Chapter 2 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.