It wasn’t “all” to Betty, though. She had made up so many fairy stories for Jan and Jack in the past that she had grown used to weaving wonderful fancies out of very little material by dint of a great deal of imagination. Here, with Witch’s Wood as a background, and with the memory of the “fairy music” still echoing in her mind in spite of the superior looks of Rene and Mona, Betty felt herself equipped with material for a whole host of tales. There was no one to tell them to unfortunately, though; and her “supposings” met with a cold reception from two of the dormitory at least.
“You couldn’t have heard it. And Guides don’t believe in ghosts,” repeated Mona.
“Nor do I. Ghosts are silly and frightening,” burst out Betty impatiently. “I never said a word about them. Witches are quite different; they might be quite nice, only rather cross on top with unhappiness. And I am sure some Guides must believe in fairies anyway!”
But the others appeared to consider that the Mascot was not qualified to express such definite opinions. Only Gerry stood up for her friend.
“Truly, Mona, I don’t see why not either. Betty, you’d better ask Sybil—when you go to repeat the promises, you know. Oh, I say, that reminds me: she’ll never know them unless we help her now.”
The learning of the Guide promises had been a labour on which the whole dormitory had employed itself, anxious that the Mascot should be a credit to the patrol. By the end of her second week Betty was word perfect at least. She had learned to repeat that a Guide’s honour is to be trusted; that a Guide is loyal; that she is a friend of all, and so on: there were ten commandments in the law. Betty, studiously repeating them at odd moments, found herself wondering if she ever would be good enough to be elected a real Guide; whether she could ever be good enough to make the Guide’s promise! The rest of the guide work which Sybil had set her—the tying and untying of sundry boot-lace ends, under the direction of Mona on the lawn in the grounds, into knots—was just like play. There had been a Guiding practice too already; for the younger Guides, under the direction of Eve—Sybil’s second in the patrol—had to study some of the woodcraft signs, and how to track and trail. That, so Betty decided, had also been play.
But the promises and the law felt different—not play at all. And somehow, though she couldn’t explain it, the salute seemed to “come in between.”
“A kind of bridge the salute is. You feel sort of responsible when you salute, though it’s fun too. But the promises and the law couldn’t be fun,” was her summing up to Sybil on the Saturday, a fortnight after her arrival, when the head of the patrol had sent for the newest recruit.
“A bridge, is it? Well, perhaps,” agreed Sybil, smiling at the recruit. “Well, you can say the law through as well as any one of us, I think. But being word perfect, you know, is just the very beginning. Now let me see the reef-line knot. And you have been doing some gardening, I know.”
“Oh, Sybil,” Betty remembered suddenly, “may Guides believe in fairies?”