THE B. C. A.’S “UNDERTAKE” MONTANA MARIE
Madeline Ayres had come up to Harding to celebrate the acceptance of
a novel by her favorite firm of publishers. Babbie Hildreth had come
too, to help Madeline celebrate, and also to talk to Mr. Thayer about
that most important topic, the date of “the” wedding. And so of course
the “B. C. A.’s” had appointed a special tea-drinking, to celebrate
the acceptance of the novel, the visits of Madeline and Babbie, the
prospect of a wedding in their midst, and the general joys involved in
the state of being “Back at the College Again,”--which is what B. C.
A. stood for. Equally of course the tea-drinking was to be held at the
Tally-ho.
But when the hour of the grand celebration arrived, a damper was put
on everything; Betty Wales had sent a hastily scribbled note, by an
accommodating freshman who was going right past the Tally-ho, to say
that she was too busy to come.
“She’s losing her sporting spirit,” declared Madeline sadly. “In days
gone by you could depend on Betty’s turning up for any old lark. She
might be late, if she happened to be pretty busy, but she always got
there in the end.”
“And I wanted to ask her about wedding dates,” wailed Babbie
plaintively. “I can’t have my wedding when Betty can’t come. She’s
almost as important as the groom.”
“Betty is awfully important to such a lot of people,” complained Mary
Brooks Hinsdale, who was looking particularly fascinating in her
new fall suit, the christening of which had added an extra spice of
interest to the grand tea-drinking. “She is altogether too capable for
her own good. If she were only as lazy, or as unreliable, or as devoid
of ideas and energy, as most of those here present, she wouldn’t find
it so hard to escape for tea-drinkings and other pleasant festivities.
Which one of her dependents has her in its clutches this afternoon, I
wonder?”
Babbie, to whom Betty’s note had been addressed, consulted it for
further details. “She says she’s got to tutor a freshman,” Babbie
explained after a minute. “I suppose she is helping along some one who
can’t afford to pay for regular lessons. Seems to me there ought to be
girls enough in college to do that sort of thing without putting it off
on Betty. Betty is too valuable to be wasted on mere tutoring.”
“Poor girls ought not to need to be tutored,” announced Madeline, in
her oracular manner. “Unless they are bright and shining lights in
their studies, they ought not to try to go through college at all.”
“But Madeline----” chorused the permanent B. C. A.’s--the ones who were
always on hand in Harding, because they were either faculty or faculty
wives. “But Babbie--you two don’t understand. Haven’t you heard about
Betty’s freshman?”
“No, we haven’t,” chorused the new arrivals. “Tell us this minute.”
Mary finally got the floor. “My children,” she began in her most
patronizing style, “our precious Betty Wales is not engaged in
assisting some needy under classman along the royal road to learning,
as you seem to suppose. She is acting as special tutor to the only
daughter of a Montana mining magnate. Named Montana Marie after the
mine, pretty as a picture, clever at horseback riding but not at
mathematics,--and the grand sensation of Harding College just at
present,” ended Mary proudly. Then the permanents told the “properly
excited” newcomers the whole story of Montana Marie O’Toole.
“She sounds extremely interesting,” said Madeline reflectively, when
they had finished.
“Almost like a ready-made heroine,” suggested Mary, winking knowingly
at the others.
Madeline nodded absently, and everybody laughed at what Mary called the
egotism of the literary instinct.
“Why, haven’t you ever caught Madeline squinting at you to see if
you’ll do for a book?” demanded Mary, elaborating her point. “She
relates everything, even friends, to her Literary Career. I wore my new
suit to-day in the frantic hope that she’d like my looks well enough
to put me into a play. I should simply adore seeing myself in a play,”
sighed Mary.
“Well, you never will,” Madeline assured her blandly. “Not while you
call me ‘my child,’ and patronize me instead of my tea-shop.”
Mary listened, wearing her beamish smile. “Egotism of the literary
instinct again--she makes a personal matter out of everything. Now, if
you’ve quite finished explaining your methods of literary work, suppose
we return to the business of the meeting, which is----”
“Which seems to be your frivolous methods of securing the attention of
the wise and great by wearing new clothes,” cut in Madeline promptly.
“A very interesting subject, too, isn’t it, my children?”
Mary faced the challenger coldly. “The real business of the meeting,”
she announced, “is the rescue of Betty Wales from the clutches of her
too-numerous jobs, charities, helpful ideas, and noble ambitions,
including that interesting but heavily conditioned freshman, Montana
Marie O’Toole.”
“But I thought Georgia had been regularly ‘elected’ to look out for
Betty,” suggested Christy Mason.
“Well, Georgia is only one,” explained Helen Chase Adams seriously,
“and being a prominent senior keeps her fairly busy, I imagine. And
then Betty doesn’t want to be rescued. It’s very hard to look out for a
person that doesn’t want you to look out for him--her,” amended Helen
hastily, with a vivid blush that instantly created another digression
among the B. C. A.’s.
“I thought you didn’t like men, Helen Chase.”
“Who is he? Who is your protégé who objects to being looked after,
Helen?”
“When you said ‘him’ you were only trying to speak good English? Well,
isn’t ‘her’ as good English as ‘him’?”
“You might as well own up to him right off and save yourself a lot of
trouble. Detective Ayres will shadow you till you confess.”
But Helen displayed a hitherto unsuspected talent for clever sparring.
“It’s just like you girls to make a lot out of a little,” she declared,
so earnestly that everybody saw she meant it. “That’s why we have such
good times,--because you make all the stupid little things in life seem
interesting.”
“Well, don’t dare to deny that you’re a stupid little thing,” Mary
told her, with an appreciative pat to emphasize that she was only
joking. “And please be duly thankful that we can make even you seem
interesting.”
“Oh, I am grateful,” Helen told her, with pretty seriousness. “But you
ought to keep within the probabilities, and you ought to have more
variety about your inventions. We’ve got romances enough on hand,
without making up one for me.”
“The business of this meeting----” began Mary again at last, pounding
hard on the table with one of the fascinating fat mustard jars which
Madeline had summarily bought in London to start the Tally-ho Tea-Shop.
“The business of this meeting----”
“Is just coming in at the door,” Rachel Morrison laughingly finished
Mary’s sentence for her.
And sure enough, Betty Wales, looking very young, very pretty, also
very care-free and happy for a person in dire need of rescue, was
shutting the door with one hand, giving Emily Davis a handful of
letters and memoranda with the other, and telling Nora about a special
dinner order for that evening as she slipped off her ulster. Then she
made a bee-line for Jack o’ Hearts’ stall and the Merry Hearts.
“Let me in--way in, please,” she begged, scrambling past Babbie, Helen,
and Mary to the most secluded seat at the back of the stall. “I came
after all, because I wanted some fun, and I won’t be dragged out to
talk to anybody about dinners they want me to plan, or Student’s Aid
things, or Morton Hall things--or even a conditioned freshman,” she
concluded with a particularly vindictive emphasis on the last phrase.
“Hear! Hear!” cried Christy Mason.
“Oh, now I think maybe she’ll run away again to come to my wedding,”
sighed Babbie, in deep relief.
“After all, she hasn’t lost her sporting spirit,” Madeline rejoiced.
“She’s the same old Betty Wales, better late than never, and quite
capable of looking out for herself, as well as for all the bothering
jobs and charities and incompetent friends and touchy millionaires and
insistent suitors and helpful ideas and noble ambitions that clutch at
her with octopus fingers and threaten to drag her down.”
“Don’t talk like a book, Madeline,” Mary criticized. “And don’t be
too cock-sure that you’re right. Just because Betty couldn’t stand it
another minute and has rushed to cover, so to speak, in our midst, I
for one refuse to be convinced that she doesn’t need help in fighting
the octopus.”
Betty brushed a rebellious curl out of her eyes with a tired little
gesture, and stared curiously at the disputants. “What in the world are
you talking about?” she demanded. “Mary dear, please explain, because
Madeline’s explanations usually just mix things up more than ever.”
Mary explained, noisily assisted by all the other B. C. A.’s, including
Madeline, who “explained” at length how forgiving she was by nature,
advised Mary to adopt the proud peacock as her sacred bird, and finally
demanded of Betty if she--Madeline--hadn’t been perfectly correct in
saying that she--Betty--was perfectly capable of getting along all
right, if only she was not hampered by one more bother,--the unasked
advice and assistance of the B. C. A.’s.
“Of course you’re right, Madeline,” Betty assured her, stirring her
tea absently and forgetting to eat any of her muffin. “I detest people
who can’t get along alone. It’s silly to try to do a lot more than you
can, and then expect somebody to come along and take it off your hands.
I hope I’m not that kind.” Betty dropped her spoon with a clatter, and,
sitting up very straight, faced the table with a tragic look in her
eyes and a desperate, determined set to her soft red lips.
“Girls,” she began, with a sudden change of tone that matched her
changed expression, “can you remember solid geometry? I can’t. I never
did know anything about Latin prose, so there’s no reason why I should
now. But not knowing the geometry worries me. I think it’s getting on
my nerves. And then,” she went on, as the little circle only stared at
her in curious silence, “Marie’s lit. notes are just a mess. Mine were
too, and anyhow I’ve lost my note-book. Is yours here, Helen? Could
I take it, and Christy’s? I’m sure I could manage if I had a decent
note-book or two.”
“Speaking of clear and lucid explanations----” began Madeline slowly.
Then she reached across the table to hug Betty comfortingly. “You
shall have all the decent note-books in 19--, if you want them, you
poor thing. And I’m truly sorry that mine isn’t one of them. As for
solid geometry, I’ll wager that not a person in this crowd could
demonstrate--is that the right word for it?--a single proposition. And
as for Latin prose, it’s a gift from the gods. You can’t learn it. Even
Professor Owen, who is a genius, can’t teach it. So stop worrying here
and now, and eat that muffin before somebody is tempted beyond what she
can bear, and a theft is committed in our midst.”
“Is all this trouble caused by Montana Marie O’Toole?” inquired Christy
practically.
Betty nodded, being too busy with the muffin to speak.
“Then,” Mary announced with decision, “what she needs is three regular
graduate tutors, who specialize in lit., math., and Latin prose, and
who will come to her rescue at any hour or hours of the day or night,
at about one-fifty per.”
Betty swallowed a mouthful hastily, to say, “They wouldn’t help her
any, Mary. They’d give up in despair after about one lesson. She’s
not stupid exactly, but she’s poorly prepared, and her mind is--well,
queer. Besides, I promised President Wallace. I agreed to ‘undertake’
her, as Mrs. O’Toole calls it, before he agreed to let her enter with
so many conditions. She’s going to be positively broken-hearted if
she fails at mid-years, and I think”--Betty hesitated--“I don’t think
President Wallace will ever have any use for me again if she does. And
I am busy with other things, and I never did know Latin prose, and--I’m
about in despair.” Betty paused abruptly and attacked the remains of
the muffin as if the eating of it would work a magic cure of all her
woes.
“Betty,” asked Rachel after a minute, “does this freshman try? Does she
want to get through enough to work for it?”
“She doesn’t know how to really work, Rachel, but she tries as hard
as she can. She is awfully sweet and awfully sorry about making extra
trouble. And of course you all understand,” Betty blushed a little,
“that I’m being paid--altogether too much, I thought when they offered
it--for looking after her.” Betty laughed suddenly. “Did you hear
about her Mountain Day exploit? I had to speak to her about that, of
course, to tell her that she mustn’t wear a magenta handkerchief,
and shout so loud on the public highway, and otherwise make herself
too conspicuous. And instead of being huffy, she thanked me and sent
me violets. Oh, she’s a dear! She’s worth a lot of trouble, only I’m
not bright enough to tutor her, and the regular ones would be sure
to get provoked or discouraged at her queer ways, and just consider
her hopeless, and let her drift along, and finally be flunked out at
mid-years.”
“She ought to be flunked out, oughtn’t she?” inquired Helen Adams
acutely. “I mean, she probably can’t ever keep her work up to the
required standard without a lot of help.”
Betty admitted sadly that she never could. “But she needs the life
here, Helen, almost more than any girl who ever came to Harding. And if
I can help her to have a year or two of it, I shall,--as long as she
keeps on trying to do her part.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” agreed Helen uncertainly.
“Is she in your freshman division, Helen?” demanded Mary Brooks,
after a whispered conference with Babbie. “I judged not. Very well
then. You are hereby elected to coach her in lit. No rule against
a faculty’s doing a little friendly tutoring, is there? My husband
hasn’t condescended to bother with any since he got to be head of his
department, but before that----” Mary finished the explanation with a
wave of her hand. “In the theme-work that goes with lit., Madeline is
hereby elected to come to the front. Madeline, I presume you forgot,
when you were talking about solid geometry, that our clever little
Christy here has given up her faculty job to take a Ph. D. in math.
She is hereby elected to assist Miss O’Toole to the comprehension of
sines and co-sines, and so forth--or do sines and co-sines belong to
trig.? And for Latin prose,” Mary’s beamish smile broke out radiantly,
“of course you don’t know it, because it happened before your day, but
Latin prose happens to be the one useful thing I ever learned. I say
useful, because after all these years, I can use my one small scholarly
accomplishment. Oh, I’ve kept it up! George Garrison Hinsdale has seen
to that. Whenever he seems to be getting a bit tired of my frivolous
appearance and conversation, I read him a little out of Horace or
Juvenal or Cicero’s letters, and he’s so proud of me that I wish I had
more scholarly accomplishments. Only,”--Mary smiled serenely,--“he says
he likes me just as I am. And so, being the Perfect Wife, I will now
turn into the Perfect Tutor, and get Marie Montana O’Toole through her
Latin prose.”
“The business of this meeting having been disposed of,” Madeline took
up the tale, “I hereby demand that we begin to celebrate in honor of me
and my forthcoming novel.”
“And to discuss wedding dates,” added Babbie, “in honor of me and my
Young-Man-Over-the-Fence.”
“Don’t you think,” suggested Rachel, “that first we’d better let Betty,
who has just said she prefers to manage her own affairs, say what she
wants to do about Mary’s elections?”
“When you are elected----” began Mary, but Helen, Rachel, and Christy,
the serious members, silenced her.
“Now, Betty,” ordered Rachel. Betty looked solemnly from Helen to
Christy, from Christy to Madeline, and finally at Mary.
“Would you really do it, girls?” she asked at last.
“Of course,” said Helen quietly.
“You can count on me, if you want me,” Christy told her.
“I can’t promise till I’ve looked over the freshman,” Madeline
qualified. “If she is anywhere near as interesting as she sounds, I’ll
‘undertake’ her theme-work with much pleasure.”
“I’m simply dying to display my one accomplishment,” Mary declared
feelingly.
Betty gave a long, happy sigh. “Then of course I want you all to help,”
she said. “I was just about in despair when I came rushing down here.
And now--you’re not regular tutors. You understand things. You know how
I feel--and how Prexy feels. I couldn’t explain to a regular tutor that
for some unknown reason Prexy cares a lot about Marie’s passing her
exams. And I couldn’t tell them why she herself needs so much to stay
on here. But you’ll see it all. Oh, dear! I’m so happy!” Betty crunched
one of Cousin Kate’s cookies, and smiled radiantly at Mary, who had
“elected” everything so beautifully.
“Well,” inquired Babbie, after a polite interval, “now can we begin to
celebrate and plan weddings?”
“Easily,” Mary Brooks assured her. “Only don’t forget, all of you,
whether you have been elected tutors yet or whether you haven’t, that
you’ve each and all got to help. The B. C. A.’s have adopted a new
object--we have undertaken Montana Marie O’Toole--and it may need our
entire combined effort to make her a credit to us and to Harding. But
we’ve got to do it. And do it we will!”
“Hear! Hear!” from Madeline.
“The B. C. A.’s to the Rescue!” cried Helen.
“Betty Wales and her freshman!” added Christy.
They drank the toasts with much enthusiasm in fresh cups of tea--poured
out without the use of a strainer, because the next “feature” on
the program was to be tea-ground fortunes all around, read by that
past-mistress of the fine art of making everything interesting, Miss
Madeline Ayres.