Betty Wales decides

“Wait till I get home from Germany!” repeated Jim, when he had explained that he was sailing in ten days, and Betty had explained that getting ready to be married takes ages and ages. “Never mind a trousseau! Never mind a linen chest! Never mind even a wedding dress! Let’s just be married. That’s the best way, I think, no matter how much time you’ve got. We can run over to Paris—we shall probably have to anyway—and you can shop there while I work. You can do anything you like all the rest of your life, if you’ll only marry me some day next week. Honestly now, Betty, do you care about the fuss of weddings?”

“N-o,” confessed Betty hesitatingly. “I guess not. I’m rather tired just now of all kinds of fuss and complications and crowds.”

“Then will you marry me some day next week?” asked Jim again with his broadest, most persuasive smile.

“Yes, I will,” said Betty Wales, and that matter was definitely settled.

“I think ends are frightful,” Betty confided to Madeline, who was helping her pack up on the day after commencement. “I’m glad I’ve got to hurry, because it will soon be over—the end of Betty Wales. Ends are frightful, because you have to finish everything up just so. No more chances to try again, or smooth things over, or change to something else. And a messy person like me has so many silly little odds and ends to attend to.”

“Such as?” queried Madeline, absently packing a brass candlestick on top of Betty’s best hat.

Betty rescued the hat skilfully. “Since I’m not going to have any bride things to speak of I must save what I’ve got,” she explained. “Oh, odds and ends like seeing that the shy, homely girls on the summer employment list get positions right away, because the new secretary mightn’t think they were good for much; and seeing that Emily Davis isn’t putting herself out too much by staying on for a while to coach Georgia; and trimming Nora’s little niece’s hat, as I’ve done every summer, until she’s gotten to depend on it; and saying good-bye to the Stocking Factory people that I know best; and—oh, dozens of silly little things like those.”

“Incidentally you’ve got to decide on a wedding day, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Betty easily. “That is, I wrote to Mother to choose any day she preferred the week after Babbie’s. I’m too busy to think, and the day really doesn’t matter. It’s going to be at our Lakeside cottage, you know,—on the big back piazza, I guess, because that’s the prettiest, biggest room in the house.”

A few minutes later a maid brought a telegram to Betty: “Lakeside cottage burned down last night. How about that impromptu wedding? Will Wales.”

“Gracious, what a mess!” exclaimed Betty, and looked very sober for at least three minutes. Then she smiled again. “I’m glad that the cottage burned down now, if it had to burn at all. Lakeside is so dreadfully sandy, and now that we haven’t any house at all, I can just as well be married in the very place that I’ve always wanted to go to a wedding in. I can stay here quietly with Dorothy, except when I rush off to Babbie’s, and Nan can come up from Boston a lot easier than she can go to Cleveland, and Mother and Father and Will can come here as well as not. They’ve never seen the Tally-ho, and they ought to, before it stops being a little speck mine. And so I can be married in that little glade in Paradise—the one that widens out from the narrow path that looks like an aisle.”

“How lovely!” cried Madeline eagerly. “I should think that was nicer than any cottage! And the bridal party and the guests can go in boats—so much more romantic than carriages or motor-cars.”

“And the wedding feast can be a picnic,” laughed Betty. “Bob will be extra-specially delighted with that idea.”

“And the music——” began Madeline, when the maid interrupted again. This time it was callers.

“A lady and a gentleman,” Maggie explained. “They didn’t give no names.”

“The tribe of O’Toole,” Madeline guessed gaily, “come to reproach you for your prospective abandonment of their offspring, and for having let Straight Dutton give her that dreadful dictionary of slang. Her conversation is a mass of quotations from it.”

“Oh, dear, I hope they won’t be cross about anything,” sighed Betty, starting for the door.

“If they are, call me. I’ll finish them in short order,” Madeline promised savagely.

Betty was gone a long time, but she did not send for Madeline, who, forgetting that the new wedding arrangement would defer packing, continued to pile candlesticks upon hats and to stuff Betty’s fresh shirt-waists into her chafing-dish and her copper teakettle, to save room. Finally a lazy mood fell upon her, and she curled up on Betty’s cushioned window-seat, to think about the picnic-wedding—how she would trim the bride’s boat, and what would be the very nicest “eats” for a wedding feast in a wood. It was to be a Wedding Feast, with capitals, Madeline decided; calling it a picnic took away the novelty and the dignity of the occasion.

“What do you think?” began Betty Wales, breaking excitedly into Madeline’s meditations. “What do you think has happened now, Madeline Ayres?”

“Paradise hasn’t burned up too, has it?” asked Madeline lazily. “Because I’m planning the loveliest features for a Paradise wedding.”

“Don’t be silly, Madeline.” Betty ungratefully ignored the promised features.

“Well, have the O’Tooles persuaded you that it’s a fatal mistake for you to abandon Montana Marie?”

“Please don’t be silly,” Betty reiterated. “It’s nothing about the wedding or about me. It’s about Harding. Mr. O’Toole is just splendid, Madeline. He’s quick-tempered and short-spoken like Mr. Morton, but he’s awfully nice. And he’s going to give Harding—well, it’s not decided what, but something perfectly splendid.”

“Oh, was that why President Wallace was so interested in your freshman?”

“Certainly not,” said Betty, with much dignity. “But I know now why President Wallace was so anxious to have her get through successfully. You know there was a lot of trouble about her entering Harding, and Mrs. O’Toole kept on insisting, because she hates to have Marie disappointed in anything. She had always bought things for her before, so she tried to buy her a chance to enter Harding without entrance conditions or any worries of that kind. Of course President Wallace refused, but he was sorry for Marie and he let her in, as he sometimes has other exceptional girls, on condition that she should keep her work strictly up to the standard. Then he was naturally anxious for her to succeed, both for her own sake and to show her mother that honest work and not money are the requirements of this college. Mr. O’Toole understood all that. He was dreadfully annoyed when he heard what his wife had done. He says if he had been President Wallace he’d have just ‘sent those fool women-folk flying.’ He thinks President Wallace has done a lot for Marie, and now he wants to ‘square up,’ as he calls it. He wants me to suggest what Harding needs, and to explain to President Wallace that this gift is entirely different from Mrs. O’Toole’s offer. That won’t be hard, since Marie is going to leave.”

“Is she?” cried Madeline, making a wry face. “Just as I’d definitely decided to use her for the heroine of my next novel!”

“Mrs. O’Toole has decided that she cares less about a title in the family than about Marie’s being happy, and as Marie never had any trouble in deciding what she couldn’t live without, she’s going to marry a nice man from Montana just as soon as she can get ready. Next fall, I suppose that will be.”

“She’s been rather amusing,” reflected Madeline, “if she has bothered a lot at times.”

Betty stared, wide-eyed, at this wrong-headed view of things. “She never meant to bother. And she was the one who made me decide about Jim.”

Madeline laughed gleefully. “I wondered how long you’d keep on talking as if splendid gifts to Harding College were your chief interest in life, Betty Wales. By the way, speaking of tea-shops, has Mr. Morton answered your letter?”

“He telegraphed,” Betty explained. “He just said, ‘He’s a nice boy, Miss B. A., and you can manage him, so I wish you much joy.’ Not a word about the Coach and Six. I hope he isn’t hurt at my backing out. Do you think he can be, Madeline?”

For answer Madeline picked her small friend up and tucked her in among the cushions of the window-seat. “You are not to worry about people’s feeling hurt,” she ordered. “People will feel sorry, of course—foolish people like me. I have an idea that I’m going to miss you fearfully, Betty Wales. A career is an awfully lonely thing, the week your very best little pal is getting married. But you’ve always been true to your title. You’ve been Miss B. A. to Mr. Morton and to every single other soul you’ve ever had anything to do with. That’s why we’re bound not to lose you now, for all of Jim.”

“You dear old Madeline! As if Jim or I wanted to lose our dearest friends! Now tell me about the wedding-with-features, so I can write it all to Mother, and then she won’t mind so much about the cottage. And help me think of some splendid gifts to suggest to President Wallace, so I can see him to-day, and then write to Mr. O’Toole that it’s all arranged. And help me to try on my bridesmaid’s dress for Babbie’s wedding, to be sure if it fits. See how I can’t get along without you, you dear silly Madeline!”

“That’s one way to say it,” Madeline told her, “but the truth is—— Oh, stop me, somebody! If I get to sentimentalizing over the happy past I shall weep, and with a rapid succession of festal occasions looming before me I can’t spare a handkerchief so early in the game.”

The day of the Paradise wedding-with-features was a made-to-order feature in itself. The sun sparkled on the water. A tricksy little wind rippled the waves, and ruffled the leaves of Paradise wood. In the deep, still glades the thrushes sang like mad. The bride’s boat, from edge to water-line, was a mass of fine white “bridal wreath” blossoms. The groom’s boat was decked with laurel. The guests sat among daisy-wreaths. Somewhere in the wood human musicians were hidden, and their notes came faint and far and fairylike in the pauses of the thrushes’ concert. Betty’s soft white dress didn’t, as K. said, look a bit “wedding-i-fied.” She looked like a sweet spring flower, against the shadowy green of the wedding aisle, down which she came with her father, the Smallest Sister leading the way, proud and anxious and much excited, in her capacity of solitary attendant. There were no bridesmaids, because Betty hadn’t been able to choose among the Merry Hearts.

“And if I have them all,” she said, “why, there’ll be more bridesmaids than wedding guests.”

Madeline had superintended the roping-off of the chosen glade with daisy-chains, and bunches of daises tied to the branches of the trees at one end made a blossomy background for the bridal party to stand against.

“Oh, it takes such a little minute to be married!” cried Betty Wales in an awestruck voice, when it was over.

“It’s going to take time to eat the Wedding Feast,” Madeline announced, and led the way down a little side-path to the water’s edge. There the Wedding Feast was spread on a long table, lovely with ferns and more daisies. Bridget and Nora were in charge, but under them worked a small army of water-nymphs, dryads, elves, and woodland fairies, who seated the guests and then served them, giving odd, fairy names to prosaic dishes, and pausing in their labors to dance, sing, and chant the Lay of the Woodland Wedding, which Madeline and Helen Adams had sat up the whole night before Babbie’s wedding to compose, as an engagement present for Betty Wales. The nymphs, elves, and fairies were professors’ small sons and daughters, not yet off on their vacations, and Stocking Factory children from the other hill—all as merry and companionable together as possible. Mary Brooks Hinsdale and Emily Davis had dressed them, according to Madeline’s orders. Georgia Ames had taught them the songs and the Woodland Wedding Lay, and Bob, who had learned a lot of folk-dances at a New York settlement, came up two days early to contribute her share to the Loveliest Wedding.

That was what Mary christened it, as the wedding party took ship again; and Mary’s names always stuck.

“Oh, it is, of course,” agreed Babbie, a little wistfully. She and Mr. Thayer had planned their journeyings to include Betty’s wedding. “And the most impromptu. It makes even yours seem quite cold and formal, Mary.”

“For once,” put in Bob placidly, “I’ve eaten as much wedding cake as I wanted. Picnics are the only time you can eat all you want, you know, and still be a perfect lady. That’s why I particularly adore them.”

Up at Morton Hall Jasper J. Morton, who had come to the wedding with Babe and John, was berating them both roundly because he had forgotten most of his present for Betty—the part he had remembered was merely a wonderful old silver tea-service fit for a princess.

“Oh, well, it’s no matter,” he acknowledged at last. “Nothing to boil over at, Miss B. A. It’s very easy to describe the missing articles—a deed to the Coach and Six and to my share in the Tally-ho. Conditioned on your dining with me once every time you come to New York to look after your properties.”

Betty gasped. “Oh, Mr. Morton, you shouldn’t give me anything more. It isn’t right to give two—three wedding presents. Such splendid ones, too!”

Mr. Morton smiled at her fondly. “You’ve given me lots of presents, Miss B. A.,—a kind friend, a keen critic, a cure-all for bad temper and impatience, and a teacher of all the fun there is in life, the real fun that doesn’t depend on ‘doing’ the other fellow in business. Besides, Miss B. A., about that tea-shop now. I’m a selfish old man. I don’t want a tea-shop, and I do want to hang on to you. I’m interested in your business theories.” He chuckled. “I want you to keep on discovering ’em. I’m glad you’re Mrs. Jim Watson”—Betty jumped at the strange new name—“but I’ll wager young Watson here doesn’t want you to settle down into just Mrs. Jim. It’ll do you good to have a tea-shop to think about sometimes. Not to worry about, mind you; the Coach and Six is on a sound business basis. And remember, Miss B. A., there’s one thing I haven’t changed about. I always did perfectly hate to be thanked.”

“Then I shan’t try,” laughed Betty. “And I shan’t let you off one of those dinners. I shall love having the tea-shops. It makes me feel less as if this was the end of Betty Wales—less as if I’d been blown out to make room for Mrs. Jim.” Betty made a funny little face at Jim, who retorted with, “Haven’t forgotten that train, have you, Mrs. Jim?”

When the carriage came for them, the elves and wood fairies surrounded it and pelted the bridal couple with armfuls of daisies instead of rice and old shoes. So it was through a rain of daisies that Betty caught her last glimpse of the Merry Hearts, who stood in a little group by themselves waving her off.

“Good-bye, Betty Wales.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Jim.”

The carriage had rounded the curve in the road, but the Merry Hearts still stared after it in rather somber silence.

“Just the same——” Madeline broke the pause disconsolately. “Just the same, it is the end of Betty Wales.”

“Yes,” agreed Eleanor chokingly.

“Certainly it is,” put in Mary Brooks decisively “And high time, in my opinion. Do you want her to wear herself out doing things for other people, with nobody whose special business it is to do things for her? Do you want her to miss any of the good things life has for her? I say, hurrah for Montana Marie O’Toole, who helped Betty decide on Jim.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Hinsdale,” broke in Mr. Morton excitedly. “I’ve been doing my best for some time, but I guess I’m a poor hand at matchmaking. Anyhow it took the young lady from Montana to pull this affair off.”

“Things were so nice as they were,” mourned Madeline.

“They’re terribly nice as they are, I think,” said little Helen Adams eagerly.

“Hurrah for the end of Betty Wales!” cried Bob.

“Hurrah for Betty Wales herself!” put in Madeline.

“Hurrah for Mrs. Jim!” shouted all the Merry Hearts together, so loudly that Betty and Jim, who had stopped the carriage just around the curve to shake off the daisies, heard it and smiled appreciatively at each other.

“And for Mr. Jim!” went on the chorus impartially. “And for their married life!” it ended, to round out the subject.

Betty snuggled closer to Jim. “It’s all been lovely, and I shall like having the tea-shops to remind me of old times, but I like most extra-specially much being just Mrs. Jim.”

“And I like more extra-specially than I can say having you for Mrs. Jim,” her husband told her.

“Then everything is extra-specially all right, isn’t it?” said Betty Wales Watson, with a happy little smile.

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