Betty's Happy Year

“It’s too mean for anything!” declared Dorothy; “it takes the fun out of the whole thing.”

“Oh, no; it isn’t so bad as that,” said Betty, smiling through her gathering tears. “I s’pose I’ll get over my disappointment. And I’m silly to care so much, anyhow. What’s Constance?”

“She’s the Goddess,” said Dorothy, reluctantly, for this seemed to add another straw to Betty’s burden of woe.

“I’m glad of it,” said Betty, generously. “She’ll be a lovely goddess, she’s so pretty and graceful. Well, let me help you girls with your costumes, as long as I haven’t any of my own to fuss over. I can get an inexpensive, ‘simple sailor suit’ ready-made.”

Betty turned in at her own gate, and after their good-bys the other girls went on.

“It’s just horrid,” said Dorothy; “I know how bad Betty feels about it, and I’m going to ask Miss Whittier to change it somehow.”

“She won’t do it,” said Jeanette; “I wish she would, but I know she’ll say if she changes one she’ll have to change others, and it’ll be a regular mix-up.”

And that’s just what Miss Whittier did say, though in different words.

“No, my dear,” she said kindly, but decidedly, when Dorothy told her about it. “I’m sorry Betty is disappointed, but several of the girls have already asked to change their parts, and I’ve been obliged to say ‘no’ to each; so of course I can’t make an exception in favor of Betty.”

This settled it, and Betty accepted her fate, outwardly with a good grace, but secretly with a rebellious heart.

“It’s such a mistake,” she said to her mother, “for girls like Kate Alden and May Jennings would like to have only simple costumes to prepare. And they have to rig up as Martha Washington and Mary, Queen of Scots! Either of them would rather have Grace Darling, and only have to get a ‘simple sailor suit!’”

“It is too bad, Betty dear,” said her mother; “I’m just as sorry as I can be. But I can’t see any help for it, so we must submit.”

“Yes; I know it, and I’m not going to growl about it any more. But it does make me mad!”

Betty kicked a footstool, as if to relieve her overburdened feelings, and then laughed at herself for her foolishness.

She learned her lines carefully, determined to do her part as well as she could, if her dress was plain and inconspicuous.

Her speech was full of brave and noble thoughts, and Betty practised it often, and observed conscientiously her teacher’s instructions as to inflections and gestures. It was easy for Betty to learn by heart; so easy, indeed, that she unconsciously learned most of the other girls’ speeches by merely hearing them at rehearsals.

Often she would amuse her mother and Jack by breaking forth into some of the stilted lines of the play.

“I am Pocahontas,” she would say, striking an attitude of what she considered Indian effect; “I claim the prize, Goddess, because I, in years that are past, rendered a service – ”

“There, there, that will do, Betty!” Jack would cry. “You are a born actress, I know, but I’m studying my English history now, and Pocahontas doesn’t belong with the Saxon kings.”

“Oh, English history!” said Betty, mischievously.

Then, stalking grandly up to him, she held an umbrella for a scepter, and declaimed:

“Goddess of Honor! You see before you Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen. A noble monarch, not alone in power, but in majestic traits that won for her the loyalty and adoration of her loved and loving subjects. A queen who – ”

“Off with her head!” cried Jack, throwing a sofa-pillow at Betty, who promptly threw it back at him, and then ran laughing from the room.

It was not Betty’s way to mourn over what couldn’t be helped, so she went cheerfully with her mother to purchase the despised sailor suit. They bought the prettiest one they could find – a blue serge with white collar and cuffs and a silk sailor tie. But though it was becoming and would have looked just right had Betty been starting on a yachting cruise, it was not to be compared with the elaborate costumes most of the girls were preparing. And, though it was cold comfort, Betty was true to her word, and helped the others all she could to make their gowns effective. She lent her Roman sash, her embroidered Japanese kimono, and her spangled Egyptian scarf to girls who could use them effectively. She helped Dorothy with her Elizabethan garb, and Jeanette with her Joan of Arc costume.

As for the Goddess, Constance had a most resplendent robe. It was of soft white shimmering stuff dotted all over with gilt spangles. Billows of this material fell from her shoulders in long, graceful folds, and swept away in a rippling train. A high crown of golden filigree-work was to be worn on her beautiful, fair hair, and while in one hand she was to hold a classic scroll, in the other she was to carry aloft a long, slender, gilt trumpet. The costume was superb, and almost took Betty’s breath away when she first saw it.

“Oh, Constance,” she said, “let me try it on, do! Just for a minute! I’ll be awfully careful of it.”

Constance agreed, of course, though she secretly feared that impetuous Betty might tear the gauzy stuff.

But Betty donned it almost reverently, and then, imitating Constance’s pose, as she had seen her at rehearsal, she began:

“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those who nobly and unflinchingly do their bravest and best, I come unsummoned! I am here to-night, bearing the Chaplet of Honor, the award of Fame. To whom shall I award it? Who best deserves the greatest guerdon, the highest honor Fame can bestow? Speak, noble women of all time, speak, and claim your due!”

So often had Betty heard Constance declaim these ringing lines at rehearsal that she knew them as well as her own, and so inspired was she by the beautiful raiment she had on that her oratory was quite in spirit with the character.

“Good gracious, Betty!” said Constance, “I didn’t know you could recite so well. Try your own speech now; it’s a good chance to rehearse. But get out of that gown first. I’m terribly afraid you’ll catch it on something.”

“No, I won’t,” said Betty, stepping gingerly out of the glistening mass as it fell about her feet. “Now listen to mine.”

She recited the lines Grace Darling was supposed to speak, and so earnestly did she tell of the noble work she had done in saving life that it seemed as if the most stony-hearted of goddesses must be moved to award her the Chaplet of Honor.

It was not known even yet who should receive the wreath. Each girl was expected to do her best, and after all had taken part, the Goddess would make the award. Of course it was arranged beforehand who should have it, but, as this was not known, each secretly hoped for it.

At last the day of the great event arrived.

The entertainment would begin at eight o’clock, but the girls were requested to be at the school at half-past seven.

Some of them dressed at home and came all ready for the stage, but those who had more elaborate or eccentric costumes brought them with them and dressed at the school. Betty dressed at home, for her sailor suit could easily be worn under a light coat. She went with a heavy heart, for, though she had scolded herself for being a silly, and had forced herself to make believe she didn’t mind, yet when the evening arrived, and she saw many of the other girls in glittering, fanciful dresses, she felt again the bitter disappointment of her plain little frock.

“Remember, Betty girl,” said her mother, as they separated, Betty to go to the school-room and Mrs. McGuire to the audience-room, “you must make your success by your own work to-night. The others may have beautiful trappings, but you must win out by your really good work in declamation. Win the hearts of the audience by your pathetic story of Grace Darling’s work, and you may represent the part better than those who have elaborate costumes do theirs.”

Betty smiled, knowing her mother’s advice was good, and yet unable to repress a little feeling of envy as she saw the resplendent figures all around her. But she could and did help showing it.

She went about among the girls, helping one or another to adjust her adornments, or prompting some one who was frantically rehearsing her lines.

“I can prompt any of you, if you need it,” said Betty, laughing, “for I do believe I know every line of this whole play. I didn’t try to learn it, but I’ve heard it so often, it sticks in my head.”

At eight o’clock Miss Whittier marshaled them in order to go on the stage. Of course the curtain was still down, as the Goddess had not yet taken her place, but after its rising the others were to enter one by one and address themselves to the arbiter of their fates. They waited, almost breathlessly, in the hush that always comes before the lifting of a curtain.

“Where is Constance Harper?” asked Miss Whittier, in a whisper, of another teacher.

“I don’t know,” was the reply. “I supposed, of course, she was here. She said she’d dress at home, as her robe is so frail, and that she’d be here, all ready to go on the stage, at quarter to eight.”

“Dear me,” thought Betty, “Constance is nearly always late, but I thought she’d be on time to-night.”

Of course, at such entertainments, no one is greatly surprised if the performance is a little delayed, but the absence of Constance seemed ominous to Miss Whittier.

“I think we’d better send for her,” she began, when a man came in, in breathless haste. He carried a large white box, and, going straight to Miss Whittier, he said rapidly:

“Miss Constance, ma’am, she sprained her ankle – just now. She slipped coming down-stairs, and she can’t walk nohow.”

“Sprained her ankle!” cried Miss Whittier. “Can’t she be here to-night? Who are you?”

“I’m Mrs. Harper’s coachman, ma’am; and Miss Constance she was all dressed in her angel clothes and all, and jest goin’ to get in the kerridge, when she slipped on the shiny stair, and her high-heeled slipper twisted somehow, and she jest sprained her ankle. So Mrs. Harper, soon’s she could, she got the party clo’es offen her, and she’s sent them to you, ’cause she says somebody else’ll have to do Miss Constance’s piece to-night.”