CHOOSING A CHAPERON
Madge Morton walked into the school library with a grave expression on
her usually laughing face. She had two letters in her hand, which she
intended putting into the school post-bag, that was always kept in the
library. One of the letters she had written to her uncle and aunt,
explaining her houseboat scheme in the most sensible and matter-of-fact
fashion; for Madge knew that the fate of the four chums depended,
first, on what Mr. and Mrs. Butler thought of their niece's idea. If
they disapproved, Madge was certain that she could never be happy
again, for there was no other possible way of spending Cousin Louisa's
gift that would give her any pleasure. Madge's second letter was
directed to a boy cousin, who was at college in Baltimore. She
explained that she expected to rent a houseboat for the summer, and she
asked her cousin to give her the address of places in Baltimore where
such a boat could be hired. She wished it to cost the smallest sum of
money possible, for Eleanor had suggested that even houseboat girls
must eat. Indeed, the water was likely to make them especially hungry.
If all the two hundred dollars went for the houseboat, what were they
to do for food?
Madge's sole fortune was just ten dollars a month, which she used for
her dress allowance. Her uncle and aunt were not rich, but they were
paying for her education, and Madge knew she was expected to make her
own living as soon as she was old enough. Mr. and Mrs. Butler had
hoped she would become a teacher, for they held the old-fashioned
southern belief that teaching school was the only avenue open to the
woman who was forced by necessity to make her own living.
Madge, however, had decided, a long time before, that she would much
rather die than teach. She would do anything but that. Just at
present her poverty was very inconvenient. Madge was generous to a
fault, and she would have liked nothing better than to finance royally
their proposed trip. She vowed mentally to rise to the occasion, even
though the way to do it was not yet clear.
Prudent Eleanor had also asked her whom she meant to invite to act as
their chaperon. So it was of this chaperon that Madge was thinking
while she was in the act of mailing her letters.
Down in Virginia, on a big place next to her uncle's, was a girl whom
she had decided would make an ideal chaperon. She was as fond of larks
as was Madge herself. She could fish, ride, swim and shoot a rifle
when necessary. Moreover, she was so beautiful and aristocratic that
Madge always called her the "Lady of Quality." It was true she could
not cook nor wash dishes, nor do anything practical, and she was only
twenty-two. Still, Madge thought she would be a perfectly delightful
chaperon and was sure the girls would love her. Madge's red lips
unconsciously formed the letter O, and before she knew what she was
doing she was whistling from sheer pleasure.
"Miss Morton," the cold voice that was unpleasantly familiar to the
girl's ears came from behind a chair, "do you not know that whistling
is against the rules of the school? You are one of the older girls.
Miss Tolliver depends on you to set the younger pupils a good example.
I fear she is sadly disappointed."
"You mean you are sadly disappointed, Miss Jones," replied Madge
angrily. "Miss Tolliver has not said she was disappointed in me. When
she is she will probably tell me herself."
Madge knew she should not speak in this rude fashion to her teacher,
but she was an impetuous, high-spirited girl who could not bear
censure. Besides, she had a special prejudice against Miss Jones. She
was particularly homely and there was something awkward and repellant
in her manner. Worshipping beauty and graciousness, Madge could not
forgive her teacher her lack of both. Besides, Madge did not entirely
trust Miss Jones. Still, the girl was sorry she had made her impolite
speech, so she stood quietly waiting for her teacher's reproof, with
her curly head bent low, her eyes mutinous.
She waited an instant. When she looked up, to her dismay she saw that
the eyes of her despised teacher were full of tears.
"I wonder why you dislike me so, Miss Morton?" Miss Jones inquired
sadly.
Madge could have given her a dozen reasons for her dislike, but she did
not wish to be disagreeable. "I am dreadfully sorry I was so rude to
you," she murmured.
"Oh, it does not matter. Nothing matters, I am so unhappy," Miss Jones
replied unexpectedly. Just why Miss Jones should have chosen Madge
Morton for her confidante at this moment neither ever knew. Miss Jones
had a number of friends among the other girls in the school; but she
and this clever southern girl had been enemies since Miss Jones had
first taken charge of the English History class and had reproved Madge
for helping one of the younger girls with her lesson. Miss Jones's
confession had slipped out involuntarily. Now she put her head down on
the library table and sobbed.
With any other teacher, or with any of the girls, Madge might have
cried in sympathy. Somehow, she could not cry with Miss Jones. She
felt nothing save embarrassment.
"What is the matter?" she asked slowly.
Miss Jones shook her head. "It's nothing. I am sorry to have given
way to my feelings. I have had bad news. My doctor has just written
me that if I don't spend the summer out-of-doors, I am in danger of
consumption." Miss Jones uttered the dreadful word quite calmly.
Madge gave a low cry of distress. She thought of the number of times
she had made fun of her teacher's flat chest and stooping shoulders and
of her bad temper. After all, Eleanor had been right. Illness had
been the cause of Miss Jones's peculiarities.
"Miss Jones," Madge returned, her sympathies fully enlisted, "you must
not feel so troubled. I am sure you will soon be all right. Just
think how strong you will grow with your long summer holiday
out-of-doors. You must dig in the garden, and ride horseback, and play
tennis," advised Madge enthusiastically, remembering her own happy
summers at "Forest House," the old Butler home in Virginia.
Miss Jones shook her head wistfully as she rose to leave the room. "I
am afraid I can't have the summer in the country. I have only a sister
with whom to spend the summer, and she lives in a little flat in the
city. She has a large family, and I expect to help her. My parents
are dead."
"Then why don't you go into the country to board somewhere?" flashed
from Madge's lips unexpectedly. A moment after she was sorry she had
asked the question, for a curious, frightened expression crossed her
teacher's face.
Miss Jones hesitated. "I have had to use the money I have made by my
teaching for--for other purposes," she explained, in the stiff, cold
manner that seemed so unattractive to gracious, sunshiny Madge. "I am
sorry to have worried you with my troubles," Miss Jones said again.
"Please forgive me and forget what I have told you. I shall probably
do very well."
Madge went slowly back to her room in a most unhappy frame of mind.
She knew a way in which Miss Jones would be able to spend her summer
out-of-doors, and perhaps grow well and strong again. She could be
invited to chaperon the houseboat party. She knew her friends would
immediately agree to the idea. They liked Miss Jones far better than
she did. Even if they had not liked her, sympathy would have inspired
them to extend the invitation. It was she alone who would hesitate.
Of course, she never expected to be as good as her friends. So Madge
argued with herself. It was too dreadful to give up the idea of asking
her adored "Lady of Quality" to act as their guardian angel. Madge
decided she simply could not make the sacrifice. Then, too, she did
not even know whether her uncle and aunt would consent to the houseboat
party. It would be time enough afterward to deliver her last
invitation.
For two days, which seemed intolerably long to impatient Madge Morton,
the four friends waited to hear their fate from Mr. and Mrs. Butler.
On the third morning a letter addressed to Madge in Mrs. Butler's
handwriting was handed to her while she and her chums were at
breakfast. In her great excitement her hands trembled so that she
could hardly finish her breakfast. "Here, Eleanor," Madge finally
faltered, as the four girls left the dining room to go upstairs, "you
take the letter and read it to us, please do. Positively I haven't the
courage to look at it. I feel almost sure that Aunt Sue will say we
can't go on our houseboat trip."
Lillian put her hand affectionately on Madge's arm, while Phil stood
next to Eleanor.
"My dear Madge," the letter began, "I think your houseboat plan for the
summer a most extraordinary one. I never heard of young girls
attempting such a holiday before. I can not imagine how you happened
to unearth such a peculiar idea."
Madge gave a gasp of despair. She felt that the tone of her Aunt Sue's
letter spelled refusal. But Eleanor read on: "Like a good many of your
unusual ideas, this houseboat scheme seems, after all, to be rather an
interesting one. Your uncle and I have talked over your letter and
Eleanor's. We do not wish you and Eleanor to be separated, and we do
wish you both to have the happiest holiday possible, as we are quite
sure you have earned it. So, if you can find a suitable chaperon, we
are willing to give our consent to your undertaking. We had intended
to pay twenty-five dollars a month board for Eleanor with her cousins
at Charlottesville, so we shall be glad to contribute that sum toward
the provisioning of the house-boat."
There was a dead silence in the room when Eleanor at last finished
reading the letter. For half a minute the four chums were too happy to
speak. Then there was a united sigh of relief.
"Oh, I shall never be able to survive it! It is too much joy for one
day!" cried the irrepressible Madge, dancing around in a circle and
dragging Lillian Seldon, whose arm was linked in hers, with her.
Lillian and Phyllis had received their parents' consent, by letter, the
day before and had already agreed that their respective monthly
allowances should be placed in the general fund.
"Be still, Madge," begged Eleanor. "You are so noisy that you drive
all thought from our heads. The first thing for us to consider is
where we shall find a chaperon."
"No; the first thing to do is to find the house-boat. O Ship of our
Dreams! tell us, dear Ship, where we can find you?" cried Phyllis Alden
longingly. She was looking past her friends with half-closed eyes.
Already she was, in the land of her imagination, in a beautiful white
boat, floating beside an evergreen shore. The little craft was
furnished all in white, with dainty muslin curtains hung at the tiny
cabin windows. Flowers encircled the decks and trailed over the sides
into the clear water. And on the deck of the little boat, lying or
sitting at their ease, she could see herself and her friends.
"Wake up, Phil! Come back to earth, please," teased Madge, giving her
usually sensible friend a sudden pinch. "I am going downstairs now to
ask Miss Tolliver if we can go into Baltimore day after to-morrow. We
must find our houseboat at once. School is so nearly over Miss
Tolliver will be sure to let us go."
"But the chaperon, Madge," reminded Eleanor. "We haven't decided on
one, you know."
"I have thought of a chaperon, if you girls are willing to have her,"
said Madge almost hesitatingly.
"Well," cried the other three voices in chorus, "who is it? Tell us
sometime to-day!"
"Miss Jones!" declared Madge, a note of defiance in her voice. "I'm
going to invite her now before I have time to change my mind. I'll
explain later." Springing from her chair, she ran from the room,
leaving her three friends to stare at each other in silent amazement.