A WEDDING AND A VISIT TO BOHEMIA
Betty and Madeline went to their class meeting on the following
afternoon very much as a trembling freshman goes to her first midyears,
but nothing disastrous happened.
"I fancy that Jean has taken more than Eleanor and me into her
confidence," Madeline whispered. Besides, the Blunderbuss was in her
place, her placid but unyielding presence offering an effectual reminder
to the girls who had been admiring Eleanor's executive ability and
resourcefulness that it would be safer not to mention her name in
connection with the play committee.
But before that was elected the preliminary committee, which, to quote
Katherine Kittredge, had been hunting down the masterpieces of Willy
Shakespeare ever since the middle of junior year, made its report. The
members had not been able to agree unanimously on a play, so the
chairman read the majority's opinion, in favor of "As You Like It," and
then Katherine Kittredge explained the position of the minority, who
wanted to be very ambitious indeed and try "The Merchant of Venice."
There was a spirited debate between the two sets of partisans, after
which, to Katherine's infinite satisfaction, 19-- voted to give "The
Merchant of Venice" at its commencement.
Then the committee to manage the play was chosen, and Betty Wales was
the only person who was much surprised when she was unanimously elected
to the post of costume member.
"I on that committee!" she exclaimed in dismay. "Why, I don't know
anything about Shakespeare."
"You will before you get through with this business," laughed Barbara
Gordon, who had been made chairman. "The course begins to-morrow at two
in my room. No cuts allowed."
[Illustration: "I DO CARE ABOUT HAVING FRIENDS LIKE YOU," SHE SAID.]
Betty's pleasure in this unexpected honor was rather dampened by the
fact that Jean Eastman had proposed her name, making it seem almost as
if she were taking sides with Eleanor's enemies. But Madeline only
laughed at what she called Jean's neat little scheme for getting the
last word.
"Ruth Ford was all ready to nominate you," she said, "but Jean dashed in
ahead of her. She wanted to assure me that I hadn't silenced her for
long."
So Betty gave herself up to the happy feeling of having shown herself
worthy to be trusted with part of 19--'s most momentous undertaking.
"I must write Nan to-night," she said, "but I don't think I shall
mention the costume part. She would think I was just as frivolous as
ever, and Barbara says that all the committee are expected to help with
things in general."
Whereupon she remembered her tea-drinking, and hurried home to find most
of the guests already assembled, and Eleanor, who had not gone to the
class meeting but who had heard all about it from the others, waiting on
the stairs to congratulate her.
"I don't care half as much about being on the committee as I do about
having friends like you to say they're glad," declared Betty, hugging
Eleanor because there were a great many things that she didn't know how
to say to her.
"Yes, friends are what count," said Eleanor earnestly, "and Betty, I
think I'm going to leave Harding with a good many. At least I've made
some new ones this week."
And that was all the reference that was ever made to the way Eleanor's
oldest friend at Harding had treated her.
"Well," said Betty, when everybody had congratulated her and Rachel,
whose appointment on all 19--'s important committees had come to be a
foregone conclusion, "I hope Nita and Rachel and K. won't be sorry they
came. You three aren't so much mixed up in it as the rest of us, but I
thought I'd ask you anyway."
"Do you mean that I can't have my usual three slices of lemon?" demanded
Katherine indignantly.
"Hush, material-minded one," admonished Nita. "There's more than tea and
lemon in this. There's a great secret. Of course we shall be interested
in it. Fire away, Betty."
"And everybody stop watching the kettle," commanded Babbie, who had
taken it in charge, "and then perhaps it will begin to boil."
"What I wanted to tell you," began Betty, impressively, "is that Miss
Hale is going to be married this vacation."
"Good for Miss Hale!" cried Bob, throwing up a pillow. "Did her sister
get well?"
"Yes," said Betty. "She was dreadfully ill all summer, and then she had
to go away for a change. Ethel wanted to wait until she was perfectly
strong, because she had looked forward so to being maid-of-honor."
"I think we ought to send Miss Hale a present," said Babe, decisively.
"Madame President, please instruct the secretary---- Why, we haven't any
president now," ended Babe in dismay.
"Let's elect Betty," suggested Nita.
"She's too young for such a responsible position," objected Bob. "It's
only the dramatics committee that takes infants."
"And besides, her hair curls," added Madeline, reaching out to pull one
of the offending ringlets. "Curly-haired people don't deserve to be
elected to offices."
"Let's have Babe," suggested Rachel.
"She's older than her name, her hair has always been straight----"
"Except once," put in Katherine, and everybody shrieked with laughter at
the recollection of Babe's one disastrous experience with a marcelle
wave.
"And then she looked like a wild woman of Borneo," went on Rachel, "so
it shouldn't count against her. Furthermore this society was organized
to give her a chance."
"All right," agreed Nita. "I withdraw my nomination. Babe, you're
elected. Instruct the secretary to cast a unanimous ballot for
yourself."
"Very well," said Babe with much dignity. "Please do it, Madeline, and
then I appoint you and Betty and Eleanor to choose a present for Miss
Hale. I was just going to say, when I interrupted myself to remark upon
the extraordinary absence of a presiding officer"--Babe coughed and
dropped her presidential manner abruptly--"I was going to say that I'm
all for a stuffed turtle, like those we got in Nassau. I think a ripping
big one would be the very thing."
"Babe!" said Babbie scornfully. "Imagine how a turtle would look among
her wedding presents."
"I think it would look stunning," persisted Babe, "and it would be so
appropriate from us."
"Don't be dictatorial, Babe," advised Rachel. "It isn't seemly in a
president. Perhaps your committee can think of something appropriate
that won't be quite so startling as a turtle. When is the wedding,
Betty?"
"The thirty-first of December at half-past eight," explained Betty.
"New Year's eve--what a nice, poetical time," interposed Babbie,
thoughtfully. "I think that if I ever marry----"
"Hush, Babbie," commanded Nita. "You probably never will. Do let Betty
finish her story."
"Well, it's to be a very small wedding," went on Betty, hastily, "with
no cards, but announcements, but Ethel wrote me herself and she wants us
all--the Nassau ones, I mean--and Mary Brooks, to come."
"Jolly for Miss Hale!" cried Bob, tossing up two pillows this time.
"How perfectly dear of her!" said Babbie.
"The biggest turtle we can get won't be a bit too good for her,"
declared Babe.
"But where could we stay over night?" asked Helen, the practical-minded.
"You don't give me a chance to tell you the whole of anything,"
complained Betty, sadly. "We're invited guests--specially invited, I
mean, and it's all arranged where we are to stay. Ethel is going to have
her sister and four bridesmaids to walk with her, and she wants us girls
to hold a laurel rope along the line of march of the wedding-party, as
they go through the rooms."
"Jolly," began Babe, but she was promptly suppressed by Madeline, who
tumbled her flat on her back and held her down with a pillow while she
ordered Betty to proceed.
"I'll read you what else she says," went on Betty, triumphantly
producing Miss Hale's letter. "She says, 'There won't be many people to
get in the way of the procession, but the aisle effect will be pretty,
and besides I want my match-makers to have a part in the grand
dénouement of all their efforts. Will you ask the others and write Mary
Brooks, whose address I don't know. My uncle's big house next door to
us will have room for you all, and you must come in time for my
bridesmaids' luncheon and a little dance, both on the thirtieth.' Now
isn't that splendid?"
"Perfectly splendid," echoed her auditors.
"Why, we shall be almost bridesmaids," said Roberta Lewis in awestruck
tones. "Does Mary know?"
Betty nodded. "She hasn't had time to answer yet, but she can certainly
go, as she lives so near Ethel."
"The only difficulty about our going," said Babe, "is what to do with
the few days between the wedding and the opening of college."
"And that's easily settled," said Madeline promptly. "Miss Hale lives
just out of New York, doesn't she? Well, you are all to come and stay in
the flat with me. Hasn't it just been beautifully cleaned? And aren't
you all longing for a glimpse of Bohemia?"
That was the climax of the tea drinking. The Merry Match-Makers spent
the evening writing home to their parents for permission to go to the
wedding and considering momentous problems of dress. For Roberta's best
evening-gown was lavender and Babbie's was pink, and the question was
how to distribute Betty, Babe and Helen in white, Bob in blue, Eleanor
in her favorite yellow, Madeline in ecru, and Mary in any one of a
bewildering number of possible toilettes, so as to justify Ethel's hope
that the aisle would be ornamental as well as useful.
How the days flew after that! For besides the wedding there were the
luncheon and the dance to anticipate and plan for, as well as the
unknown joys of Bohemia, New York, not to mention the regular excitement
of going home, the fun of tucking Christmas presents into the corners of
half-packed trunks, and the terrors of the written lesson that some
inhuman member of the faculty always saves for the crowded last week of
the term.
On the afternoon of the twenty-ninth the Merry Match-Makers met in New
York. Babbie had sent a sad little note to Miss Hale and a tearful one
to Betty to say that her mother, who was a good deal of an invalid, had
"looked pretty blue over my running off early, and so of course I won't
leave her;" and Helen Adams had decided that considering all the extra
expenses of senior year she couldn't afford the trip to New York. So
there were only seven "almost bridesmaids," as Roberta called them, or
"posts," which was Bob's name for them, to fall upon one another as if
they had been separated for years, instead of a week, say thank you for
the presents that were each "just what I wanted," and exclaim excitedly
over Betty's new suit, Mary's fur coat, and the sole-leather kit-bag
that Santa Claus had brought Roberta.
"It's queer," said Bob. "I feel as if I'd had one whole vacation
already, and ought to be unpacking and digging on psychology 6 and
history 10. Whereas in reality I'm just beginning on another whole
vacation. It's like having two Thanksgiving dinners in one year."
"Not quite like that, I hope," laughed Eleanor, as they started off to
inspect the wedding present, a beautiful pair of tall silver
candlesticks. Madeline had ransacked New York to find them, and every
one but Babe, who clung to her turtle as far superior to any "musty old
antiques," thought them just odd and distinctive enough to please
Ethel's fastidious taste. And after that there was barely time to catch
the train they had arranged to take out to Ethel's home.
Interest in the bride and in their own part of the wedding ceremony had
caused the "Merry Hearts" to forget Dr. Eaton, and they had never once
considered that of course his college chum, John Alison, would leave the
railroad he was building in Arizona and come east to be Dr. Eaton's best
man. And it was Mr. John Alison who had "finished" Georgia Ames. He
inquired for her at once and so did his brother Tom, who was an usher,
and who explained that he had been invited to keep John in order, and to
intercede for him with the "posts."
"And in return for my services as peacemaker," he said solemnly, "I
expect to be treated with special consideration by everybody."
Subsequent events seemed to show that the special consideration referred
to meant a chance to see as much as possible of Betty Wales.
Even more surprising to three of the posts was the presence of Mr.
Richard Blake in the wedding-party--Richard Blake, editor of "The
Quiver," and one-time lecturer at Harding on the tendencies of modern
drama.
Eleanor's face was a study when she recognized him, but before Miss Hale
could begin any introductions Madeline greeted him enthusiastically and
got him into a corner, where they exchanged low-toned confidences for a
moment.
"I'm particularly glad to meet you again, Miss Watson," he said in a
tone of unmistakable sincerity, when he was presented. "We had a jolly
dinner together once, didn't we?"
"Dick's such an old dear," Madeline whispered to Betty half an hour
later. "He confided to me just now that the first evening he saw Eleanor
he thought her the most fascinating girl he had ever met, and then he
hastened to assure me that that had absolutely nothing to do with his
deciding to keep dark about her story. I don't doubt him for a
moment--Dick perfectly detests cheating. But he can't make me believe
that he's being nice to her now just on my account."
There were plenty of other men at the wedding. "We're the only girls in
the whole family," Charlotte, Ethel's younger sister explained, "and we
have thirty own cousins, most of them grown-up."
"Was that one of the thirty that you were sitting on the stairs with at
the dance?" inquired Mary Brooks sweetly.
Charlotte blushed and Bob flew to her rescue. "We all know why Mary
isn't monopolizing any one," she said. "Are you taking notes for future
use, Mary?"
Mary shrugged her shoulders loftily. "I scorn to answer such nonsense,"
she retorted. "I'm going to be an old maid and make matches for all my
friends."
"We'll come and be posts for you any time after commencement," Babe
assured her amiably. "Did you know, girls, that Mary can't stay over
with Madeline because her mother is giving a New Year's dinner-party.
Who do you suppose will be there?"
The wedding festivities were over at last. "It was all perfectly
scrumptious," Babe wrote Babbie enthusiastically, "and I'm bringing you
a little white satin slipper like those we had filled with puffed rice
for luncheon favors, and a lovely pin that Miss Hale wants you to have
just as if you had come. The nicest thing of all is that vacation isn't
over yet. Is it two weeks or two years since I saw you?"
And next came Bohemia. Before they had quite reached Washington Square
Madeline tumbled her guests hastily off their car.
"I forgot to tell Mrs. McLean when to expect us," she explained. "She is
our cook. So we'll hunt her up now and we might as well buy the luncheon
as we go along."
So first they found Mrs. McLean, a placid old Scotch woman who was not
at all surprised when Madeline announced that she was giving a
house-party for five and had forgotten to mention it sooner. She had a
delicious Scotch burr and an irresistible way of standing in the
dining-room door and saying, "Come awa', my dears," when she had served
a meal. Like everything else connected with the Ayres establishment, she
was always there when you wanted her; between times she disappeared
mysteriously, leaving the kitchen quite clear for Madeline and her
guests, and always turning up in time to wash the fudge-pan or the
chafing-dishes.
From Mrs. McLean's they went down a dirty, narrow street, stopping at a
number of funny, foreign-looking fruit and grocery shops, where they
bought whatever anybody wanted.
"Though it doesn't matter what you have to eat," said Roberta later,
pouring cream into her coffee from an adorable little Spanish jug, "as
long as you have it on this lovely old china."
They had their coffee in the studio, sitting around the open fire, and
while they were drinking it people began to drop in--Mr. Blake, who
roomed just across the Square, a pretty, pale girl, who was evidently an
artist because every one congratulated her on having some things "on the
line" somewhere, three newspaper men from the flat above, who being on a
morning daily had just gotten up and stopped in to say "Happy New Year"
on their way down to Park Row, and a jolly little woman whom the others
called Mrs. Bob.
"She's promised to chaperon us," Madeline explained to her guests. "She
lives down-stairs, so we can't go in or out without falling into her
terrible clutches."
Mrs. Bob, who was in a corner playing with the little black kitten that
seemed to belong with the house, like Mrs. McLean, stopped long enough
to ask if they had heard about the theatre party. They had not, so Mr.
Blake explained that by a sudden change of bill at one of the theatres
Mr. Sothern and Miss Marlowe were to give "The Merchant of Venice" that
evening.
"And I understand from Miss Watson that you people are particularly
interested in that play," he added, "so I've corraled some tickets and
Mrs. Bob and a bunch of men."
"And the Carletons will have an early dinner," put in Mrs. Bob. "Oh, I
forgot. You don't know about that either. Mrs. Carleton won't be back
from the country until four o'clock, so she asked me to give you the
invitation to have New Year's dinner with them."
"But did she know there were six of us?" asked Betty anxiously,
whereupon everybody laughed and Mrs. Bob assured her that Mrs. Carleton
had mentioned seven to her, and hadn't seemed in the least worried.
That was the way things went all through their visit. Mrs. Bob took
them shopping, with frequent intermissions for cakes and tea at queer
little tea-rooms, with alluring names like "The London Muffin Room," or
the "Yellow Tea-Pot." Her husband escorted them to the east-side
brass-shops, assuring them solemnly that it wasn't everybody he showed
his best finds to, and mourning when their rapturous enthusiasm
prevented his getting them a real bargain. The newspaper men gave a
"breakfast-luncheon" for them--breakfast for themselves, and luncheon
for their guests--which was so successful that it was continued that
same evening by a visit to a Russian puppet-show and supper in a Chinese
restaurant. The pretty artist sold one of her pictures and invited them
to help her celebrate, just as if they were old friends, who knew how
hard she had struggled and how often she hadn't had money enough to buy
herself bread and butter, to say nothing of offering jam--in the shape
of oysters on the half-shell and lobster Newburg--to other people.
It was all so gay and light-hearted and unexpected--the way things
happened in Bohemia. Nobody hurried or worried, though everybody worked
hard. It was just as Madeline had told them, only more so. The girls
said a sorrowful good-bye to Mrs. Bob, Mrs. McLean and the little black
kitten and journeyed back to Harding sure that there never had been and
never would be another such vacation for them.
"How can there be?" said Bob dejectedly. "At Easter we shall all have to
get clothes, and after that we shan't know a vacation from mid-year
week."
"Which delightful function begins in exactly fourteen days," said
Katherine Kittredge. "Is there anybody here present whose notes on Hegel
have the appearance of making sense?"
19-- took its senior midyears gaily and quite as a matter of course,
lectured its underclass friends on the evils of cramming, and kept up
its spirits by going coasting with Billy Henderson, Professor
Henderson's ten-year-old son, who had admired college girls ever since
he found that Bob Parker could beat him at steering a double-runner.
Between times they bought up the town's supply of "The Merchant of
Venice,"--"not to learn any part, you know, but because we're
interested in our play," each purchaser explained to her friends.
For there is no use in proclaiming your aspirations to be a Portia or a
Shylock until you are sure that your dramatic talent is going to be
appreciated. Of course there were exceptions to this rule, but the girl
who said at a campus dinner-table, "If I am Portia, who is there tall
enough for Bassanio?" became a college proverb in favor of keeping your
hopes to yourself, and everybody was secretly delighted when she decided
that she "really didn't care" to be in the mob.