Part 9
“And so,” went on Miss Whittier, “I have prepared full directions for each of you. Here are the envelopes for you all, and in your envelope you will each find the name of the character you are to take, with full description of costume, and a copy of the lines you are to learn to recite in the play. And please remember the appointments are final and unalterable.” The envelopes were distributed, and each girl looked eagerly inside to see what her part might be.
“You are dismissed,” said Miss Whittier. “There is no further occasion for secrecy, though I’m sure it will be better for the success of our entertainment not to tell your friends who will be in the audience much about it beforehand.”
“What’s the matter, Betty?” said Dorothy, as, with Jeanette, they all started homeward. “You look as if you’d lost your last friend.”
And truly Betty did look woebegone. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, her lips were drawn in a tight line, and her eyes already showed hints of flooding with tears.
“Look at that!” she exclaimed tragically, as she held out her paper toward the girls.
“‘Grace Darling!’” read Dorothy. “Oh, Betty, you don’t like your part, do you?”
“Like it!” cried Betty; “read what the costume is!”
“‘Simple sailor suit,’” read Dorothy, “‘of dark-blue flannel, small yachting-cap, or no hat at all. Carry an oar.’ Why, that’s a sweet little costume, Betty.”
“Sweet little nothing!” cried Betty, stormily. “I don’t want to wear a common, every-day sailor suit! And carry an oar! Oh!”
“What did you want?” asked Jeanette.
“I wanted to be a goddess,” said Betty, honestly. “But I didn’t write that, ’cause I was ’most sure Miss Whittier would rather have a yellow-haired girl for that. So I chose Queen Elizabeth, but I’d have been satisfied with Pocahontas. But Grace Darling! Oh, I think it’s mean!”
“Why, Grace Darling was very noble and heroic,” said Jeanette.
“Oh, of course. Grace Darling herself was wonderful. I just adore her! But I want to wear a pretty costume in the play—a grand one, you know, like a queen or something.”
“Yes, I know,” said Dorothy, sympathetically, for she well knew Betty’s love of bright colors and gay “dressing up.” “I think it’s a shame, too. Maybe Miss Whittier will let you change with me.”
“No, she said we positively couldn’t change our parts. And, anyhow, I wouldn’t take yours if it’s nicer than mine. What is yours, Dot?”
“Queen Elizabeth,” said Dorothy, feeling as mean as if she had been caught in a wrong action.
Betty had to smile at Dorothy’s contrite tone.
“Well,” she said, “I’d rather you’d have it than any one else. Mother’ll lend you her necklace, I know. What’s yours, Jeanette?”
“Joan of Arc, and just the one I wanted.”
“That’s nice,” said Betty. “I’m glad you got it. But, oh, girls, I wish I had a pretty one. If I’d only had Priscilla or Cleopatra, or anybody that wore pretty things! But ‘a simple sailor suit!’”
“It’s too mean for anything!” declared Dorothy; “it takes the fun out of the whole thing.”
“Oh, no; it isn’t so bad as that,” said Betty, smiling through her gathering tears. “I s’pose I’ll get over my disappointment. And I’m silly to care so much, anyhow. What’s Constance?”
“She’s the Goddess,” said Dorothy, reluctantly, for this seemed to add another straw to Betty’s burden of woe.
“I’m glad of it,” said Betty, generously. “She’ll be a lovely goddess, she’s so pretty and graceful. Well, let me help you girls with your costumes, as long as I haven’t any of my own to fuss over. I can get an inexpensive, ‘simple sailor suit’ ready-made.”
Betty turned in at her own gate, and after their good-bys the other girls went on.
“It’s just horrid,” said Dorothy; “I know how bad Betty feels about it, and I’m going to ask Miss Whittier to change it somehow.”
“She won’t do it,” said Jeanette; “I wish she would, but I know she’ll say if she changes one she’ll have to change others, and it’ll be a regular mix-up.”
And that’s just what Miss Whittier did say, though in different words.
“No, my dear,” she said kindly, but decidedly, when Dorothy told her about it. “I’m sorry Betty is disappointed, but several of the girls have already asked to change their parts, and I’ve been obliged to say ‘no’ to each; so of course I can’t make an exception in favor of Betty.”
This settled it, and Betty accepted her fate, outwardly with a good grace, but secretly with a rebellious heart.
“It’s such a mistake,” she said to her mother, “for girls like Kate Alden and May Jennings would _like_ to have only simple costumes to prepare. And they have to rig up as Martha Washington and Mary, Queen of Scots! Either of them would rather have Grace Darling, and only have to get a ‘simple sailor suit!’”
“It _is_ too bad, Betty dear,” said her mother; “I’m just as sorry as I can be. But I can’t see any help for it, so we must submit.”
“Yes; I know it, and I’m not going to growl about it any more. But it does make me mad!”
Betty kicked a footstool, as if to relieve her overburdened feelings, and then laughed at herself for her foolishness.
She learned her lines carefully, determined to do her part as well as she could, if her dress was plain and inconspicuous.
Her speech was full of brave and noble thoughts, and Betty practised it often, and observed conscientiously her teacher’s instructions as to inflections and gestures. It was easy for Betty to learn by heart; so easy, indeed, that she unconsciously learned most of the other girls’ speeches by merely hearing them at rehearsals.
Often she would amuse her mother and Jack by breaking forth into some of the stilted lines of the play.
“I am Pocahontas,” she would say, striking an attitude of what she considered Indian effect; “I claim the prize, Goddess, because I, in years that are past, rendered a service——”
“There, there, that will do, Betty!” Jack would cry. “You are a born actress, I know, but I’m studying my English history now, and Pocahontas doesn’t belong with the Saxon kings.”
“Oh, English history!” said Betty, mischievously.
Then, stalking grandly up to him, she held an umbrella for a scepter, and declaimed:
“Goddess of Honor! You see before you Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. A noble monarch, not alone in power, but in majestic traits that won for her the loyalty and adoration of her loved and loving subjects. A queen who——”
“Off with her head!” cried Jack, throwing a sofa-pillow at Betty, who promptly threw it back at him, and then ran laughing from the room.
It was not Betty’s way to mourn over what couldn’t be helped, so she went cheerfully with her mother to purchase the despised sailor suit. They bought the prettiest one they could find—a blue serge with white collar and cuffs and a silk sailor tie. But though it was becoming and would have looked just right had Betty been starting on a yachting cruise, it was not to be compared with the elaborate costumes most of the girls were preparing. And, though it was cold comfort, Betty was true to her word, and helped the others all she could to make their gowns effective. She lent her Roman sash, her embroidered Japanese kimono, and her spangled Egyptian scarf to girls who could use them effectively. She helped Dorothy with her Elizabethan garb, and Jeanette with her Joan of Arc costume.
As for the Goddess, Constance had a most resplendent robe. It was of soft white shimmering stuff dotted all over with gilt spangles. Billows of this material fell from her shoulders in long, graceful folds, and swept away in a rippling train. A high crown of golden filigree-work was to be worn on her beautiful, fair hair, and while in one hand she was to hold a classic scroll, in the other she was to carry aloft a long, slender, gilt trumpet. The costume was superb, and almost took Betty’s breath away when she first saw it.
“Oh, Constance,” she said, “let me try it on, do! Just for a minute! I’ll be awfully careful of it.”
Constance agreed, of course, though she secretly feared that impetuous Betty might tear the gauzy stuff.
But Betty donned it almost reverently, and then, imitating Constance’s pose, as she had seen her at rehearsal, she began:
“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those who nobly and unflinchingly do their bravest and best, I come unsummoned! I am here to-night, bearing the Chaplet of Honor, the award of Fame. To whom shall I award it? Who best deserves the greatest guerdon, the highest honor Fame can bestow? Speak, noble women of all time, speak, and claim your due!”
So often had Betty heard Constance declaim these ringing lines at rehearsal that she knew them as well as her own, and so inspired was she by the beautiful raiment she had on that her oratory was quite in spirit with the character.
“Good gracious, Betty!” said Constance, “I didn’t know you could recite so well. Try your own speech now; it’s a good chance to rehearse. But get out of that gown first. I’m terribly afraid you’ll catch it on something.”
“No, I won’t,” said Betty, stepping gingerly out of the glistening mass as it fell about her feet. “Now listen to mine.”
She recited the lines Grace Darling was supposed to speak, and so earnestly did she tell of the noble work she had done in saving life that it seemed as if the most stony-hearted of goddesses must be moved to award her the Chaplet of Honor.
It was not known even yet who should receive the wreath. Each girl was expected to do her best, and after all had taken part, the Goddess would make the award. Of course it was arranged beforehand who should have it, but, as this was not known, each secretly hoped for it.
At last the day of the great event arrived.
The entertainment would begin at eight o’clock, but the girls were requested to be at the school at half-past seven.
Some of them dressed at home and came all ready for the stage, but those who had more elaborate or eccentric costumes brought them with them and dressed at the school. Betty dressed at home, for her sailor suit could easily be worn under a light coat. She went with a heavy heart, for, though she had scolded herself for being a silly, and had forced herself to make believe she didn’t mind, yet when the evening arrived, and she saw many of the other girls in glittering, fanciful dresses, she felt again the bitter disappointment of her plain little frock.
“Remember, Betty girl,” said her mother, as they separated, Betty to go to the school-room and Mrs. McGuire to the audience-room, “you must make your success by your own work to-night. The others may have beautiful trappings, but you must win out by your really good work in declamation. Win the hearts of the audience by your pathetic story of Grace Darling’s work, and you may represent the part better than those who have elaborate costumes do theirs.”
Betty smiled, knowing her mother’s advice was good, and yet unable to repress a little feeling of envy as she saw the resplendent figures all around her. But she could and did help showing it.
She went about among the girls, helping one or another to adjust her adornments, or prompting some one who was frantically rehearsing her lines.
“I can prompt any of you, if you need it,” said Betty, laughing, “for I do believe I know every line of this whole play. I didn’t try to learn it, but I’ve heard it so often, it sticks in my head.”
At eight o’clock Miss Whittier marshaled them in order to go on the stage. Of course the curtain was still down, as the Goddess had not yet taken her place, but after its rising the others were to enter one by one and address themselves to the arbiter of their fates. They waited, almost breathlessly, in the hush that always comes before the lifting of a curtain.
“Where is Constance Harper?” asked Miss Whittier, in a whisper, of another teacher.
“I don’t know,” was the reply. “I supposed, of course, she was here. She said she’d dress at home, as her robe is so frail, and that she’d be here, all ready to go on the stage, at quarter to eight.”
“Dear me,” thought Betty, “Constance is nearly always late, but I thought she’d be on time to-night.”
Of course, at such entertainments, no one is greatly surprised if the performance is a little delayed, but the absence of Constance seemed ominous to Miss Whittier.
“I think we’d better send for her,” she began, when a man came in, in breathless haste. He carried a large white box, and, going straight to Miss Whittier, he said rapidly:
“Miss Constance, ma’am, she sprained her ankle—just now. She slipped coming down-stairs, and she can’t walk nohow.”
“Sprained her ankle!” cried Miss Whittier. “Can’t she be here to-night? Who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Harper’s coachman, ma’am; and Miss Constance she was all dressed in her angel clothes and all, and jest goin’ to get in the kerridge, when she slipped on the shiny stair, and her high-heeled slipper twisted somehow, and she jest sprained her ankle. So Mrs. Harper, soon’s she could, she got the party clo’es offen her, and she’s sent them to you, ’cause she says somebody else’ll have to do Miss Constance’s piece to-night.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Whittier, clasping her hands. “What can we do? But we must do something quickly. Lena Carey, you’re about Constance’s size; can’t you take the part of Goddess?”
“Oh, I’d love to, Miss Whittier,” said Lena, looking longingly at the spangled white mass in the box, which had just been opened, “but I don’t know a word of her lines. It’s all I can do to remember my own.”
“What shall I do!” cried Miss Whittier, in despair. “Does anybody know the Goddess’s part? Oh, why didn’t I think to have an understudy!”
Betty hesitated. It seemed presumptuous for her to offer, for she well knew she didn’t look like Miss Whittier’s idea of a Goddess of Honor. But no one else volunteered, so she said:
“Miss Whittier, I don’t look right, I know, but I know every one of Constance’s lines perfectly.”
“You blessed child!” cried Miss Whittier; “do you really? Are you sure, Betty?”
For answer, Betty began rapidly, and with no attempt at dramatic effect:
“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those who nobly and unflinchingly——”
“That will do!” said Miss Whittier, smiling in spite of her anxiety. “Get out of that sailor suit, Betty, just as quick as you can, and get into Constance’s things.”
“Yes’m,” said Betty, her voice thrilling with intense excitement, “yes, Miss Whittier. I’ve been in them before, and I know just how they go.”
Several deft pairs of hands gave assistance; Miss Whittier herself gathered up Betty’s loose curls into a classic knot, and so well did she arrange it that, when the gilt crown was in place, the whole effect was harmonious, and Betty’s sparkling eyes lit up a face that any goddess might be pleased to own.
Mindful of Constance’s injunctions about tearing the delicate fabric, Betty gathered up her train and followed Miss Whittier to the stage.
As she passed, Dorothy took opportunity to whisper, “Oh, I am so glad”; and Jeanette gave her a loving pat as she went by.
The stage was draped entirely with white cheese-cloth, thickly sprinkled with gilt paper stars. A large pedestal stood ready for the Goddess, and on either side were two lower pedestals, occupied by her allegorical attendants, who, already in place, were wondering what had happened to the Goddess they were to serve.
Betty needed no instructions. She knew every pose Constance had been taught to take, as well as the lines themselves. Poising herself gracefully, she lifted her outstretched arm, with the long, slender trumpet, and placed the mouthpiece to her lips.
“Beautiful!” whispered Miss Whittier, delighted at Betty’s artistic, yet natural, pose.
“Don’t worry, Miss Whittier,” Betty whispered back; “I’ll do it all right!”
“You dear child! You’ve saved the day for us all. I know you’ll do it with credit to us all.”
Then Miss Whittier went in front of the curtain, and in a few words told of Constance’s accident, and explained that her part would be taken by Miss Elizabeth McGuire, for whom she begged indulgence if not perfect in her part.
Betty, behind the curtain, heard the applause, and thinking how surprised Jack and her mother would be, she stood motionless as the curtain rose.
Another storm of applause broke forth at the beautiful picture, and when it subsided, Betty, with just the least tremor of excitement in her voice, began:
“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those who nobly and unflinchingly do their bravest and best, I come unsummoned!”
The speech was not of great literary value; those in amateur entertainments rarely are; but Betty was a good elocutionist and full of dramatic instinct. Moreover, her sudden change from an inconspicuous figure to the chief one of all put her on her mettle, and she fairly outdid herself in rendering the opening speech.
The play went on beautifully. Not once did Betty falter, or forget a line. The others, too, all did their parts well, and when, at last, the Goddess of Honor placed the chaplet on the bowed head of Isabella of Spain, the picture was a beautiful one, and the house fairly rose in applause.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t feel sorry for Constance,” said Betty, to her mother, as they drove home. “I did, and I do, feel _truly_ sorry. But when she couldn’t be there, and Miss Whittier _had_ to have somebody, I was so glad I knew the part and could take it.”
“You needn’t tell me, dear,” said her mother; “I know too well my Betty’s generous heart to think for a moment that you rejoiced at Constance’s accident. But I, too, am glad that, since poor Constance couldn’t be there, my little girl could be of such help to Miss Whittier, and could, all unexpectedly, succeed so well in what was really a difficult part.”
“You are a trump, Betty,” said Jack, “and I’m glad you had the chance. I’m downright sorry for Connie, but I’m jolly glad for you!”
IX AN INDEPENDENCE DAY RECEPTION
Toward the latter part of June the McGuire family migrated to Denniston for the summer. The beautiful country place, on the outskirts of the little town of Greenborough, was looking its prettiest as they arrived one lovely afternoon and took possession.
“In some ways I’m glad to be back here,” said Betty, as they sat on the veranda after supper, “and in some ways I’m not.”
“That’s the way with ’most everything,” commented Jack, philosophically; “there are always some good sides and some bad sides to whatever we do. I love Denniston, but there’s more to do in Boston.”
“And more people,” said Betty.
“Yes,” agreed Jack; “I’ve always noticed there _are_ more people in a large city than in a small village.”
Betty threw a hammock pillow at him, and went on: “I mean more people that I like to be with. I shall miss Dorothy and Jeanette awfully down here.”
“You might invite them to visit you,” suggested her mother.
“I would; but it’s rather dull here. There’s nothing special for them to do, you see; they usually go to watering-places in the summer, and I doubt if they’d want to come here.”
“Oh, pshaw, Betty!” said Jack. “They’d like to come, just to see you. And Denniston Hall is a lovely place. A flock of girls ought to be able to make fun for themselves here.”
“That’s so,” said Betty; “anyhow, I’ll ask them, and if they don’t want to come, they can decline. I’ll ask Constance too, and perhaps Lena—that is, if you are willing, Mother.”
“Do,” said her mother. “Make it a little house-party. With picnics and drives you can make it pleasant for them, I’m sure.”
Just then Agnes Graham and her brother Stub came strolling up the driveway, and heartily welcomed the Denniston people back to their summer home.
“You’re just in time,” said Agnes, as the young people grouped themselves in the wicker chairs on the veranda or in the swinging settee; “have you heard about the Library Benefit?”
“No,” said Betty; “what is it?”
“Oh, somebody’s going to give a whole lot of money for a town library, if the town will raise another whole lot of money itself. And so everybody in Greenborough is planning to do something to help. And we thought, that is, we hoped, you’d join with the Dorcas Club, and help us.”
“I’d like to,” said Betty, “but tell me more about it.”
“Well, the truth is, Betty, the girls of the Dorcas Club haven’t really made any definite plans, and they want you to suggest something—only they’re afraid to ask you.”
“Afraid to ask me!” exclaimed Betty. “Why?”
“Oh, they think you’re so haughty and stuck-up since you’ve lived in Boston that they’re afraid you won’t want to work with us.”
“Agnes Graham, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Have you ever known me to act a bit haughty?”
“No, I haven’t. But the other girls don’t know you as well as I do, and they say that.”
“Pooh! May Fordham and Tilly Fenn know me quite as well as you do; do they say I’m haughty?”
“No, May and Tilly don’t—at least, I’ve never heard them.”
“Well, who does, then? You may as well tell me.”
“Oh, let’s drop the subject!” said Stub, who hated a fuss. “What do you girls want to gossip for?”
“Betty’s right,” put in Jack; “if people say she’s haughty, when she _isn’t_, she ought to know who says it.”
“Oh, it’s nobody in particular,” said Agnes, alarmed at the excitement she had caused. “If you’re nice to them, Betty, they’ll stop saying it.”
“If she’s nice to them!” exclaimed Jack, indignantly. “Betty’s always nice to everybody, Agnes Graham!”
“I can stand up for myself,” said Betty, laughing at Jack’s emphatic speech. “Go on, Agnes, and tell me what they want me to do.”
“Well, what they want is for you to let them have a sort of a garden-party here at Denniston, and charge admission, you know, and let all the club take part.”
Betty considered.
“I had thought of having a garden-party myself,” she said; “a sort of home-coming to Denniston, you know. I don’t see why we couldn’t combine the two, and so make some money for your Library Fund.”
“Oh, that would be fine!” said Agnes. “That’s what they want,—to have the affair here, you know,—but they thought you wouldn’t be willing.”
“And I won’t be willing unless you tell me who it is that says things about me.”
“No, I won’t do that, Betty; it isn’t fair.”
“Well, perhaps it isn’t. Never mind; I shall soon find it out for myself. Now let’s plan the garden-party. When shall we have it?”
“Let’s have it on Fourth of July,” suggested Jack. “Then we can combine patriotism and charity and fun and everything.”
Mrs. McGuire approved the plan, and agreed to help in any way she could.
So the very next day Betty went to a meeting of the Dorcas Club, and was made a member of it. The girls all seemed glad to welcome Betty, and were delighted at the prospect of a garden-party at Denniston on the Fourth of July. The club was a good-sized one, numbering about thirty girls in all, and they at once began to appoint committees, and so divide the work to be done.
“We’ll have everything red, white, and blue,” said May Fordham, “and flags everywhere. Oh, it will be beautiful!”
Susie Hale was president of the club, and it was only a short time before Betty discovered that it was Susie who was not entirely in sympathy with the plan proposed. Betty was amused rather than annoyed at Susie’s attitude, for of course Susie had no real reason to dislike Betty, or to consider her proud or haughty.
It was really a sort of envy or jealousy that Susie felt, and this seemed to manifest itself in sly innuendoes or mean little acts, for which there is always opportunity in a girls’ club.
At the second meeting Betty was made chairman of the general committee, and as this was practically giving her entire charge of the whole affair, it made Susie’s position as president of the club a secondary office.
However, as the Fête was to be held at Betty’s home, it was only right that she should be the principal in the management of it, and most of the girls were quite content to have it so.