PUTTING IT THROUGH
THE last two weeks had been so full of other things that lessons and
their preparation had taken a somewhat secondary place in the thoughts
of Form Five, and, in consequence, they had merited and received many
rebukes.
Sally May had spent two hours of a precious Saturday afternoon learning
poetry, for she had failed miserably in the last literature test;
Josephine had been her companion in disgrace, and had even had to spend
a precious Friday evening "in durance vile" because of returned lessons.
Judith's pride had been badly hurt by Miss Hilton's comment written in
her geometry exercise book, "Very poor work, indeed, untidy and
careless," and, worse still, when the lists were posted for the mid-term
Latin examination, Judith's name had been halfway down with fifty-six
marks to her credit. At Miss Graham's she had always headed the list.
Just for a moment she almost thought that there must be some mistake,
and then she realized that Five A standards were high and first-class
standing meant first-class work.
Literature and history were Judith's strong subjects, and on the morning
when she saw her Latin marks she made a mighty resolve to head the list
in at least one of these. It wouldn't be easy. Joyce Hewson and Phyllis
Lovell had been steadily piling up marks all term, and the whole form
was watching their tussle for first place. Christmas reports and class
standing for the half-year were made on class work and on the
examinations at the end of the term.
"I've just _got_ to have one 'first' on my report," said Judith to
herself as she put away her books after morning school. "I've just _got_
to--Daddy'll be awfully disappointed if I don't." And then, taking her
place in the line that was filing into Big Hall, she whispered to Nancy,
"What're we going to have this morning?"
"I'm not sure," said Nancy, "but I think Ruth Laughton's going to speak.
I saw her going into Miss Meredith's study this morning."
The last period of Friday morning school belonged to Miss Meredith.
"It's like a grab-bag," Nancy had inelegantly told Judith; "you never
know what you are going to get--sometimes it is a lecture, sometimes
Miss Meredith reads us a story, sometimes we have carol singing--I do
like that--and during the War we had talks from people who had been
there. Once we had a Polish Countess who spoke the funniest English, but
she was awfully brave, and once a man from Serbia. He was in the Red
Cross and he told us a terrible story about the state of the Serbian
children. We held form meetings the Monday following and voted to give
up candy for a whole term, all of us, and we sent the money to him for
the relief work. I think it's the nicest time of the week."
Judith too was coming to look forward to that last hour of the school
week, very often to schoolgirls a wasted hour at the fag end of things.
This Friday an Old Girl was to speak to them. Miss Meredith held that a
school like York Hill, in order to justify the time and effort, the
money and brains, the service and consecration put into it, should send
out girls who would be leaders and workers in everything which would
make for the betterment of the community in which they lived, and
unconsciously the Nancys and Judiths of the School, through these Friday
morning glimpses of the great world of service, would be steadily and
surely prepared for the part which they were to play. Social service, as
such, was not talked about; most girls dislike what they call
"preachments," but when Form Four decided to make baby clothes as a
Christmas shower for the crêche where an Old Girl worked, and when Form
Five promised a woolen sweater from every girl for the Fourteen Club at
the University Settlement, social service became a real and vital fact
in their lives. For, as Judith learned, knitted sweaters mean work, and
wool costs money, which had to be deducted from an already painfully
shrunken allowance, and baby clothes, although fascinating and cute,
represent many hours of careful stitching.
Meanwhile the seeds planted on Friday mornings grew and flourished until
"Noblesse oblige" became a natural and an actual attitude towards life.
Social service of some sort or other, after one left school, was an
established fact like unlimited tea-parties and dancing partners. And
Miss Meredith and many of her staff made it the business of their lives
to see that it should be social service of the right kind.
About once a term the Old Girls' Association provided a speaker. Miss
Meredith had entertained many distinguished guests who had spoken in Big
Hall, but none were made more welcome than the Old Girls, for the Head
Mistress knew the appeal which they alone could, and did make. To-day
the speaker was to be Ruth Laughton, a nursing sister decorated for
gallantry by the King. Catherine had been a Junior when Ruth was Captain
of South House, and she had pointed out to Judith Ruth's name on the
tablet in Big Hall where the names of House and School captains were
printed in letters of gold.
Judith considered, as Form Five marched into the Hall, what it would be
like to carry out wounded soldiers under fire. Nursing Sister Laughton
must be big and strong and brave, perhaps she was always brave and did
not really mind the explosions. What was courage, anyway? And then,
before she could decide this puzzling question, Miss Meredith was coming
down the centre aisle with her distinguished guest. The School gave a
thunderous welcome and settled back after Miss Meredith's brief
introduction to hear a thrilling story.
Form Five confessed among themselves afterwards to a distinct feeling of
disappointment when the speaker came forward. She was small, "not a bit
pretty," the girls decided, and her voice seemed tired and lacking in
vitality. The decoration on her breast appeared to be the only
significant thing about her. Evidently Ruth was nervous.
"If she is not afraid of bombs, she is afraid of us," thought Judith,
for the Sister's face grew white, her lips dry, and her assertion that
she was glad to be back at dear old York Hill seemed to be all that she
could remember of her speech. Three hundred pairs of hands had clapped
her a warm welcome, but now she confronted three hundred pairs of
critical eyes. She faltered, began again, and finally looked
appealingly, a schoolgirl once more, at her Head Mistress.
"Never mind about your own experiences just now, Ruth," said Miss
Meredith's calm, reassuring voice, "we'd like to hear a little more
about the children's hostels in the north of France. We are all
interested because we are sending clothes to Jean Warner to
distribute."
And then a miracle happened, the whole School saw it. Ruth was
transformed before them, her eyes brightened, her shoulders
straightened, her voice had an inspiring ring in it as she told the
story of the heroism of other Old Girls.
She had an interesting story to tell and she told it well: even the
First-Form wrigglers sat with their eyes glued on her face as she told
of the brave fight which was being made for the life and health of the
children of Europe. "There is one thing especially I should like to tell
you," she finished, looking down into the sea of upturned faces,
"wherever I found a York girl--and you know my duties have taken me into
all sorts of queer places these last four years--whether she was a
V.A.D. ambulance driver, a nurse in hospital, a Y.W.C.A. secretary, or a
Child's Welfare worker, always the record was the same, that when a York
Hill girl undertook something, she _put it through_--especially if it
were a hard job! That's what the General said when he pinned on Gwen's
Mons Star--'Another of the ladies from Canada! They have taught you out
there to put things through with a will!' York Hill Old Girls look to
York Hill present girls to maintain the record of the School."
And if the applause meant anything, it surely stood for a determination
on the part of her listeners to maintain the York Hill tradition.
Without considering the matter overmuch, Judith was convinced that the
thing she was "to put through" during these last few weeks of term was
hard study, and she bent to her tasks with a will.
"But the best laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft agley."
The School seemed suddenly to become very busy, though about what Judith
did not know. Much whispering was heard in the "Jolly Susan"; Nancy and
Josephine looked very mysterious, girls from all parts of the School
seemed to be in the same secret, and Judith heard tantalizing phrases,
"scenery committee"--"scene shifters"--"costume committee"--"the Play."
Very soon she herself was in a big secret, for a meeting of all New
Girls was called by the School Captain, and Eleanor explained that the
New Girls would be entertained at a play in the last week of November;
that the custom was that the New Girls should return the compliment by
an entertainment given during the last week of term; that since the New
Girls were decidedly in the minority, two of the prefects and she
herself would help in any way they could; and that, in a word, she was
now ready to receive nominations for the various committees.
An exciting hour followed. To her dismay Judith found herself on the
Costume Committee and she hated sewing. Sally May gave her little
comfort--"just be glad you don't have to paint scenery; that's a dirty
and hard job if you like," said Sally May. "Miss Ashwell makes us work
like demons. If she didn't work like a demon herself, we just wouldn't
do it," was her sage comment. Committee meetings multiplied. The play
chosen was to be kept a secret from its audience and a delicious air of
mystery pervaded the whole School.
After much discussion and help from Eleanor and Miss Marlowe, the New
Girls chose the "Christmas Carol." Many other things were suggested, but
Scrooge and Tiny Tim had apparently a warm place in their affections,
and the appropriateness of the Christmas story for the end of term was
irresistible.
The choosing of the cast was a difficult and a tedious job, and Miss
Marlowe and Eleanor spent much time trying out various candidates, but
at last the list was complete, and, a little to her relief, and, it must
be confessed, a little to her regret, Judith was not included. She had
never acted, and she had a firm conviction that she could not, so that
the regret was merely that she didn't like to think that other people
had the same conviction.
Her membership on the Costume Committee was no sinecure. Coveted
Saturday afternoon and evening leisure had to be given up to the
stitching of long seams. Mathilde LeBrun, who was another Josephine in
that her brain seemed to be in her fingers, was convener of the
committee, and under her direction Judith sewed and cut out, and, it
must be confessed, ripped. Tiny Tim's coat and trousers were her task,
and although the smallest of the new girls, Edith Holland by name, had
been chosen for this rôle, Judith found the utmost difficulty in making
her look like a Tiny Tim. Twice did she make and un-make that wretched
little suit, but she was nothing if not conscientious, and at last it
was finished.
"Twelfth Night," which was the Old Girls' play, was a huge success.
Nancy and Josephine had been so excited all week that Judith had found
it about impossible to keep her own attention on her lessons. Catherine
must be a chief character in the play, decided Judith, for Catherine's
room was the centre of numberless committee meetings and endless
discussions, and Genevieve Singleton--who, to Judith's envy had
established herself as Catherine's chief messenger--ran hither and
thither, bursting with importance. Nevertheless the secret was kept, and
as Judith sat with Sally May and Frances Purdy and all the other new
girls on Friday night and listened to the noise behind the green
curtain, she felt that she could bear the suspense no longer.
And then, when the curtain rose, the Master Magician waved his wand and
Judith, who had seen very few plays, was transported to a land of
beauty, romance, and sweet adventure. Helen made a noble Duke, and
Catherine an enchanting Viola. Judith had never quite recaptured the
thrill of delight she had felt when on the opening night of term she had
first seen Catherine, but now to the charm and witchery of first
impressions of beauty was added the knowledge of Catherine's sweetness
and gentleness. Nancy might be a witty Maria, and Josephine a rollicking
Sir Toby; Judith had eyes and ears for Viola only, and as the play
progressed she envied passionately the Duke who seemed criminally stupid
in his misunderstanding of Viola's love. The surprise of the play was
Genevieve Singleton's Malvolio. Even Judith was moved out of her trance
of adoration to laughter and admiration.
"That was real acting," said Sally May with the air of a theatre habitué
as Malvolio pranced off the stage in the immortal scene of the yellow
stockings and cross-garters.
After the last bravos had died away and the actors had bowed their
thanks before the footlights, both audience and players were refreshed
with lemonade and cakes, and Judith transferred her envy to the
fortunate ones who stood talking over the evening's triumph with
Catherine and Genevieve and the rest of the cast. She envied Genevieve
who had had such a success, and she wished, but did not dare, to join
the group. "Perhaps," thought silly Judith, "if I run upstairs now and
get her room ready for her, Catherine may kiss me good-night." Judith
was on the verge of what is technically known as a "crush."
Meanwhile preparations went forward in earnest for the "Christmas
Carol," and "All costumes must be finished for Monday. Full rehearsal at
eight o'clock in the Big Hall." So ran the Order-in-Council.
"I'm certainly glad Tiny Tim's costume is done," thought Judith as she
ran downstairs for the rehearsal; "four more days till the literature
exam. I'm going to work like everything."
"Come on, Judy," Sally May hailed her as she found her place behind the
curtain where she was to help shift scenery; "you're late, but who ever
heard of a rehearsal starting on time?"
"Seems to be some sort of a row on," said Judith as a distinct groan
reached their ears. "What's up?" she asked as they joined the group on
the stage.
"Marjorie Jones has measles," answered Eleanor, their stage manager:
"come here, all of you, and think _hard_. Who can take Scrooge at such
short notice? Is there any new girl with a good memory? It's the longest
part by far."
Various names were proposed and rejected for one reason or another, and
then Eleanor's eye fell on Judith, who saw her consider for a moment,
speak in a low tone to the two other prefects; then very reluctantly she
answered the summons, "Judith, come here and read this page for me, will
you, please? Perhaps you'll do."
Judith read the page and a tiny feeling of resentment began to make
itself felt. She hadn't been asked to do anything nice, or anything she
wanted, and now they weren't even asking her if she would be willing to
take Marjorie's place.
"I guess you'll do," was Eleanor's uncomplimentary comment when Judith
had finished.
"There's really no one else," she said, turning to Patricia, "and I
think Judy can be word-perfect by Friday. I'll coach her every spare
minute myself. Come along, Judy," she added, "and read over the part
before we begin."
Somewhat breathless from this prompt decision, Judith obediently took
the manuscript and seated herself at one corner of the stage. Suddenly
as she read, the full meaning of this new turn of events flashed into
her brain. The final term examination in literature was listed for
Friday morning, and Judith had planned to spend all her spare time
between now and then in the thorough revision of her work, for there was
still much to be done, and this examination would really decide whether
she or Joyce or Phyllis would head the list.
For a long ten minutes Judith read her part and at the same time debated
within herself, while Eleanor settled some difference of opinion about
exits and entrances. Self number one tried to hoodwink self number
two--"Top Self" and "Deep-Down Self," Judith as a little girl had
christened these two voices within her. "Daddy would like you to come
out first; you oughtn't to disappoint him. Lessons must be done. Just go
and tell Eleanor you can't do it and then your time will be your own."
"No," said Deep-Down Self, "be fair, Judy. You know you can't act well,
you won't be a success like Genevieve. You don't want Catherine and the
others to see you fail, and honestly, do you want to come out first for
Daddy's sake or for your own? I really believe you don't think enough
fuss has been made over you. You'd _rather_ work at your literature and
come first, perhaps, but you can memorize quickly and they need you.
Which _ought_ you to do?--never mind whether it's hard or not."
Judith had always been honest with herself and she knew quite well what
the real issue was.
The struggle was hard, the hardest, perhaps, which Judith had ever
fought. Mechanically she turned the pages while the argument continued
within her. She seemed to have no way of deciding, when suddenly she
remembered Nursing Sister Ruth's words, "York Hill girls have the
reputation overseas of being willing to tackle any job--no matter how
hard--and of _putting it through_." Top Self hadn't a chance after that.
Filling in here seemed her most immediate duty and Judith settled down
grimly to her task.
The rehearsal was long and tiring, and twenty times during the first
hour Judith was tempted to give up. But she did her best, and although
Eleanor was distracted by all the numberless things demanding attention,
she found time to stop and say at the end of the first act, "Good work,
Judy! I knew I could depend on you. You'll make a first-rate Scrooge,
and you are a brick to get to work without any fuss." And although
Judith did not believe the remark about her acting, her face flushed
with pleasure and she determined that she would not spend another moment
in questioning. This job must be put through.
And it was. She woke early in the morning and learned her part by the
light of Nancy's flashlight. She cut her recreation time and scamped her
lesson preparation. She thought and lived Scrooge, and as she had a good
memory she was word-perfect before Eleanor had thought it possible.
Eleanor and Patricia coached her whenever they could, and Miss Marlowe
gave her Wednesday evening and Thursday afternoon.
* * * * *
Friday morning, and with it the literature examination! Judith read the
paper with a sinking heart. She would not fail, but, as she had guessed,
the extra reading which she had planned to do during these last few days
would have given her paper "The little more, and how much it is" which
would have lifted it to the first rank. Came Friday afternoon with its
last rehearsal and then the fateful night.
Judith will never forget the thrill of terror that ran through her as
the curtain rose and she saw the rows of faces staring at her out of
the semi-darkness. For an instant she was paralyzed with terror, and it
was only the audience's delight at finding Frances arrayed as Scrooge's
irrepressible nephew that covered the gap between "Merry Christmas,
Uncle," and "Bah! Humbug!"
The first short scene was wooden enough in all conscience, but Judith
remembered her words, and as the story progressed she got a better grip
on herself surprising and delighting Eleanor and those who were in the
secret by her spirited acting.
But at the end of Act Three, Nancy, who had slipped behind the scenes to
congratulate her chum, and to tell her that her wig was the least bit
askew, was surprised and alarmed to find Judith almost in tears.
"I can't do the last act, Nancy, I simply can't. My face feels all stiff
and solemn. I can't laugh and joke, I can't, no matter how I try"--and
two tears actually rolled down her cheeks. She was tired out, and the
very imagination which had made it possible for her to be for the moment
the gloomy old miser, now made it seem impossible for her to change him
in a few minutes into a jolly, generous, incarnation of old Father
Christmas.
Nancy was horrified and distracted. She did her best, but with seemingly
no avail, and then she had one of those inspirations, which seem almost
heaven-sent. Hurrying back and learning that there were still four or
five minutes before the curtain would rise, she sought Catherine, who
luckily had left her seat during the interlude.
"Captain," she said, saluting, "there is one of the crew who needs your
help; can you come at once?"
And then, as they neared the stage--
"It's Judy, Cathy," she whispered; "do buck her up. She has been such a
brick, but she is so tired that she feels that she can't do the last
act."
Catherine waited for no more explanations, but went swiftly behind the
curtain, where she found Judith trying to look cheerful, but making a
dismal failure of it. "Careful," said Cathy to herself. "I mustn't be
sympathetic or she will break down."
Judith looked up, and instead of the dreaded warning that the curtain
was going up, here was Catherine saluting her merrily.
"Good work, Judy! The 'Jolly Susan' needs a first mate; can I induce you
to accept the job?" And she put a steadying arm round the new mate's
shoulders. "You've been splendid; we're all proud of you, and especially
we of the 'Jolly Susan.'"
No more question of can or can't. Judith felt that she could do anything
for her captain and here was a chance. She threw herself into the
unforgettable scene of Scrooge's awakening, and the whole school was
infected with the joyousness of her declaration: "I am as light as a
feather. I am as happy as an angel. I am as merry as a schoolboy. A
Merry Christmas to everybody, a Happy New Year to all the world. Hullo,
here, whoop! Hullo."
And every one was quite ready to agree with Scrooge's declaration at the
end of the scene, "Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful
unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!"
The New Girls were cheered to the echo by the School, and the party
which was voted a great success ended with cake and lemonade and a
delightful Sir Roger de Coverly in which every one took part.
Judith, dancing with Bob Cratchit, felt supremely happy, and her cup was
filled to overflowing by Miss Meredith's words as she said good-night.
"Congratulations on your success, Judith, you gave us a fine
presentation of Scrooge, and Eleanor tells me you had very little time
for preparation."
And then the delightful whispered conferences upstairs after "Lights
Out" bell had rung--Catherine turned a deaf ear, for discipline must
occasionally be relaxed.
"Did you see Mr. Fezziwig's coat, Judy?"
"Wasn't Mrs. Cratchit too funny for words?"
"Wasn't the ghost splendid?"
"I shivered all over when he was speaking," Nancy declared; and so on
and so on, until Judith fell asleep and dreamed that she was dancing the
Sir Roger with Miss Meredith arrayed as Mrs. Cratchit, and that, so
arrayed, Miss Meredith had proceeded to the platform and had read out
the term's marks beginning with Five A. First, Judith Benson; second,
Joyce Hewson; third, Nancy Nairn.
It was a good thing that Judith had the fun of her dream because in the
lists read out after prayers next morning our heroine stood fourth, in
Five A, but that didn't spoil her morning, such a happy morning. Desks
were tidied, Christmas presents tied up, suitcases packed, and at
twelve o'clock a short Christmas service was held in Big Hall.
The carols which they had been learning the last few weeks at morning
prayers were sung now with a right good will to the accompaniment of the
School orchestra. And then Miss Meredith, having read the beautiful
Christmas story, explained the meaning of its message so clearly, so
simply, and yet so earnestly, and with such a passionate longing that
from York Hill there should indeed radiate "Peace and good will towards
all men," that not the stupidest nor the most frivolous girl but was
touched to a sense of higher ideals and nobler living.
Every girl in the School knew that the Head Mistress was humbly striving
to embody in her own life the high ideals she held before her pupils,
and because of this they listened. Doubtless some of the seed fell by
the wayside, some into hard and stony ground, some was choked by the
deceit and riches of this world, but other seed fell into good ground
and brought forth abundantly, "some thirty, some sixty, and some an
hundred-fold."