Betty Wales, Freshman

“Come in,” she called. “I put that up in case I wanted to study later. Finished your lit. paper?”

Betty nodded. “It’s awfully short.”

“I’m going to do mine to-night–that and a little matter of Livy and French and–let me see–Bible–no, elocution.”

“Can you?” asked Betty admiringly.

“I’m not sure till I’ve tried. I’ve been meditating asking your roommate to do the paper. Would you?”

“No,” said Betty so emphatically that Eleanor stopped playing and looked at her curiously.

“Why not? Do you think it’s wrong to exchange her industry for my dollars?”

Betty considered. She still admired Eleanor, but she had learned her limitations. Her beauty wove a spell about all that she did, and she was very clever and phenomenally quick when she cared to apply herself. But she cared so seldom, roused herself only when she could gain prestige, when there was something to manipulate, to manage. And apparently she was not even to be trusted. Still, what was the use of quarreling with her about honor and fair play? To Betty in her present mood it seemed a mere waste of time and energy.

“Well, for one reason,” she said at last, “Helen hasn’t her own paper done yet, and for another I don’t think she writes as well as you probably do;” and she rose to go.

“That was a joke, Bettina,” Eleanor called after her. “I am truly going to work now–this very instant. Come back at ten and have black coffee with me.”

Betty went on without answering to Rachel’s room. “Come in,” chorused three cheerful voices.

“No, go get your lit. paper first. We’re reading choice selections,” added Katherine.

“She means she is,” corrected Rachel, handing Betty a pillow. “You look cross, Betty.”

“I am,” said Betty savagely, recounting a few of her woes. “What can we do? I came to be amused.”

“In a Miracle play of this type – ” began Katherine, and stopped to dodge a pillow. “But it is amusing, Betty.”

“I’m afraid it will amuse Miss Mills, if the rest is anything like what you read,” said Rachel with a reminiscent smile. “What are you doing, Roberta?”

“Writing home,” drawled Roberta, without looking up from her paper.

“Well, you needn’t shake your fountain pen over me, if you are,” said Katherine. “I also owe my honored parents a letter, but I’ve about made up my mind never to write to them again. Listen to this, will you.” She rummaged in her desk for a minute. “Here it is.

“‘My dear daughter’–he only begins that way when he’s fussed. I always know how he’s feeling when I see whether it’s ‘daughter’ or ‘K.’ ‘My dear daughter:–Your interesting letter of the 12th inst. was received and I enclose a check, which I hope will last for some weeks.’ (“I’m sorry to say it’s nearly gone already,” interpolated Katherine.) “‘Your mother and I enjoyed the account of the dance you attended in the gymnasium, of the candy pull which Mrs. Chapin so kindly arranged for her roomers, and the game of hockey that ended so disastrously for one of your friends. We are glad that you attended the Morality play of “Everyman,” though we are at a loss to know what you mean by the “peanut gallery.” However it occurs to us that with your afternoon gymnasium class, your recitations, which, as I understand it, fully engage your mornings, and all these diversions in one week, you could have spent but little time in the study of your lessons. Do not forget that these years should be devoted to a serious preparation for the multifarious duties of life, and do not neglect the rich opportunities which I am proud to be able to give you. The Wetherbees have – ’ Oh well, the rest of it is just Kankakee news,” said Katherine, folding the letter and putting it back in her desk. “But isn’t that first bit lovely? Why, I racked my brain till it ached, positively ached, thinking of interesting things to say in that letter, and now because I didn’t mention that I’d worked three solid hours on my German every day that week and stood in line at the library for an hour to get hold of Bryce’s American Commonwealth, I receive this pathetic appeal to my better self.”

“How poetic you’re getting,” laughed Betty. “Do you know it’s awfully funny, but I got a letter something like that too. Only mine was from Nan, and it just said she hoped I was remembering to avoid low grades and conditions, as they were a great bother. She said she wanted me to have a good time, but as there would be even more to do when I got on the campus, I ought not to fall into the habit of neglecting my work this year.”

“Mine was from Aunt Susan,” chimed in Rachel. “She said she didn’t see when I could do any studying except late at night, and she hoped I wasn’t being so foolish as to undermine my health and ruin my complexion for the sake of a few girlish pleasures. Isn’t that nice–girlish pleasures? She put in a five dollar bill, though I couldn’t see why she should, considering her sentiments.”

Roberta put the cap on to her fountain pen and propped it carefully against an adjacent pillow. “I’ve just answered mine,” she said, sorting the sheets in her lap with a satisfied smile.

“Did you get one, too? What did you say?” demanded Betty.

“The whole truth,” replied Roberta languidly. “It took eight pages and I hope he’ll enjoy it.”

“I say,” cried Katherine excitedly. “That’s a great idea. Let’s try it.”

“And read them to one another afterward,” added Rachel. “They might be more entertaining than your lit. paper.”

“May I borrow some paper?” asked Betty. “I’m hoping Helen will finish to-night if I let her alone.”

Roberta helped herself to a book from the shelves and an apple from the table, and the rest settled themselves to their epistolary labors. Except for the scratching of Betty’s pen, and an occasional exclamation of pleasure or perplexity from one of the scribes, the room was perfectly still. Betty had just asked for an envelope and Katherine was numbering her pages when Mary Brooks knocked at the door.

“What on earth are you girls doing?” she inquired blandly, selecting the biggest apple in the dish and appropriating the Morris chair, which Katherine had temporarily vacated. “I haven’t heard a sound in here since nine o’clock. I began to think that Helen had come in and blown out the gas again by mistake and you were all asphyxiated.”

Everybody laughed at the remembrance of a recent occasion when Helen had absent-mindedly blown out the gas while Betty was saying her prayers.

“It wasn’t so funny at the time,” said Betty ruefully. “Suppose she’d gone to sleep without remembering. We’ve been writing home, Mary,” she said, turning to the newcomer, “and now we’re going to read the letters, and we’ve got to hurry, for it’s almost ten. Roberta, you begin.”

“Oh no,” said Roberta, looking distressed.

“I wish somebody would tell me what this is all about first,” put in Mary. Rachel explained, while Katherine and Betty persuaded Roberta to read her letter.

“It isn’t fair,” she protested, “when I wrote a real letter and you others were just doing it for fun.”

“Go on, Roberta!” commanded Mary, and Roberta in sheer desperation seized her letter and began to read.

“Dear Papa:–I have been studying hard all the evening and it is now nearly bedtime, but I can at least begin a letter to you. To-day has been the fourth rainy day in succession and we have thoroughly appreciated the splendid opportunity for uninterrupted work. Yesterday morning–I think enough has happened in these two days to fill my letter–I was up at seven as usual. I stuck a selection from Browning into my mirror, as it was the basis of our elocution lesson, and nearly learned it while I dressed. Before chapel I completed my geometry preparation. This was fortunate, as I was called on to recite, the sixth proposition in book third being my assignment. The next hour I had no recitation, so I went to the library to do some reference work for my English class. Ten girls were already waiting for the same volume of the Century Dictionary that I wanted, so I couldn’t get hold of it till nearly the end of the hour. I spent the intervening time on the Browning. I had Livy the next hour and was called on to translate. As I had spent several hours on the lesson the day before, I could do so. After the elocution recitation I went home to lunch. At quarter before two I began studying my history. At quarter before four I started for the gymnasium. At five I went to a tea which one of the girls was giving for her mother, so I felt obliged to go. I stayed only half an hour and cannot remember how I spent the half hour till dinner, so I presume it was wasted. I am afraid I am too much given to describing such unimportant pauses in the day’s occupation and magnifying their length and the frivolous pleasure which we thoughtlessly derive from them.

“In the evening – Oh it all goes on like that,” cried Roberta. “Just dull and stuffy and true to the facts. Some one else read.”

“It’s convincing,” chuckled Mary. “Now Katherine.”

Katherine’s letter was an absurd mixture of sense and nonsense, in which she proved that she studied at least twelve hours out of the twenty-four. Rachel’s was a sensible explanation of just how much time, or rather how little, a spread, a dance or a basket-ball game takes.

“That’s what they don’t understand,” she said, “and they don’t know either how fast we can go from one thing to another up here. Why, energy is in the air!”

Betty’s letter, like her literature paper, was extremely short. “I couldn’t think of much to say, if I told the truth,” she explained, blushing. “I don’t suppose I do study as much as I ought.”

Mary had listened with an air of respectful attention to all the letters. When the last one was finished she rose hastily. “I must go back,” she said. “I have a theme to write. I only dropped in to ask if that famous spread wasn’t coming off soon.”

“Oh, yes,” said Betty. “Let’s have it next week Wednesday. Is anything else going on then? I’ll ask Eleanor and you see the Riches and Helen.”

A few days later Mary appeared at the lunch table fairly bursting with importance. “Well,” she said, beaming around the table. “What do you suppose has happened now? Really, Mrs. Chapin, you ought to be proud of us. We began to be famous before college opened – ”

“What?” interrupted Eleanor.

“Is it possible you didn’t know that?” inquired Mary. “Well, it’s true nevertheless. And we were the heroines of Mountain Day, and now we’re famous again.”

“How?” demanded the table in a chorus.

Mary smiled enigmatically. “This time it is a literary sensation,” she said.

“Is it Helen’s paper?” hazarded Betty.

“Mine, of course,” said Katherine. “Strange Miss Mills didn’t mention it this morning when I met her at Cuyler’s.”

Mary waited until it was quiet again. “If you’ve quite finished guessing,” she said, “I’ll tell you. You remember the evening when I found four of you in Rachel and Katherine’s room writing deceitful letters to your fond parents. Well, I had been racking my brains for weeks for a pleasing and original theme subject. You know you are supposed to spend two hours a week on this theme course, and I had spent two hours for four weeks in just thinking what to write. I’m not sure whether that counts at all and I didn’t like to ask–it would have been so conspicuous. So I was in despair when I chanced upon your happy gathering and was saved. Miss Raymond read it in class to-day,” concluded Mary triumphantly.

“You didn’t put us into it–our letters!” gasped Roberta.

“Indeed I did,” said Mary. “I put them all in, as nearly as I could remember them, and Miss Raymond read it in class, and made all sorts of clever comments about college customs and ideals and so on. I felt guilty, because I never had anything read before, and of course I didn’t exactly write this because the letters were the main part of it. So after class I waited for Miss Raymond and explained how it was. She laughed and said that she was glad I had an eye for good material and that she supposed all authors made more or less use of their acquaintance, and when I went off she actually asked me to come and see her. My junior friends are hoping it will pull me into a society and I’m hoping it will avert a condition.”

“Where is the theme?” asked Eleanor. “Won’t you read it to us?”

“It’s–why, I forgot the very best part of the whole story. Sallie Hill has it for the ‘Argus.’ She’s the literary editor, you know, and she wants it for the next number. So you see you are famous.

“Why don’t some of you elect this work?” asked Mary, when the excitement had somewhat subsided. “It’s open to freshmen, and it’s really great fun.”

“I thought you said that you spent eight hours and were in despair – ” began Eleanor.

“So I was,” said Mary. “I declare I’d forgotten that. Well, anyhow I’m sure I shan’t have any trouble now. I think I’ve learned how to go at it. Why, do you know, girls, I have an idea already. Not for a theme–something else. It concerns all of you–or most of you anyway.”

“I should think you’d made enough use of us for the present,” said Betty. “Why don’t you try to make a few sophomores famous?”

“Oh it doesn’t concern you that way. You are to – Oh wait till I get it started,” said Mary vaguely; and absolutely refused to be more explicit.

CHAPTER VII

A DRAMATIC CHAPTER

The Chapin house girls decided not to spend the proceeds of the dancing class for an elaborate supper, as they had first intended, but to turn their “spread” into the common college type, where “plowed field” and chocolate made with condensed milk and boiling water are the chief refreshments, and light-hearted sociability ensures a good time for everybody.

“But do let’s have tea too,” Betty had proposed. “I hate the chocolate that the girls make, and I don’t believe tea keeps many of us awake. Did I tell you that mother sent a big box of cheese crackers?”

The spread was to be in Betty’s room, partly because she owned the only chafing-dish in the house, and partly because eighteen girls–the nine hostesses and the one guest asked by each–could get into it without uncomfortable crowding. Eleanor had lent her pile of floor cushions and her beloved candlesticks for the occasion, everybody had contributed cups and saucers. Betty and Helen had spent the afternoon “fixing up,” and the room wore a very festive air when the girls dropped in after dinner to see if the preparations were complete.

“I think we ought to start the fudge before they come,” said Betty, remembering the procedure at Miss King’s party.

“Oh, no,” protested Eleanor. “Half-past eight is early enough. Why, most of the fun of a spread is mixing the things together and taking turns tasting and stirring.”

“It would be awkward to finish eating too early, when that’s the only entertainment,” suggested Rachel.

“Or the candy might give out before ten,” added Mary Rich.

The majority ruled, and as some of the girls were late, and one had some very amusing blue-prints to exhibit, it was considerably after half-past eight before the fudge was started. At first it furnished plenty of excitement. Betty, who had been appointed chief fudge-maker, left it for a moment, and it took the opportunity to boil over. When it had settled down after this exploit, it refused to do anything but simmer. No amount of alcohol or of vigorous and persistent stirring had any effect upon it, and Betty was in despair. But Eleanor, who happened to be in a gracious mood, came gallantly to the rescue. She quietly disappeared and returned in a moment, transformed into a gypsy street singer. She had pulled down her black hair and twisted a gay scarf around it. Over her shirt-waist she wore a little velvet jacket; and a short black skirt, a big red sash, an armful of bangles and bracelets, and the guitar hung over her shoulder, completed her disguise.

“Sing a lil’?” she asked, smiling persuasively and kissing her hand to the party.

Then she sat down on the pile of cushions and played and sang, first a quaint little folk-song suited to her part, and then one or two dashing popular airs, until the unaccommodating fudge was quite forgotten, except by Betty, who stirred and frowned, and examined the flame and tested the thickness of the rich brown liquid, quite unnoticed. Eleanor had just shrugged her shoulders and announced, “I no more sing, now,” when somebody else knocked on the door, or rather pushed it open, and a grotesque figure slouched in.

At least half of it was head, black and awful, with gruesome green features. Short, unjointed arms came out of its waist, with green claws dangling where the hands should have been; and below its short skirt flapped the tails of a swallow-tail coat. The girls were too much astonished to speak, as the creature advanced silently into the room, and without a word began dancing something that, as Katherine expressed it afterward, was a cross between a double-shuffle and a skirt-dance. When it had succeeded in reducing its audience to a state of abject and tearful mirth, the creature stopped suddenly, announced, “You’ve seen the Jabberwock,” in sepulchral tones, and flopped on to the end of a couch, saying breathlessly, “Mary Brooks, please help me out of this. I’m suffocating.”

“How did you do it, Miss Lewis?” inquired the stately senior, who was Mary’s guest, wiping her eyes and gasping for breath as she spoke.

“It’s perfectly simple,” drawled Roberta indifferently. “The head is my black silk petticoat. I painted on the features, because the children like to have me do it at home, and it’s convenient to be ready. The arms are a broom-handle, stuck through the sleeves of this old coat, which is buttoned around my waist.”

“And now you’re going to do the Bandersnatch, aren’t you?” inquired the senior craftily, perceiving that the other side of the petticoat was decorated with curious red spots.

“I–how did you–oh, no,” said Roberta, blushing furiously, and stuffing the telltale petticoat under a convenient pillow. “I don’t know why I brought the things for this. I never meant to do it up here. I–I hope you weren’t bored. I just happened to think of it, and Eleanor couldn’t sing forever, and that fudge – ”

“That fudge won’t cook,” broke in Betty in tragic tones. “It doesn’t thicken at all, and it’s half-past nine this minute. What shall I do?”

Everybody crowded around the chafing-dish, giving advice and suggesting unfailing remedies. But none of them worked.

“And there’s nothing else but tea and chocolate,” wailed Adelaide.

“But you can all have both,” said Betty bravely, “and you’ve forgotten the crackers, Adelaide. I’ll pass them while you and Katherine go for more cups.”

“And you can send the fudge round to-morrow,” suggested Mary Brooks consolingly. “It’s quite the thing, you know. Don’t imagine that your chafing-dish is the only one that’s too slow for the ten-o’clock rule.”

Betty insisted upon sitting up to finish the fudge, but she ended by getting up before breakfast the next morning to cook it on Mrs. Chapin’s stove.

“Nobody seemed to care much about its being so slow, except me,” she said to Helen, as they did it up in neat little bundles to be handed to the guests of the evening at chapel. “Weren’t Eleanor and Roberta fine?”

“Yes,” agreed Helen enthusiastically. “But isn’t it queer that Roberta won’t let us praise her? She seems to be ashamed of being able to be so funny.”

Betty laughed. “That’s Roberta,” she said. “It will be months before she’ll do it again, I’m afraid. I suppose she felt last night as if she had to do what she could for the honor of the house, so she came out of her shell.”

“She told Rachel that she did it on your account. She said you looked as if you wanted to cry.”

Betty flushed prettily. “How nice of her! I did want to cry. I felt as if I was to blame about the fudge. I wish I had a nice stunt like that of Eleanor’s to come to people’s rescue with.”

“Were those what you call stunts?” inquired Helen earnestly. “I didn’t know what they were, but they were fine.”

“Why, Helen Chase Adams, do you mean that you’ve been in college two months and don’t know what a stunt is – ” began Betty, and stopped, blushing furiously and fearing that she had hurt Helen’s feelings. For the reason why she did not know about stunts was obvious.

Helen took it very simply. “You know I’m not asked to things outside,” she said, “and I don’t seem to be around when the girls do things here. So why should I know?”

“No reason at all,” said Betty decidedly. “They are just silly little parlor tricks anyway–most of them–not worth wasting time over. Do you know Miss Willis told us in English class that a great deal of slang originated in college, and she gave ‘stunt’ as an example. She said it had been used here ever so long and only a few years outside, in quite a different meaning. Isn’t that queer?”

“Yes,” said Helen indifferently. “She told my division too, but she didn’t say what it meant here. I suppose she thought we’d all know.”

Betty, stealing a glance at her, saw her wink back the tears. “She does care about the fun,” thought Betty. “She cares as much as Rachel or I, or Eleanor even. And she is left out. It isn’t a bit fair, but what’s to be done about it?”

Being young and very happy herself, she speedily forgot all about the knotty problem of the unequal distribution of this world’s goods, whether they be potatoes or fudge parties. Occasionally she remembered again, and gave Helen a helping hand, as she had done several times already. But college is much like the bigger world outside. The fittest survive on their own merits, and these must be obvious and well advertised, or they are in great danger of being overlooked. And it is safer in the long run to do one’s own advertising and to begin early. Eleanor understood this, but she forgot or ignored the other rules of the game. Betty practiced it unconsciously, which is the proper method. Helen never mastered its application and succeeded in spite of it.

Several evenings after that one on which the fudge had refused to cook, Alice Waite was trying to learn her history lesson, and her “queer” roommate, who loved to get into her bed as well as she hated to make it, was trying to go to sleep–an operation rendered difficult by the fact that the girl next door was cracking butternuts with a marble paper-weight–when there was a soft tap on the door.

“Don’t answer,” begged the sleepy roommate.

“May be important,” objected Alice, “but I won’t let her stay. Come in!”

The door opened and a young gentleman in correct evening dress, with an ulster folded neatly over his arm, entered the room and gazed, smiling and silent, about him. He was under average height, slightly built, and had a boyish, pleasant face that fitted ill with his apparent occupation as house-breaker and disturber of damsels.

The roommate, who had sat up in bed with the intention of repelling whatever intruder threatened her rest, gave a shriek of mingled terror and indignation and disappeared under the bedclothes. Alice rose, with as much dignity as the three heavy volumes which she held in her lap, and which had to be untangled from her kimono, would permit. She moved the screen around her now hysterical roommate and turned fiercely upon the young gentleman.

“How dare you!” she demanded sternly. “Go!” And she stamped her foot somewhat ineffectively, since she had on her worsted bedroom slippers.

At this the young gentleman’s smile broke into an unmistakably feminine giggle.

“Oh, you are so lovely!” he gurgled. “Don’t cry, Miss Madison. It’s not a real man. It’s only I–Betty Wales.”

“Betty!” gasped Alice. “Betty Wales, what are you doing? Is it really you?”

“Of course,” said Betty calmly, pulling off her wig by way of further evidence, and sitting down with careful regard for her coattails in the nearest chair. “I hope,” she added, “that I haven’t really worried Miss Madison. Take the screen away, Alice, and see what she’s doing.”

“Oh, I’m all right now, thank you,” said Miss Madison, pushing back the screen herself. “But you gave me an awful fright. What are you doing?”

“Why, we’re going to give a play at our house Saturday,” explained Betty, “and to-night was a dress rehearsal. I wanted to bring Alice a ticket, and I thought it would be fun to come in these clothes and frighten her; so I put on a skirt and a rain-coat and came along. I left my skirt in your entrance-way. Get it for me please, Alice, and I’ll put it on before I send any one else into hysterics.”