Part 8

“That’s very pretty, my dear,” said Mrs. Halstead herself, who had just stepped out on the veranda to summon the young people to dinner. And again Martha became embarrassed and blushed rosy red, as Mrs. Halstead smiled at her kindly.

The next day was fair and beautiful, a perfect day for a May party.

“It’s a few days past the first of May, which is the real May-day,” said Mrs. Halstead, at breakfast, “but as it’s Irene’s birthday, we thought we’d celebrate it by a May party. So it’s an afternoon affair, from four to seven, and we’ll have a May-pole dance to wind up with.”

“And a May-queen?” asked Betty. “Queen Irene, of course.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Halstead, “Irene will be queen, as it’s her party. And all you girls must be ladies-in-waiting. You may make wreaths for yourselves and trim your dresses with flowers or garlands any way you choose. Now, scamper, and don’t bother me, for I’ve lots of things to attend to.”

“Mayn’t we help you, Mrs. Halstead?” asked Betty.

“No, my dear. There’s really nothing you could do to help. Indeed, you’ll assist me most by entertaining yourselves.”

“All right,” said Ethel. “As Maude has invited us to go to town with her, we’ll have that to entertain us this morning.”

But as they walked out of the dining-room and through the broad hall, Maude said:

“I’ll have to take back my invitation, girls. I’m not going to take you to get ice-cream this morning.”

“Why not?” cried Ethel, impulsively, and then, as they all saw that Maude did not smile, they felt rather uncomfortable.

For a few moments nobody spoke, and then Betty, to change the subject, said:

“All right; let’s play tennis, then.”

But there was a constraint over them all, and no one knew exactly why.

To be sure, it was strange for Maude to invite them to go for ice-cream, and then to recall her invitation so suddenly. But they each felt there was more than that in the air, and Maude looked so disturbed that it seemed there must be something serious the matter.

So strong was the conviction that it would prove embarrassing, that Betty repressed her inclination to invite the girls to take ice-cream with _her_ instead of Maude.

Instinctively she felt she had better not do this, and so she proposed tennis instead.

Half-heartedly they went for their rackets, and as they went toward the courts, Irene and Maude fell behind and talked in whispers. Then they turned and went back to the house.

The other four went on, and had nearly finished a set of tennis when the two rejoined them.

Maude looked angry, and Irene looked as if she had been crying, but no questions were asked, and no information was offered as to the cause.

“Take my racket,” said Betty to Maude, “and play a set with Martha. I’d just as lief sit and watch you.”

“No, thank you,” said Maude. “I don’t care to play.”

Betty looked up suddenly at this, and saw Maude give Martha a contemptuous glance and turn away.

Martha turned red and looked dismayed, as she well might at such a speech.

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Betty, ready to take up the cudgels for Martha, if need be.

“Never you mind,” said Maude. “Martha knows what I mean!”

“I don’t!” stammered Martha, choking with mortification at being thus spoken to.

“Oh, yes, you do!” said Maude. “I’m very much obliged for your _ice-cream_!”

“Betty, what does she mean?” cried Martha, turning helplessly toward her friend.

“She doesn’t mean anything,” said Irene, looking angrily at Maude. “Mother told you to wait.”

Maude turned sullen, and refused to say anything. Betty looked mystified, but wasn’t sure whether she ought to insist on an explanation or not.

She had been responsible for bringing Martha, and if Maude didn’t like her, it was unfortunate, but to discuss it might only make matters worse.

Dorothy, with her ready tact, came to the rescue. “You four play,” she said, throwing down her racket, “and Maude and I will go for a row on the lake.”

Maude brightened up at this, and Betty concluded that she had been merely ill-tempered over nothing, after all.

“I’m going to tell you,” said Maude to Dorothy, as they pushed out on the lake, “but I promised Mrs. Halstead I wouldn’t say anything to Martha about it. I’ve lost five dollars, and I can’t help thinking she took it.”

“Who? Mrs. Halstead?”

“Mercy, no! Martha.”

“Never! I don’t believe it!”

“Well, didn’t you notice that new five-dollar bill she paid for the ice-cream with?”

“Yes.”

“It was exactly like mine. You see, I had a new, crisp bill that Father gave me to spend while I was here. And when we went to town yesterday, I thought I wouldn’t take it for fear I’d lose it. And Martha, or somebody, must have taken it, for when I got home it was gone.”

“I don’t believe Martha took it.”

“Who else could have done it? Mrs. Halstead says she knows her servants didn’t take it. She’s had them for years, and they’re perfectly honest. And you know how queerly Martha acted while she was paying for the ice-cream. She doesn’t have much money, does she?”

“No,” said Dorothy, reluctantly.

“Then how would she happen to have a new five-dollar bill just like mine, all of a sudden? And why would she act so embarrassed and queer about treating us to ice-cream?”

“Martha loves to treat,” said Dorothy, a little lamely. “But I’m sure she never took it,” she added doggedly. “I’m going to ask her.”

“No, you mustn’t. Mrs. Halstead said she’d make up the loss to me, but we must not speak to Martha about it. Of course I won’t take five dollars from Mrs. Halstead, but I promised I wouldn’t tell Martha that she took it.”

“You were very ‘uppish’ to her, though!”

“Well, who wouldn’t be? That bill was on the table in my bedroom, and Martha was in the room after I was. And when I came home, it was gone.”

“You were very careless to leave it on the table.”

“No, I wasn’t. I didn’t want to take it with me, so I stuck it behind a picture that stands on the table. Nobody would have seen it, but Martha knew it was there; she was in the room when I put it there.”

“Maybe it blew off the table.”

“It might have, but I’ve looked all over the room everywhere.”

Dorothy sat silent. She hadn’t wanted Martha to come, but Betty had coaxed her into it, and this was the result.

“Well,” she said at last, “I’m going to tell Betty about it, anyway. I know she’ll think as I do, that Martha couldn’t have done such a thing.”

“No, don’t tell Betty.”

“Yes, you will tell Betty, too!” said a voice, and looking up, the two girls saw Betty looking at them. The boat had drifted near shore, and Betty beckoned to them to come in.

“Now, you tell me what it’s all about,” she said, as they landed. “I’m not going to be kept out of it any longer.”

When Betty spoke like that, her comrades usually obeyed her.

Half scared at Betty’s frowning face, Maude told her story.

“What foolishness!” said Betty, as she finished. “Martha could no more take a penny that didn’t belong to her than I could!”

“Then what made her act so flustered when she invited us to have ice-cream and when she paid for it?” demanded Maude.

“I don’t know,” said Betty.

“And where would she get a new five-dollar bill all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know,” said Betty.

“And where is my bill?” wound up Maude, triumphantly, and again Betty was forced to reply, “I don’t know.”

“But all the same,” she went on, “Martha didn’t take it! And I’ll prove it somehow!”

“You can’t prove it unless you find my bill.”

“Then I’ll find your bill!”

“You can’t; I’ve hunted everywhere for it.”

“Well, I _will_ find it, and I’ll make you take back all you’ve said about Martha.”

“I’m sure I’d be glad to,” said Maude, staring at Betty’s angry face; “I’ve no wish to make her seem dishonest if she isn’t.”

“I’ll clear this matter up!” exclaimed Betty, “and then you’ll feel sorry for what you’ve said. And first I’ll go and tell Martha, and let her speak for herself.”

“No, you mustn’t do that! Mrs. Halstead forbade us to mention it to Martha.”

“All right; then I’ll take Martha and go straight to Mrs. Halstead and let her tell her.”

“But you can’t now, for Mrs. Halstead is superintending the May-pole. The carpenters are putting it up, and she asked us to keep away.”

“Well, I’ve got to do something! I can’t rest till Martha is cleared. Poor Martha! I don’t see how anybody could think such a thing of her!”

Betty put her arm through Dorothy’s, and they went on ahead, leaving Maude to follow alone.

“Betty,” said Dorothy, “we know Martha never has spending-money. And for that to be a new bill that she had yesterday does look queer. And she did act awfully funny about it all.”

“I know it, Dorothy,” said Betty, in a tone of despair; “I think it looks awfully queer. But I wouldn’t own up to Maude that I thought so. And, even if it does look queer, I won’t believe Martha took Maude’s money unless she tells me so herself—so there, now!”

Betty had unconsciously raised her voice in her indignation, and as they turned a corner of the path, they came upon the other girls, sitting on a settee, waiting for them.

“What are you saying, Betty?” asked Martha, her face perfectly white.

There was no blushing embarrassment now; Martha looked horrified, and even incredulous, but she was calm and self-possessed. Betty quite forgot what Maude had said of Mrs. Halstead’s orders, and spoke right out to Martha.

“Martha,” she said, “did you see Maude take some money out of her purse and lay it on her table yesterday?”

“Yes, I did,” said Martha.

“Did you take it from the table—to—to put it in a safer place—or anything?”

“No, of course I didn’t! Why should I?”

“Well, it wasn’t a very safe place,” began Betty.

“I should say it wasn’t!” exclaimed Maude.

“Well, I didn’t touch it!” said Martha. “What are you talking about, Betty?”

“Then where did you get that new five-dollar bill you spent yesterday?” burst out Maude, unable to control her tongue.

Martha looked at her.

“Do you mean to say that you’ve been thinking that was _your_ money?” she said, in a low, scared sort of voice.

“Yes, I do!” declared Maude.

“Oh, oh! I didn’t, didn’t! Betty, Betty, what _shall_ I do!” and Martha burst into a fit of crying which nothing could stop.

“Now, you see,” said Betty, as she caressed her weeping friend. “Please all leave her to me.”

The others went away a little shamefacedly, while Betty remained with Martha. She waited until the first bursts of sobs were over, and then she said:

“Now, Martha, brace up. I know and you know you didn’t take her old bill, but we’ve got to prove it.”

“How can we prove it?” asked Martha, between her sobs, as she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “Oh, Betty, I wish I hadn’t come!”

“So shall I, if you act like this. Cheer up, I tell you, and help me, and we’ll fix this matter right yet.”

“How brave you are!” said Martha, looking up at Betty’s determined face.

“Somebody’s got to be, and you won’t,” said Betty, smiling. “Now tell me everything you know about Maude’s money.”

“I don’t know anything, except what she told you. I was sitting by the table when she stuck it behind the picture. I thought it was a funny place to put it, but I didn’t say so. I wouldn’t have been so careless with my bill.”

“Where did you get your bill, Martha?”

“Uncle Fred gave it to me on Christmas. He said to save it until I was sure I’d thought of the thing I’d like best to buy with it. And I was _sure_ I’d rather treat you all to ice-cream than to buy anything for myself. Oh, Betty, I do love to be hospitable to people, and I never have a chance! And when the chance really came, I was so glad and so happy about it, that it made me rather fidgety and embarrassed.”

“You dear thing!” cried Betty, kissing her. “And then to think of how they’ve spoiled your little ice-cream party! Well, go on; then did you stay in Maude’s room after she left it?”

“Only a minute, to say good-by to little Bobby Halstead. He was playing around there, and he’s such a cunning little chap.”

“_Bobby!_ I’ve an idea! Now you stay right here till I come back! Don’t you move!”

Betty flew into the house and went in search of four-year-old Bobby. She found him in his nursery, mounted upon his black hobby-horse.

“Tell me, deary,” she said, “when you were in Maude’s room yesterday, did you see any money around?”

“Pennies?” asked Bobby.

“No, not pennies. Paper money. Green money.”

“Ess, green paper, but not moneys. I cutted out a paper dolly; see! It’s not vewey good ’cause my sissiz was dull.”

Bobby dived down into a box, and produced a queer-shaped paper doll which was surely cut from a five-dollar bill!

Betty’s eyes danced, but she only said quietly:

“Where did you find the green paper, deary?”

“In ve was’e-bastick,” said the child; “I can always have what’s in ve was’e-basticks. Muvver said I could.”

“Yes, of course you can. That’s all right. But lend this dolly to Betty, won’t you? Just for a little while?”

“Ess, I will,” and the child gave it up willingly enough.

Back ran Betty with her prize.

“There!” she cried, triumphantly waving the five-dollar doll above her head. “I told you Martha didn’t know anything about Maude’s money. It must have blown from the table into the waste-basket, and Bobby picked it out.”

“Oh—I do—remember!” said Maude, slowly, “the waste-basket was upset when I came home! So I looked through all the scraps carefully, but of course I didn’t find it. I’m awfully sorry, Martha,—truly I am,—more sorry than I can say! I don’t suppose you can ever forgive me.”

“Oh, yes, I can,” said Martha, smiling through her tears.

“I’m going to forgive you, too, Maude,” said Betty; “but it will take me a little while. I am afraid it will be half an hour before I can feel toward you as if you hadn’t done this.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Maude, contritely; “but, Betty, I didn’t know Martha as you did, and it _did_ look queer.”

“Yes, that’s so,” conceded Betty. “I think I’ll get over it in a _quarter_ of an hour.”

She did, and when it was time for the May party, the late unpleasantness was ignored by all, if not entirely forgotten.

Mr. Halstead gave Maude a five-dollar bill to replace the one his son had spoiled, and he then also presented her with the green paper doll, as a reminder not to trust too much to appearances.

VIII THE CHAPLET OF HONOR

As soon as June had fairly dawned upon the calendar, the girls of Miss Whittier’s school began to prepare for closing day.

It was customary to give an evening entertainment, in which all the pupils took part.

“This year,” Miss Whittier announced to the class, “I have a very delightful plan, of which I will now tell you. It is not exactly a play, but a little staged allegory which I am sure you will all think very attractive.”

Betty listened eagerly, for “staged allegory” sounded rather dry and poky, and yet it might turn out to be fun after all.

“Sounds like ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’” whispered Dorothy, who sat next her, and Betty’s imagination immediately saw all the girls with packs on their backs, climbing the Hill of Difficulty. But Miss Whittier went on to reveal her plan.

“It is called ‘Honor Chaplet,’” she said, “and it represents all the women who have done praiseworthy deeds presenting their claims for the Chaplet of Honor, which is to be awarded to the one who best merits it. Of course the characters represent women of all time who have become famous for great deeds or noble efforts.”

Betty’s head gave a nod of satisfaction. The whole plan appealed to her, for it meant “dressing up,” and she dearly loved to wear fancy costumes.

“We will have a pretty stage,” said Miss Whittier, who on occasions like this talked sociably with her pupils, “and I’m sure you will all be willing to help with the work of decorating it.”

“Yes, indeed,” and “We will,” said the girls, and then Constance Harper asked:

“Who are the characters, Miss Whittier? Will you tell us now?”

Reading from some papers she held, Miss Whittier named about thirty celebrated women, including Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth, Pocahontas, Grace Darling, Florence Nightingale, Isabella of Spain, Joan of Arc, Queen Victoria, Barbara Frietchie, Rosa Bonheur, and many others well known to history or tradition.

“I think,” she went on, “you may each select the character you prefer. If, by chance, two choose the same one, we can easily adjust matters afterward. I will distribute papers, and you may each write your own name, followed by the character you choose.”

“While we’re doing that, won’t you tell us a little more about the play, Miss Whittier?” said Dorothy Bates.

“The plot, if it can be called a plot, is simple. One girl must represent the Goddess of Honor. She will stand on a pedestal, and hear the claims of the various celebrities. She will wear a classic costume, and will have a chaplet of bay to bestow on the successful one. She will be attended by four allegorical figures, representing War and Peace, Art and Wisdom. These girls will also wear classic draperies, and look as much as possible like statues. The other characters will, of course, wear costumes suited to their personalities.”

“And is there any dialogue?” asked another pupil.

“Yes; each character makes a short speech, setting forth her claims to honor and glory. This seems a little ostentatious,” Miss Whittier smiled, “but that is the way the play is written. Then, finally, the Goddess awards the chaplet to the one she deems most worthy.”

“And which one is that?” asked Betty.

“I won’t tell that yet,” said Miss Whittier, smiling; “I’ll not divulge that secret until you have all chosen your parts, for, naturally, you would each desire the one who will receive this crown.”

This seemed sensible to Betty, and she began to consider what part she would like to take.

Miss Whittier had a full list of names written on the blackboard, that all might see them, and Betty studied them with care.

The four allegorical figures did not appeal to her at all. It would be no fun to stand, perhaps on a pedestal, draped about with Greek togas, or whatever statues wore, and not even a red sash by way of coloring!

The Goddess of Honor was, of course, the most desirable, and Betty almost decided to write that against her name. But, she reflected, it was doubtful if Miss Whittier would think her well suited for that. A goddess ought to be tall and fair and statuesque, and Betty was anything but that. Her round Irish face and somewhat tilted nose and rosy cheeks were far from classic in type. And, anyhow, probably some one else would choose that one who would be much better fitted for the part. So Betty carefully considered the other names. Pocahontas and Queen Elizabeth both attracted her. She did not look particularly like an Indian maiden, nor yet like an English queen, but as she glanced around the room, she saw no one that looked more so than she; at least, no one looked like Queen Elizabeth, though some of the slim, straight-haired girls might make a better Indian.

But, as she gazed, Betty decided that looks would not have much to do with it. The girls must depend on their costumes to represent the character they assumed.

And so Betty hesitated between the two she liked.

Queen Elizabeth would be grand! In fancy, she saw herself in a stiff, quilted satin petticoat, and long, heavy train of crimson velvet, edged with ermine; a huge ruff round her neck, and a gorgeous gilt crown! This would be fine. Yet there was something very attractive about the idea of Pocahontas; an Indian costume trimmed with gay fringes and beads; leather leggings, and tall quill-feathers sticking up round her head; a bow and arrow, perhaps, and a quiver slung from one shoulder! Yes, it was enticing, but the Queen’s costume was grander and even more enticing in color and glitter. So Betty wrote her own name, and then wrote “Queen Elizabeth” below it, and the papers were all gathered up.

Miss Whittier dismissed the girls then, and said she would tell them definitely the next day what character each should have, and, moreover, she asked them not to tell any one about the entertainment, nor to tell each other what rôle they had chosen. So, as the girls were conscientious in these matters, they did not tell each other what parts they wished to take, but many and eager discussions were held about the details of the great occasion.

Betty told her mother of the choice she had made, as the pledge of secrecy did not include mothers.

Mrs. McGuire smiled at the idea of Betty robed as Queen Elizabeth, but she said:

“Well, at any rate, you look quite as much like Elizabeth as any of the other girls. And we’ll fix up a fine costume for you. I’ll find a picture of the Queen in her most gorgeous robes, and we’ll have it copied as nearly as possible.”

“And I must have a lot of jewels!” said Betty, clasping her hands ecstatically at the thought of such grandeur.

“Yes,” said Mrs. McGuire; “you may wear my necklace, and perhaps Grandma will lend you some large old-fashioned brooches. I think we need not be so very particular as to their being really of the Elizabethan period.”

“Oh, no; any glittery things will do. I think we ought to try some necklaces of big imitation gems.”

“Perhaps we shall! At any rate, we’ll copy the picture as nearly as we can.”

“And it will be a gorgeous costume, won’t it? Oh, I’m glad now I didn’t choose Pocahontas!”

“What sort of speech do you have to make, Betty?”

“I don’t know, Mother. Miss Whittier has them, all type-written, and she will give them to us soon, she said. But I’ll not have any trouble to learn it. I can learn things to recite so easily.”

“Yes, your memory is wonderful. And I suppose one of the teachers will train you.”

“Yes, in gestures and expression. Oh, Mother, won’t it be fun?”

“Yes, girlie? I know it’s just the sort of fun you like.”

“Oh, I do; I’ll walk like this.” Catching up her slumber-robe from the couch, Betty held it from her shoulders like a court train, and walked across the room with stiff, stagy strides, holding her head very high.

“Hello, your Majesty, what are you doing?” said Jack, appearing at the door.

“Good for you, Jack!” cried Betty; “I’m pleased that you should have recognized what was meant for a queenly gait. I’m Queen Elizabeth of England.”

“Pooh! You look more like the White Queen of Looking-Glass Land!”

“Well, maybe I do now; but just you wait till I get my velvet train and jeweled crown,—and, oh, Mother, shall I have a scepter?”

“Yes, I think that’s part of the costume.”

“Oh, what fun!” and seizing Jack, Betty waltzed him about the room by way of expressing her glee.

“Hi, Betty, go slower!” he exclaimed breathlessly; “queens dance stately minuets—they don’t dance break-downs!”

“This queen does,” said Betty, calmly, but she let Jack go, on condition that he would help her hunt the library for books containing pictures of the Queen.

Next day no mention was made of the entertainment until after lessons were over. It was nearly time for dismissal when Miss Whittier summoned the pupils to her in the assembly-room.

She looked at them in a little perplexity, and then she smiled.

“I did not foresee the result,” she said, “when I asked you young ladies to choose your parts for our little play. I thought that if two or even three should choose the same character we could readily arrange matters by a little friendly discussion. But, to my surprise, when the papers were looked over, this was the result: twelve girls have chosen the Goddess of Honor; nine have selected Pocahontas; seven want Queen Elizabeth, and the others are scattering. Now, as you can readily see, this state of affairs requires arbitration. So I am obliged to tell you that we must disregard your wishes, and assign the parts as we, the teachers, think best.”

The girls laughed heartily when they realized how many of their number had asked for the most desirable part, that of Goddess of Honor, and they agreed that, after all, the fairest way was for the teachers to assign the parts, and then there could be no preference.