Читать книгу Betty Wales, Junior - Edith K. Dunton - Страница 6

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They were all in number 27 Belden, which, in spite of its small size, or perhaps because its small size made it seem particularly cozy, was their favorite rendezvous during junior year. “They” means the “clan,” which had been developed from the “old guard” of freshman year by a few subtractions and several important additions. The three B’s belonged, of course, and Madeline Ayres and Nita Reese. Mary Brooks was the privileged senior member. Rachel met with the clan when she could, but her conditioned freshmen took up most of her spare time, and in her few leisure moments what she liked best was a quiet talk with Betty, or a brisk tramp through the woods with Katherine or Roberta. Eleanor Watson had never really fitted in with the rest of Betty’s friends, and now she was more of an outsider than ever. The story of her sophomore year had been circulated widely among the influential girls at Harding. Only the bare facts had leaked out, and there was no proof of them; but Eleanor’s previous career at Harding made it much easier to believe than to discredit such a story. Very few of the girls felt, as Mary Brooks did, that the resignation from Dramatic Club entitled Eleanor to any special consideration; and since young people are almost invariably cruel when they mean only to be just, Eleanor had had to brave both open scorn and veiled hostility. But she did not flinch. She was almost pathetically grateful to Mary and Marion Lawrence, to Miss Ferris, and to Rachel and Katherine, but she would not let Betty force her upon the rest of the clan.

“I’ll come to see you when you’re alone,” she said, “but you must wait till I’ve proved to the others that I’m different. Of course they don’t trust me or like me now. How could they?”

So Betty waited, sure that in the end Eleanor would win back the confidence that she had forfeited, and gain besides respect and love for the stronger, sweeter nature that she was developing.

It is odd how positions shift. Eleanor Watson had spoiled all the chances that had seemed so brilliant at the beginning of her college course, and Helen Adams, shy, awkward, unfriended little freshman, had become that envied and enviable personage, a “prominent girl.” Betty had helped, and Madeline and Miss Mills, but Lucile, without trying to, had done more than any of them. She regarded her roommate in the light of a strange phenomenon, both amazing and amusing and absolutely unique in her experience of girls; and she spread this view of Helen widely among her freshman friends. And Helen blossomed out. She saw that at last the girls really liked her for herself, and enjoyed her quaint little fancies and original ideas about persons and places. And so, as Mary Brooks put it, she let herself go; she forgot to be sensitive and frightened and ill at ease, and before she knew it all her dreams were coming true. She was somebody “at last”; the class of 19— and the clan both wanted her and were proud of her.

So she was in “twenty-seven” that night, and Katherine, of course, and Roberta, who was hardly sociable enough to be on the footing of regular membership in the clan, but who followed Mary to its gatherings as she would have followed her through fire and water if Mary had been bound that way.

Madeline Ayres was doing a French song, in a costume that she had improvised for the occasion out of a black silk scarf, a bunch of pink roses, and a peacock-feather fan. The song was so very slangy that no one but Madeline had much idea what it meant; but the rhythm and Madeline’s pantomime were delicious, and though she sang all the verses and composed several new impromptu ones, her audience still clamored for more. When she finally declared that she had “positively finished” and they might as well stop teasing first as last, Babbie arose gravely and gave an imitation of a nervous little girl speaking “Mary had a little lamb.” Babbie had never done a “stunt” before, and the delight of her friends in this new accomplishment was unbounded.

“And now let’s have the rabbit,” said Mary Brooks, when the applause had died away. “It’s getting late and we don’t want to be too hurried. We can have more stunts later if there’s any time.”

“The rabbit!” repeated Betty in mystified tones. “Whoever said anything about a rabbit?”

“I did,” confessed Katherine bravely. “That is, I told Mary that we didn’t have a thing fit to eat for supper at the Westcott, and that I thought perhaps——”

“All right,” said Betty, laughing, “but it can’t be a rabbit, because I haven’t any cheese. Will tea do?”

“Bob’s got cheese,” announced Babe. “Last time we had a rabbit party we forgot about cheese till we had lighted the chafing-dish. So we sent Bob for it, and she bought five pounds.”

“Well,” Bob defended herself, “there were piles of people there, and I knew that five quarts of ice cream isn’t any too much for a spread, so I thought——”

“Hurry now, Bob,” ordered Mary, selecting an ulster from the pile in the corner, and hustling the rebellious Bob into it and out the door.

“I think it’s rather hard on Bob to have to help me give a party, just because K. happens to be hungry,” said Betty.

“I’m ravenous too,” announced Rachel.

“So am I,” added Madeline, “and so are we all. Have you plenty of crackers, Betty?”

“I think so,” said Betty, tugging at the lowest drawer of the chiffonier. “I keep them in here because it shuts so tight that the mice don’t smell them.”

“And other thieves cannot break through and borrow,” murmured Katherine, applying her basket-ball arm to the refractory drawer.

Bob presently returned with the cheese, and the rabbit was well under way, when Nita Reese spied a new pin on Helen’s stock. “What’s that, Helen?” she asked.

“Philosophical Club,” announced Helen proudly. “I was taken in last Saturday.”

Mary Brooks reached over Roberta’s shoulder and unceremoniously helped herself to the pin. “It’s awfully pretty,” she said. “What does it mean?”

Helen explained, and the pin, which was the emblem of a new and very learned Harding society, went around the circle.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Babe, when it reached her, “I wish I could be a prod. in something! I shall never go into Dramatic Club or Clio, because Babbie’s in one and Bob’s in the other, and they think two of us is enough to take. I couldn’t possibly get into any of the learned societies, like this one, and I’m not musical, so I can’t belong to the Glee or Banjo Clubs. I’ve lost my class-pin, and I shan’t have another till I’m an ‘alum.’ Besides everybody can wear the alumnæ pin, so who cares for that?” Babe’s long plaint ended in a dolorous sigh.

“Poor Babe!” laughed Betty. “Why don’t you B’s have a pin of your own? Three B’s would make a lovely monogram.”

Babe shook her head. “No, because when I came back to visit after I’m out nobody would know what it meant. I want to belong to something that will keep on always, and amount to something.” Babe tumbled back on the couch with a vehemence that upset the alcohol bottle, and sent its contents streaming over Betty’s desk.

When the dripping papers had been laid out to dry and order was once more restored, the silent Roberta electrified the assembly by making a suggestion. “I think it would be lots of fun for those of us who are here to organize a society. We could have a pin, and when we leave we could pass the society down to a crowd in one of the lower classes.”

“Hear! Hear!” cried Babe wildly.

“Well, you mustn’t count me in,” said Mary Brooks. “I’ve spent all my November allowance already, and besides, I hate pins. The pretty ones get lost the first thing, and the homely ones just lie around till they’re too tarnished to wear. Anyway, I have six now, or I should have if they weren’t mostly lost—or lent,” concluded Mary, smiling absently as she thought of the whereabouts of some of the absentees.

Babe and Roberta looked crestfallen at Mary’s dash of cold water, and Betty hastened to the rescue. “I think it would be lovely to have a society,” she said. “Why not have it fixed so that whoever wants the pin can have it, and those who don’t care for it or can’t afford it, like the penniless Miss Brooks, can belong just the same?”

“You might make the ones who don’t wear pins officers,” suggested Madeline.

“Happy thought,” agreed Mary. “But then, of course, you’d want me for president anyway, because I’m the only senior.”

“No reason at all,” said Katherine, severely. “You’ve been holding the whip-hand over us ever since we were freshmen. All the same I move that the secretary be instructed to cast a unanimous ballot for the penniless Miss Brooks.”

“But there isn’t any secretary,” objected matter-of-fact Helen.

“Madeline can be secretary,” suggested Babbie, “because she’s had experience.”

“All right,” agreed Madeline, complacently. “Only I won’t write any reports, because nobody ever wants to hear them and I object to making a bore of myself.”

“Good point,” said Katherine. “Madame President, I move that in the—what’s going to be the name of this organization, girls? Well, anyhow, I move that the secretary be instructed to write no reports.”

“I think motions are just as much of a bore as reports,” declared Babbie. “Let’s not have any of those either.”

“Then how can we do any business?” asked Helen.

“Perhaps we shan’t have any to do,” suggested Betty. “But does anybody object to names? Because it does seem as if we needed a name.”

No one objected to naming the organization, and the president announced that she awaited suggestions. The assembly was lost in deep thought.

“Don’t you think,” said Betty at last, “that the name you give a society depends a good deal on what kind of society it is? Don’t you think we ought to decide on the object first?”

“Oh, but I detest objects,” broke in Madeline, hastily. “If you’re going to have an object I shall really have to resign.”

“But Madeline,” protested Betty, “we must have that, you know. What’s the use of a club without one?”

“Gives me a chance to wear a pin,” answered Babe promptly.

“Don’t you think,” ventured Roberta timidly, “that ‘The Merry Hearts’ would be a good name for us?”

“Splendid! Fine! Just the thing!” chorused everybody at once.

“Now Betty Wales,” shouted Madeline in triumph, as soon as she could be heard above the din, “can’t you see that an object isn’t at all necessary? ‘The Merry Hearts’ needn’t do a thing but enjoy themselves.”

“Well then, that’s an object, isn’t it?” retorted Helen, rushing gallantly to Betty’s defense. “Having a good time is an object just as much as sending missionaries to China.”

“I suppose it is,” confessed Madeline, resignedly. “Anyhow, I can’t hope to win an argument against the prod. of the logic class and a member of Philosophical, so I give up.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about Logic,” said Babe, “but I’m sure that this is just the name we want. Everybody knows that we have the best time going. And when we go we can pass the society on to the jolliest crowd that’s left.”

“But don’t you think,” began Katherine, dubiously, “that it’s rather silly for us to have a society just for fun? We’re called ‘The Clan’ now, you know. We see one another all the time, and we couldn’t possibly have more fun than we do as it is.”

“Oh, but it will be so much stuntier this new way,” demurred Bob.

Betty had been listening to the discussion rather absently, wanting to make a suggestion and wondering how the girls would receive it. She had not forgotten her last evening with Dorothy King, nor Dorothy’s parting injunction. “See that everybody has a fair chance and a good time,” Dorothy had said, and Betty had been trying to do it. But Harding was a big college, and there were so many other things to attend to. If only the clan would help! Katherine’s speech gave her her opportunity, and she seized it eagerly.

“Oh, girls,” she said, “don’t you think it would be nice for ‘The Merry Hearts’ to try to make other people have a good time too? As K. says, we have as much fun as we possibly can now; and so many girls don’t have any. Don’t you think it would be nice to try to make more ‘Merry Hearts’ in Harding?”

Most of the clan looked doubtful, and Babe’s smooth forehead was puckered into a frown of disapproval. “Anybody can have a good time here if they try,” she asserted ungrammatically.

“No, they can’t,” said Helen quickly. “Some of them don’t know how.”

“Then they ought to learn,” declared Madeline. “In Bohemian New York, everybody has good times.”

“But Madeline,” broke in Nita Reese solemnly, “I know a sophomore who’s never been to a house dance or play or to an open meeting of one of the societies. What do you think of that?”

“I should think you’d better ask her to the next Belden House play,” laughed Katherine.

“Nevertheless,” Madeline took her up, “she may be just as happy as you are, Nita. A person isn’t really and truly happy until she’s learned that it’s not what you have, or what you do, that counts, nor even your friends, but just yourself; and you can make of yourself just about what you choose to. That’s the spirit of Bohemia, and if Betty wants ‘The Merry Hearts’ to encourage it here, why, I’m with her.”

“Girls,” called Mary Brooks, rapping for order with the chafing-dish spoon, “I foresee that this discussion isn’t coming out anywhere, and besides, the rules of the society prevent our putting the question to vote. So I shall settle it in accordance with the policy of ‘The Merry Hearts.’ Whoever likes Betty’s idea can act upon it. The rest needn’t. Only I want to say this,” went on Mary quickly. “I’ve found out lately that you can have plenty of fun when you’re doing things for other people. I never used to think so, but there was the Student’s Aid Fair last year, for instance. I never had more fun out of anything, and yet it helped a lot of girls to stay in college. I think it would be fine for ‘The Merry Hearts’ to get up something like that this year, don’t you?”

“Capital! Great! The very thing!” chorused “The Merry Hearts.”

“Oh, that’s right in our line,” conceded Babe. “But I didn’t think Betty meant having fairs and things. I thought she meant being nice to freaks.”

Everybody laughed.

“I did mean something more like that, Babe,” Betty explained. “But I think Mary’s idea is lovely too.”

“Well, why can’t we do both?” asked Katherine.

“We certainly can,” declared Mary. “One comes under the wording of the name just as much as the other, though I fancy that Betty’s idea is more useful. The anti-snob spirit is certainly needed in this college, and I hope ‘The Merry Hearts’ will show a lot of it. Now I appoint Babe and Roberta pin committee, and Madeline special lecturer on the Bohemian spirit. You can write it up for the ‘Argus’ too, Madeline. I’m always wanting essays for my department. And now I’m happy to say that the next business of this meeting is to eat up the rabbit.”