“Yes, aren’t they? Well, the facts will be sure to come out some day, for this world is small, after all, and what we learned, others will be sure to learn, too. There is no harm at all in it, but Miss Dunbar and that set of girls who fawn so around her, would never speak to her again. You’ll see.”
“I don’t like to think that you are a true prophet, Dolly, for the sake of our sex. Why should we be more ungenerous to Margaret Hamilton than the Harvard boys are to Mr. Steele?”
“There is no reason at all why we should be, and if the test ever comes, I, for one, shall stand by her.”
“And I, too,” said Beth. “Though I hope the necessity will never arise.” It did, however, and the two girls proved true to their promises.
College Hall was crowded that evening. Friends from the town had been invited, and everyone was anxious to see what the freshmen class could do. Whispers of something a little beyond the ordinary had gotten out, and all were expectant.
There was a spontaneous burst of applause when the curtain went up, and showed the picturesque setting of the first scene, representative of the grove in the college grounds. The girls were at their best, and everything went smoothly during the first three acts. The fourth act was the last, and the most difficult singing and acting came in it. All had gone perfectly so far, and the class president’s face began to look serene and confident.
Miss Willing’s solo was near the end. There had been no flaw up to that point, but when it came time for her to break in with the merry, half-saucy characterization of the other classes, there was an ominous silence. Dolly and Beth, glancing at her, and recalling what Margaret Hamilton had said, realized that the girl’s memory had failed her entirely, just through sheer nervousness. The president’s face turned pale. She had so wished this to be a most notable success; it seemed imperative to her, for many reasons. She wished to please one most dear to her, and then, too, if she could win these laurels for her class, no matter what might happen in the future, the girls could not be utterly ungrateful to her.
And now Ada Willing was turning her wonderful success in to a most disastrous defeat. It all meant so much to Margaret Hamilton. She recalled the words perfectly herself, and longed to take the solo into her own hands, but this was a soprano solo which she could not hope to compass with a contralto voice. She was tasting the full bitterness of defeat, when a voice broke out with the solo, clear, sweet, piquant–not Ada Willing’s voice, but Beth’s. And Beth put a verve and daring into the words which Miss Willing was perfectly incompetent to do.
Verse after verse flowed on, smoothly, triumphantly. The whole hall was shaking with unrestrained laughter. The president’s color came back to cheeks and lips. Beth had saved the day; she was doing better than Ada Willing could have done, for she was an inimitable actress, and in her song she rapidly personified sophomores, juniors and seniors, as well as professors, in a manner that was perfectly unmistakable.
The applause was so generous and long-continued, that Beth was forced to repeat some portions several times. When the curtain went down shortly after that, for the last time, Beth was surrounded by rapturous classmates who were ready to fall on her neck or carry her around the grounds, for thus saving their reputation.