A NEW EXCITEMENT
The unhappy taking-off of Georgia Ames supplied Harding College with
conversation for a good deal more than the proverbial nine days.
Campus dinner-tables buzzed with anecdotes about her, a good many of
which "The Merry Hearts" themselves had never heard before. People who
knew the "English Essayists" chapter of her experiences had not heard
the Yale chapter. Girls who had laughed over the discomfiture of the
Westcott House senior, who had eventually paid a high price for her
readiness in running off with Bob's violets, listened eagerly to the
story of Babe's lace handkerchief. And some of them went forthwith to
interview the janitor, thereby adding a new episode. For the janitor
was a firm believer in ghosts and other apparitions and saw no reason
why Madeline Ayres, whose interest in Irish fairy-tales had gained his
worshipful admiration, should not possess a shadowy double if she
chose to. He had a well-grounded distrust of the B's and vehemently
pooh-poohed their matter-of-fact explanations of Georgia's movements.
"It's all very well to talk, Miss Babe," he declared, "but I've seen
what I've seen, and if Miss Madeline says she has a double I'll believe
her. And if you'd be so kind as to return me that handkerchief,
I'll--I'll take you up in the clock-tower to-night at nine, and tell
you an' your friends a few little yarns of old Erin."
This was a great bribe, for the B's had wanted to make an evening visit
to the clock-tower ever since the first evening of their freshman year,
when, wandering forlornly around the campus, they had noticed how tall
and spectral it looked by night; and Babe sacrificed her precious
handkerchief without a murmur.
The janitor's stories were very creepy indeed, and Babe and Babbie
went home shivering and clinging tight to Bob, who marched along bold
as a lion. The two timid ones were sitting on the edge of Babbie's
couch, discussing a gruesome tale of a girl who, gagged and tied to
the bedpost by ghostly bonds, had watched her lover walk unsuspectingly
upon an open trap-door and fall shrieking to his fate, when to their
horror the door-handle moved and the door slid slowly open. At sight
of the towering white-robed figure which entered with a queer, gliding
motion, the two on the bed shrieked wildly.
"Sh! It's me--I," announced Bob's familiar voice. "I only wanted to
test my make-up on you two. I'm going out to scare the night-watchman.
I'm going to tell him that I'm Georgia Ames."
Bob's make-up was doubtless excellent, but much experience with Harding
Hallowe'en parties had made the night-watchman extremely sceptical.
He walked boldly up to the ghost, explained to her that Georgia Ames
"wan't nothin' but them girls' fool doin's," turned a deaf ear to
her pleadings to be let into the Belden to see Madeline, and finally
grasped her wrist so tightly that Bob abandoned her ghostly falsetto
and howled for mercy.
"I knew it," said the night-watchman wrathfully. "You're Miss Parker,
and this is the last time this term that I shall let you in and not
report it." And most ungallantly did he spread the story of Bob's
adventure among her friends, who teased her unmercifully until no one
could say "ghost" in Bob's hearing without paying dear for the liberty.
Dr. Eaton, when he received notice of his unanimous election to
honorary membership in "The Merry Hearts," responded with a note that
even Madeline had to admit was creditable. In it he expressed the
deepest appreciation of the honor done him. He had not, he said, been
told all the aims and objects of the organization, but one seemed to
be the booming of Georgia Ames. And so, unless the rest of the club
disapproved, he would do his best for her by handing in her report to
Miss Stuart.
Miss Stuart, being a rather unapproachable person, had not heard of
Georgia. So she called upon Dr. Eaton for an explanation, which he
furnished in full detail. He knew now that Georgia did not exist,
he said; but was it not his duty to give somebody credit for those
extremely real and very clever papers which he had had the pleasure of
examining? And Miss Stuart, who looked more unapproachable than she
really was, smiled genially on all "The Merry Hearts" and congratulated
Mary and Betty, whom she knew best, on having added to the gaiety of
life at Harding.
"We're all too serious and too self-centred here," she said. "I like
the idea of your club, and I can see that it has a real influence in
the college. There is more good feeling and less snobbishness this
year. And I haven't forgotten the way you put through the Japanese tea."
Whereat "The Merry Hearts" promptly invited Miss Stuart to be an
honorary member too, and she accepted with an eager gratitude that made
the astute Madeline stop to think.
"Betty," she said solemnly, "do you know I believe Miss Stuart
was truly pleased. I believe she'd like to get down off her
pedestal oftener. I've always thought that quiet, self-contained,
self-sufficient people like her were perfectly happy, but now I wonder
if they are. That Miss Case in our class, for instance,--the one that
has a suite of rooms up where Dora Carlson is, and spends her time
buying and reading all the new books that come out. Do you suppose
she's ever lonely in that gorgeous library of hers?"
"I shouldn't wonder," said Betty. "You know her father and mother are
both dead, and I can't imagine how books and lovely things and all the
money you want could make up to a girl for that."
"Nor I," said Madeline. "Next time I see her I'm going to ask her to
come down and join us some Saturday evening--even if she is as rich as
Crœsus and considered an awful snob."
And Miss Case came once, and often after that, and confided to Madeline
that she was always lonely and had longed to make friends with her
class, but couldn't seem to do it, because she was so shy and so
afraid of intruding where she wasn't wanted. And Madeline in her turn
explained that the best way was to forget all about yourself and go
ahead--a rule which in time Miss Case learned to put in practice.
Meanwhile the winter term was speeding to an end. Mid-years came and
went, but they have few terrors for clear-headed juniors, who know by
experience that the faculty are oftener kind than cruel, and who have
become expert in arranging their work so as to get as many days of
glorious freedom as possible at the end of the terrible mid-year week.
And then, just a month before the end of the term, came an eventful
day, full of excitement for Betty Wales and the rest of "The Merry
Hearts." The morning was like all other mornings at Harding, made up of
recitation hours and hurried intervals of study between. The afternoon
began with a disappointment, for Betty and Madeline had planned to go
skating, and soon after lunch word came that the ice on the river was
not strong enough and the rink was closed for the day.
"Too bad," said Madeline philosophically, "but I think it's growing
colder, and we'll go to-morrow. Let's look up our history topics for
the day after to-morrow now, and then go for a long walk."
Betty agreed to this, and the two were swinging home in the dusk, when
Madeline proposed that, as it was not quite dinner time, they stop and
call on Miss Hale.
"Oh, I'm so glad you spoke of it," said Betty. "Nan said in her last
letter that Ethel had written her the bluest notes lately. She told me
to go and cheer her up, and I haven't had a minute since then."
Ethel's sitting-room was in front on the first floor of the house where
she boarded.
"She's there," said Betty, as they turned in. "Doesn't it look
cheerful, with the lamp lit and the curtains up? I think everybody
ought to----" She stopped short. "Why, Madeline--she's--I don't believe
we'd better go in now, do you?"
"No," said Madeline shortly. "We'll come again in a day or so."
For full in the cheerful glow of her big student lamp, Ethel sat, her
arms on her desk, and her face buried in her arms; and while the girls
stood there, unwitting eavesdroppers of her unhappiness, she lifted her
head and wiped away the tears with a handkerchief that was already too
wet to be very useful.
"Oh, dear!" said Betty sorrowfully, as they turned away, "I ought to
have gone sooner. I wonder what can be the trouble. Dear me! If I was
bright enough to be on the faculty just after I'd graduated, seems to
me I should be as proud and happy as a peacock all the time. Nan says
that Ethel was the brightest and most popular girl in her class."
"Perhaps she hates teaching," suggested Madeline.
"No, it can't be that," objected Betty, "because she doesn't have to
do it. Her family is very well off, but she has several sisters at
home and she doesn't care one bit for society, for all she is such a
favorite. Nan says it was always her ambition to teach here. At first
her family didn't like the idea, but now they're awfully proud of her."
"Well," said Madeline, "whatever the matter is, 'The Merry Hearts' will
have to take her in hand. We meet to-night, don't we?"
"Yes," said Betty, "in my room. But I don't know--are you sure Ethel
would like it?"
"She won't know," said Madeline, "but of course it's just as you say. I
only thought we might tell the B's, who are in her classes, to jolly
her up a little, or make Mary Brooks come with us when we call. Mary is
such a cheerful person."
To all this Betty heartily assented, but when evening came the B's
appeared in costume as Alice in Wonderland, the White Rabbit, and the
Queen of Hearts. There was a wild scramble for more costumes, and the
Wonderland party was so absorbing that nobody thought of anything else
until a freshman admirer of Betty's knocked on the door with a letter.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, staring about her in blank
amazement. "But I thought you'd like this letter. It was on the floor
behind the table."
"Thank you ever so much. Won't you come in?" asked Betty, who
represented the Mock Turtle, in a costume composed of a gray bathrobe
and tissue paper paws and ears. "Would you please put the letter on the
table? You see my hands are underneath."
But when she caught sight of the English stamps and her father's
handwriting on the envelope, she speedily dispensed with the
encumbering "flippers" that Rachel had adjusted so carefully, and
retired to a quiet corner to read her letter.
"Nassau, B. I.," was the heading. "Girls, where is 'Nassau, B. I.'?"
demanded Betty, reading on down the page as she spoke.
"I don't know," said Madeline frankly.
"Near Bermuda, isn't it?" hazarded Mary.
"No, it's near Cuba," asserted Roberta. "My father went there once long
ago. He brought me the loveliest shells. You go out in a boat, you
know, and whatever you see that you want a man dives down----"
She was interrupted by an ecstatic shriek from Betty. "Girls, what do
you think? Father says it's perfectly lovely there, wherever it is,
and it doesn't take long from New York, and he wants me to make up a
party of girls and come down for Easter. Did you ever hear anything so
perfectly, perfectly grand?"
"Never," said Mary, "only please read us all about it."
"Yes," assented Betty, dancing off the rest of the mock turtle's
costume, "I will. He says that it's lovely at Nassau, B. I., and that
the weather is just right--it was too hot at Barbadoes, whatever that
is--and that while it's not so tropical as the more southerly West
Indies----"
"What did I tell you?" interrupted Roberta triumphantly. "You see it is
near Cuba."
"It's very beautiful just the same," continued Betty. "And there's
splendid sailing and fishing and bathing. But he says that he and
mother are tired of being alone and want me to join them for their last
two weeks, only of course I can't come down alone, so he suggests--let
me see. Here it is. 'When Nan was in college I remember that she was
invited to join a party of college girls who went to the Bahamas for
their Easter vacation. One of the faculty who wanted to take the trip
acted as chaperon, and I think made the business arrangements; but I
enclose a list of steamer sailings and an estimate of expenses, and
will engage hotel accommodations as soon as I hear from you. So your
chaperon's duties will be merely nominal. I am sure six or eight of you
would enjoy the four days' sea voyage and a week or two here immensely,
and both your mother and I hope you can arrange to bring down a
congenial party.' Oh, girls, can't you all come?"
"I think I can," said Mary. "I'll tell father to give me the trip as a
commencement present."
"I'm sure I can," declared Madeline. "Father and mother are in Italy,
so I may as well do one thing as another at Easter. They gave me a
check for Christmas, and if that isn't enough, I'll take the rest of my
allowance money and trust to providence for the future."
"We can go," announced Babbie, speaking as usual for all the B's. "That
is--if our fond parents are willing. We'll go and write them this
minute."
"Send it special delivery," advised Mary. "How about you, K.?"
Katherine made a wry face. "I'm afraid you can't count on me," she
said. "I can't even afford to go as far as Kankakee this spring. I'm
going to stay here and be company for Rachel."
"Yes," said Rachel, "and you must send us lots of letters and
post-cards, and bring us some shells, and an orange apiece that you
really saw growing."
"Indeed we will," said Mary heartily. "You won't have time that week
for anything but reading our letters."
"And we shall miss you both dreadfully," added Betty. "How about you,
Nita?"
"I must go home. I went away at Christmas, you know. Besides, I have to
get my spring sewing done. What will you girls do about that?"
"Do without," laughed Madeline. "Don't raise doubts in our minds, Nita."
"I'm so envious," murmured Nita, sadly, "that I have to think of any
small compensations that may be coming my way, or I couldn't stand it.
Will you go too, Helen Chase?"
Helen shook her head doubtfully. "I'm not sure that I can. I have some
money in the savings bank. I don't know how much, and anyway probably
mother wouldn't want me to take it. But I've never been anywhere, and I
can see that traveling is a great education. Don't you think it would
be improving to go?"
"As if it wouldn't be improving to do anything in our company!"
laughed Madeline. "Let me see--that makes--three B's, Betty, Mary,
Helen perhaps, myself---- Why, Roberta, you haven't announced your
intentions."
"I shall go of course, if you and Mary do," said Roberta, calmly. "My
father always says 'yes' to me. Sometimes I wish he'd say 'no' to
something, so I could be sure he was really listening."
"Don't try the experiment this time," said Mary. "How about a chaperon,
Betty?"
"Oh, we can find somebody, I guess," said Betty, joyously. Then she
looked at Madeline. "I know the very person," she cried. "Ethel Hale!
Let's go this minute and ask her."
"All of us? In these things?" asked Roberta, who was afraid of all the
faculty, on general principles.
"Of course," said Madeline. "Betty can be show man and stage manager,
since she's torn her flippers and lost one ear."
So it happened that Miss Hale, who was again in her sitting-room
reading a wise German book about the Thirty Years' War, heard a
confused rustling in the hall and opened her door upon a troop of the
strangest creatures she had seen since the Hallowe'en party of her
senior year.
Besides the White Rabbit, the Queen of Hearts and Alice, there was the
Cheshire cat, personated by Mary, wearing her "beamish" smile, the mad
Hatter,--Helen, lost in an antiquated beaver that was one of Madeline's
most valued stage properties,--and the King of Hearts and four suit
cards wearing placards like sandwich men, to show their identity.
After Betty had introduced all the Wonderland people and Miss Hale had
admired their impromptu costumes, Betty explained why they had come.
To the joy of "The Merry Hearts," Miss Hale consented at once. "I
should like nothing better," she said, heartily. "I'm tired of snow and
cold and hard work, and the sea voyage and a week on that dear little
green island is just what I need."
"We'll try not to be the least trouble," said Babbie, sweetly.
"And we'll bring up your breakfast every morning, if you like," said
Babe.
"And we think you are too nice for anything, to say yes without being
teased," declared Bob.
Whereat everybody laughed, thanked Miss Hale, and sped home just in
time to escape the dire calamity of being locked out at the mercy of
the night-watchman or one's kind friends within doors.