new five-dollar bill from her purse, and then, receiving her change, she put it away with the same elaborate carelessness, not stopping to separate the notes from the silver.

“Whatever is the matter with Martha?” thought Betty. “She’s trying to act a part, I think.”

Back walked the merry half-dozen girls to beautiful Halstead House, and grouped themselves on the veranda to wait for dinner-time.

“Let’s build air-castles,” said Irene. “What would yours be, Betty?”

“Do you mean that _could_ be real, or _couldn’t_?”

“Yes, that could be real, but aren’t likely to be, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Betty, promptly. “Well, I’d be a princess, with golden hair all twined with pearls; and a long white satin train, with little page-boys holding it; and slaves fanning me with long peacock-feather fans.”

“My, how fine!” said Dorothy, “but it’s too story-booky for me. My air-castle is just to travel all over the world—not by any magic, but just travel in real cars and boats, and see all the countries there are.”

“I think that’s a nice air-castle,” commented Irene. “What’s yours, Ethel?”

“Oh, I’d like to be famous; a great celebrity, you know. I don’t care whether it’s in the musical or artistic or literary line. But I’d like to feel, and to have other people feel, that I’d done something grand.”

“I don’t believe you ever will,” said Maude, laughing. “Now, my air-castle is awfully prosaic. I’d like to be a nurse.”

“Oh, what a funny air-castle!” exclaimed Martha. “How can you like to be mixed up with sickness and medicines and such things?”

“That’s just what I should like. And then to feel that I was helping to make people well! Oh, I think that’s fine!”

“Yes, I s’pose it is,” said Martha. “Mine isn’t so noble; I’d just like to be at the head of a big house—about like this—and have a lot of money. Not a great fortune, but just enough to entertain my friends and give them good times—just as Mrs. Halstead does.”