"THE MERRY HEARTS" FIND WORK TO DO
Betty Wales found out about her, of course. As Betty said mournfully to
Mary Brooks, it was rather a shame when she never, never cried herself,
and hated dreadfully to see any one else cry, that she should be the
one who was forever running into something of the sort. There had been
Helen Adams, Emily Davis and Eleanor, and now there was Dora Carlson,
the very last person that you would suspect of wearing her heart on her
sleeve.
She was working in the college library one afternoon, reading up for
a Lit. paper, so she whispered in answer to Betty's friendly inquiry.
Betty explained that she had come to do the very same thing, and sat
down across the table from Dora in the English Literature alcove.
She noticed at once that Dora looked very sober for such a cheerful
little person, but she attributed this to the Lit. paper, which, in
Betty's eyes, was a very "sobering" circumstance. A little later she
glanced up from her book and smiled across at Dora just in time to
catch her wiping away a big tear. Betty bent low over her book again,
blushing for Dora and for herself, the unwilling witness of Dora's
weakness. What could be the matter, she wondered. Dora had been so
happy during her freshman year, although she had had none of the things
that the average freshman considers essential to happiness--neither
a pretty room nor a pleasant boarding-place, nor congenial friends,
nor popularity, nor prominence of any sort. She had had nothing but
Eleanor Watson, and that had been enough for her. Now she had even more
of Eleanor than before, for the gentler, sweeter side that Eleanor
was developing helped her to give more of herself to her friends;
and besides that she was up near the campus, in the pretty room that
Eleanor had helped pay for. There were pleasant girls at the new
boarding-place, most of them freshmen probably, but that didn't matter,
so long as they were the right sort. Suppose they weren't the right
sort?
"That's probably it," Betty decided swiftly. "They haven't been nice
to her, and she's feeling bad about it. But it isn't like her to give
up and cry. Oh, how I wish she'd stop!"
But Dora did not stop. Presently the big tears were falling too fast
for any furtive wiping away to conceal them. The English Literature
alcove was a comparatively secluded spot, but at any moment some one
might invade its privacy. Betty endured as long as she could. Then she
leaned across the table.
"Could--couldn't you stop long enough so that you can go out?" she
whispered. "It isn't far to the door, and then we could go to walk
or--or--something nice, and perhaps you'd feel better."
Dora thanked her with a bright little smile that shone out,
rainbow-like, from behind the falling tears. And presently she had
"stopped long enough" to go out. Betty returned Dora's book and her own
to the librarian, and escaped the importunate demands of Nita Reese,
who wanted to know how much she had read and why she was stopping
before her time was up.
"For you'll not get a chance at that book again. It's engaged for
every single hour," she said.
"You take it now, please, Nita dear, and let me have it your hour--and
let me go now. I can't wait to explain." And Betty hurried into the
hall.
There Dora was waiting for her, composed and very apologetic.
"I'm extremely sorry that I cried," she began in her funny little
matter-of-fact way. "I could see that it made you very nervous. It
does me too, and I never thought I should be guilty of such childish
behavior. But you see, I--I----" Her voice broke, and her lip quivered
dangerously.
"Oh, don't mind that now. Please--please try to think of something
else," begged Betty, in desperate fear of a second shower. "I'll tell
you what we'll do," she added hastily. "We'll go down to Cuyler's and
have an ice, or a hot chocolate, if you'd rather."
"I just love ice cream," said Dora eagerly. "We have it every Sunday
for dinner, just as they do on the campus, and I always look forward to
Sunday dinners, I assure you."
"Do you like your boarding-place?" asked Betty tentatively, hoping to
divert Dora's mind from her trouble and at the same time get a clue to
its cause.
"Yes, indeed!" answered Dora eagerly. "Mrs. Tait and the girls are
lovely, and my room is just like a little nest up among the elm
branches. We don't have many elms near my home, and so I appreciate
them more here, I suppose." She smiled gaily up at Betty, then suddenly
her face clouded and she lapsed into sombre silence.
While they ate their ices at the cozy little table for two in Cuyler's
tea-room, Dora kept showing the same quick change of mood. One minute
she was smilingly responsive to Betty's questions; the next she had
withdrawn again into her shell, giving no hint of what had frightened
her back.
When they had finished, Betty lingered, smoothing her gloves with
exaggerated care and wondering if it was safe now to venture on a
direct question. The short afternoon had flown away. A maid was turning
on the lights, and through the window Betty could see that it was
almost dark outside.
"It will be better to ask out there," she decided. "Then if she should
cry----"
But Dora did not cry. She answered Betty's questions in her most
matter-of-fact fashion. It was not the girls; they had been more than
kind. It was nothing at Harding; it was the way things had turned out
at home. Her father had hurt his hand in a harvesting machine. There
had been heavy doctor's bills, and while he was still helpless a barn,
stored with the fall crops of hay and potatoes, had burned to the
ground. So he could not afford to keep Dora at Harding any longer. A
letter had come that morning. Perhaps next year she could come back,
but at present there was nothing to hope for.
"And I don't think I shall ever come back," said Dora sadly. "I can
have a place now in the school of our district, and I guess that is
what I was meant for. I guess I aimed too high."
"Oh, no, you didn't," Betty assured her. She had been thinking fast.
She knew from Rachel some of the ways of economizing at Harding. Dora's
tuition was paid for half the year, and there must be some way of
providing for the board.
"Would you mind earning some money?" she asked, "by tutoring
or--or--waiting on table?"
"I would do anything, even to scrubbing floors, if I could stay," said
Dora solemnly. "But you see"--she hesitated--"there is Eleanor----"
"Well?" Betty waited.
"She is paying part of my board, so that I can be up nearer the campus.
If I should move to a cheaper place or go to work, she would have to
know."
"Well, why shouldn't she know? You ought to have told her straight off.
I know she will keep on giving you the money, and it will help along a
lot."
"Oh, no," said Dora quickly. "I couldn't take it. It would be just like
breaking a will. The money was given to me for a special purpose, and I
can't use it for anything else."
"You absurd child!" laughed Betty. "But perhaps you won't have to
move out of Eleanor's room. The off-campus houses are all wanting
waitresses. Wouldn't Mrs. Tait let you earn something in that way?"
"Yes," said Dora, "I think she would. She needs a waitress right now,
and there is a little room up on the attic floor that would be a lot
cheaper than mine. But I couldn't pay even for that--and I should have
to tell Eleanor."
"Of course you'll tell her," said Betty gaily. "It would hurt her
feelings dreadfully if she knew that you had told me and not her, when
she's so particularly fond of you. Tell her why you can't take the
money any longer, and I'm sure she'll understand how you feel." They
had reached the campus gate, and Betty caught Dora's arm and pulled her
in. "Come and tell her now. There's plenty of time before dinner, and
you'll feel better to have it over. While you are there, I'll go and
see Rachel about your getting tutoring to do. May I?"
Dora consented gratefully and they parted at the Hilton House steps.
The minute she had finished dinner, Betty hurried over to Eleanor's
room. Dora had told her story and Eleanor took exactly the view of it
that Betty had foreseen, and had almost prevailed upon Dora to keep her
weekly contribution toward the price of the attic room.
"I told her that I couldn't possibly move back into my extra-priced
room now," Eleanor said, "and that if she didn't take the money, I
should certainly burn it up, and be very much hurt besides. I think
she'll take it, and it seems that Mrs. Tait, guessing how things were,
has hinted at her acting as waitress. It is so hard to get regular
maids that the boarding-houses are all clamoring for college girls to
help them out. So we may consider that as settled too."
"But there won't be nearly enough even then," said Betty, consulting
the account that Rachel had made out for her. "Rachel knows just how
much is paid for that sort of work, and about how much tutoring Dora
can safely depend upon, and--oh, there's your money that she didn't
count."
Eleanor named the sum.
"But even with that added, there's not enough. Rachel said she ought to
have at least a hundred more, that was absolutely safe and sure. It's
dreadful how much it costs just to live!" said Betty sadly.
"Well, how about the Harding Aid Society?" asked Eleanor. "Won't they
help?"
Betty shook her head. "I told Mary Brooks that a sophomore I knew
needed help, and she said they had already had calls for more money
than they can possibly raise this year. If only that old barn had
burned sooner!"
There was a pause, then Eleanor spoke hesitatingly. "Didn't you tell
me--it's not my affair--but didn't you say that your new society--'The
Merry Hearts'--was going to give an entertainment for the Harding Aid.
Why not do it for Dora instead?"
Betty gave a little cry of delight. "What a fine idea! I was a stupid
not to think of it myself. I'll go straight back and tell Mary.
Eleanor, you're a brick!"
With her hand on the door she remembered something and turned back.
"You'll help, of course, Eleanor. We shan't forget that it was your
idea, and we'll carry it out just as you want us to."
But Eleanor shook her head. "No," she said, "it was 'The Merry Hearts'
idea. I only amended it a little, and I could never carry it out.
Please tell them that I donate the amendment to them gladly, if they
like it. Run along, Betty dear."
And Betty, after a moment's hesitation, ran along. Mary approved
of course, and at a brief business meeting of "The Merry Hearts,"
held just before ten, it was formally decided to carry out Eleanor's
suggestion.
"And we must do it soon," said Babe. "She ought to go right home if
she's got to go at all, so she can begin teaching in that school. If
she waits, she might lose the chance. Fancy teaching a district school
all your life!"
"Turn your fancy to something more useful," advised Bob. "What kind of
a show shall we have?"
"Something Japanese," answered Roberta promptly. She was the only one
of the clan who read the newspapers. "Every one is interested in Japan
now, and it will be new here, too."
"The Merry Hearts" approved this suggestion, and as the lights were
going out in the halls, Mary summarily appointed Roberta costume and
decoration committee, Madeline, Katherine and the B's committee on
"stunts," Helen and Nita committee on general arrangements, and Betty
and Rachel committee to see the matron about using the parlors, and the
registrar about permission to give the entertainment and a date for
holding it. Then the meeting adjourned at a run, for the Belden House
matron had taken a sudden fancy for walking through the upper halls on
the stroke of ten.
* * * * *
The matron gave her consent at once. The registrar hesitated a little,
but when she found that "The Merry Hearts" could get on with only four
days for preparation, and when she had read the list of members, all of
whom but Betty and Babe were among Harding's very best students, she,
too, consented, and furthermore bought ten ten-cent admission tickets,
paying for them with a bill that made Betty fairly dance with delight.
Everything else went on in the same pleasant fashion. The costume
committee was flooded with offers of real Japanese kimonos and a
bewildering collection of fans, screens, silk scarfs, pottery, and
china for decorating. Two days before the fête, Madeline had a letter
from her father, in which he spoke of a bewitching little Japanese
lady, herself an artist, who was sitting as model for a friend of
his. Madeline consulted the rest of her committee and sent off a
long telegram (charges collect), asking for the loan of the Japanese
lady for the afternoon of the tea. The answer was favorable, and the
committee on arrangements missed their luncheon in order to make an
entirely new set of posters. From that moment the success of the tea
was assured.
But if the Japanese lady's tea-making and flower arranging were the
drawing cards, there were plenty of other attractions. Admission
tickets gave the guests entry to the house parlors, where the Japanese
lady and four excellent American imitations, arrayed in genuine
kimonos, dispensed tea and wafers, and made themselves as entertaining
as possible while they described the surpassing charms of the
"side-shows" to be found further down the hall. The three girls who
had rooms on the ground floor had generously contributed the use of
their quarters. In one a Japanese soothsayer told fortunes in delicious
broken English. In another a worker of magic made flowers grow, and
produced strange sleight-of-hand effects with swords, coins and little
paper balloons. But decidedly the star performance of the afternoon was
the third "side-show," a Japanese one-act play. This was Madeline's
idea. The rest of the "stunt" committee had been very doubtful about
the wisdom of attempting it, and they were amazed and delighted when it
proved to be the success of the afternoon. To begin with, Madeline had
aroused their doubts by being so mysterious about the play. When Babe
asked where she got it and what it was about, she answered that she
"had it," and that it was like a good many other plays,--about nothing
in particular. She was definite, however, about one thing. There were
two characters, and she would play one and Roberta the other. When
Roberta flatly refused to take part, Madeline reminded her that she had
not yet "paid up" for the loan of Georgia Ames, and calmly appointed
an hour for the first rehearsal.
"But we haven't looked at our parts," Roberta protested. "There's no
time to learn them either. You must give up the play, Madeline; it's
impossible to have it on such short notice."
[Illustration: IT CERTAINLY WAS NOT ENGLISH]
"Come over this afternoon, and if you can't learn your part perfectly
in ten minutes we'll give it up," Madeline promised, and the committee,
knowing that Roberta learned slowly, supposed that would be the end of
the matter. But after the first rehearsal Roberta was as enthusiastic
as Madeline, and the rest of the committee, sure that their combined
tastes might be trusted, neither interfered nor asked troublesome
questions.
The first audience of the afternoon was surprised and somewhat
bewildered to find that the play was not only Japanese in setting,
but was also written in Japanese. At least it certainly was not
English that the two actors were speaking. There was a great deal of
bowing and fanning and tea-drinking, a very expressive pantomime, and
a fascinating stage-setting. But what particularly interested the
audience was the remarkable linguistic ability displayed by the two
actors.
"I knew Madeline Ayres could talk Choctaw and Arabic and everything
else under the sun," said Christy Mason, as she passed out. "But
Roberta Lewis doesn't go in for languages. She's rather poor in French,
and she hasn't had any German since she entered."
"Perhaps Japanese is easy," suggested some one.
"Oh, no!" said Christy decidedly. "All those Oriental languages are
awfully hard. I have a cousin who is attached to the legation at--well,
I forget just where he is, but it's somewhere in Japan, and he told
me----"
"Hurry up, please," called the doorkeeper. "There's a crowd outside
waiting to come in."
Christy Mason opened her purse and handed the ticket-taker a second
admission fee. "I'm going to stay and see it again," she announced.
"Perhaps I can pick up an expression or two. My cousin has leave at
Christmas, and it would be such fun to spring them on him."
At the end of the second performance Christy started to rejoin her
friends in a state of great excitement. She stopped by the end of the
stage to tell her strange news to an incoming party. "Be sure to stay
for two performances," she advised. "They give two entirely different
plays. It's perfectly wonderful. Isn't it, Professor Jones?" She
appealed to the botany professor who was also waiting to pass out.
"Very wonderful indeed," agreed Professor Jones. "I didn't suppose
there was a girl in college who could speak Japanese with such ease and
fluency."
They were standing close by the screens which hid the stage and the
actors. At the conclusion of Professor Jones's remark there came from
behind the scenes a chuckle, followed an instant later by Roberta's
characteristic and unmistakable titter. Christy looked hard at the
screens, frowned, pulled out her purse and cheerfully paid a third
admission. "I want to see if they do more than two plays," she
explained, choosing a seat in the exact middle of the front row.
The third play was not the same as the first, though it was quite like
it. Christy listened attentively. She heard some of the phrases that
she remembered, but they did not come in at the same places. At the
close of the performance she slipped in between the screens and caught
the performers laughing wildly in each other's arms.
"I've found you out," she announced blandly. "I've stayed through three
of these one-act Japanese plays of yours, and you're impostors. You
don't know two words of Japanese between you."
"You're mistaken, Christy," said Madeline. "We know at least a dozen
that our little Japanese friend taught us, though I won't vouch for our
pronunciation. Wasn't Professor Jones lovely?"
"Yes," said Christy briefly, "but tell me, how do you ever manage it?"
"Oh, it's easy enough," returned Madeline. "I've been to the Chinese
theatre a lot and that helped, because most people don't know that the
two languages are as the poles apart. Then we've both seen 'The Darling
of the Gods,' and Roberta is fine at inventing gibberish."
"And at getting it off with a sober face," added Christy.
"That's why I allowed her to take part in my one-act Japanese play--or
series of plays, I should say. It gets too monotonous, doing nonsense
over and over in the same way, so we change."
"And get caught," finished Christy, making ready to depart. "But I
won't tell. I'm going to try to make Professor Eaton come in here."
But Professor Eaton, though he had cheerfully bought tickets galore for
the tea, did not patronize it in person.
"It doesn't matter though," said Madeline. "He's got Georgia, and she's
going to be a handful when she gets started."
* * * * *
The Japanese tea was not only a social triumph, but it also scored a
great financial success. "The Merry Hearts" had decided beforehand that
any surplus beyond the hundred dollars needed for Dora should be turned
over to the general fund of the Harding Aid Society; and though they
had not hoped for any such surplus, the secretary who was summarily
appointed treasurer when the need for one arose, was able to make out
a generous check in favor of the Aid Society. The next question was
how most tactfully to give the rest of the money to Dora. After some
discussion it had been decided not to tell her about the object of
the tea, lest she be made uncomfortable or be disappointed over its
possible failure. So the posters had explained that it was "for a
good cause connected with the Harding Aid," and no one but "The Merry
Hearts," Eleanor, the Belden House matron and Miss Stuart knew any more
than that. As Madeline put it, when an entertainment is good enough so
that you really want to go, you don't bother much about the good cause.
The Japanese tea had been decidedly of this popular character, and "The
Merry Hearts" were not troubled with questions. As for Dora, Betty
told her that she had consulted Rachel and was making plans, which she
would explain about in a few days. Meanwhile she advised Dora to write
her father how matters stood, and get his permission to stay if the
finances could be provided.
"There'll be no trouble about his permission," Dora had said eagerly.
"He appreciates the value of an education because he hasn't any. Isn't
it queer how we always appreciate the things we haven't?"
Then Betty had warned her that of course "the plans" might not come
out as they both hoped, and had spent the week dodging Dora, whose
anxious, eager little face was so pathetic when you could not answer
the question it put to you.
But now it was settled beyond a doubt that Dora Carlson could have her
sophomore year at Harding. The minute the proceeds of the tea had been
counted, Betty flew to the telephone and told Mrs. Tait the good news,
promising that Dora should have the details the next morning. Then the
club considered how to present their gift, so that it should be most
welcome.
"We could just give the money to the Aid Society, and let them tell her
what they chose about it," suggested Katherine.
"I object," said Bob. "That method lets Madeline out of writing the
note to Miss Carlson. She doesn't write any reports as it is, and we
can't have a secretary just for ornament."
"There's another thing," added Mary. "The Aid Society would have to
let her know it was a special gift, otherwise girls who applied for
help earlier than she would feel that they were being unfairly treated.
So there we are again."
"Why does any one think she mightn't like to take the money from us?"
asked Babe.
"Just because girls in her position are likely to be very sensitive,"
explained Mary. "And most of us are almost strangers to her."
"Then why not try to be friends?" demanded Helen Adams quickly. "Why
not ask her to be a 'Merry Heart'? She'll be too busy to meet with us
very often, but I think it would please her and show her that we really
like her and aren't just giving her the money because we are sorry for
her."
"And she's certainly the merriest-hearted person I ever saw," added
Betty eagerly.
The B's exchanged glances and then Babbie spoke for the three. "If it
would please her, let's do it."
So Madeline wrote the note, and Betty delivered it just after chapel
the next morning, while the rest of the club lingered ostentatiously
in corners of the hall to watch its reception. This was all that could
have been desired, and "The Merry Hearts" never regretted their action.
Dora was even busier than Rachel and could very seldom come to the gay
evening gatherings, but she wore her pin, a Christmas present from
Bob, as proudly as if it had been a Victoria cross; and, next to her
friendship with Eleanor, the dearest memory she took away with her from
Harding was her membership in "The Merry Hearts."