XX
Under the Lanterns
It is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and though Nora, Fil, Ingred, and Verity might chafe at being debarred from tennis for a whole week, their adventure in the garden had given them an idea. How it exactly originated could not be decided, for each fiercely claimed the full credit for it. Its evolution, however, was somewhat as follows:
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Stage 1. How lovely the garden looked in the evening.
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Stage 2. Why should we not all enjoy it some time?
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Stage 3. Miss Burd evidently does.
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Stage 4. And looked very fascinating in her white dressing-gown.
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Stage 5. It was exactly like a fancy dress.
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Stage 6. Why should not we all wear fancy dress?
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Stage 7. Let us ask Miss Burd to let the hostel have a fancy-dress dance in the school garden.
Great minds generally think in company, and often hit upon the same invention at the same moment, so perhaps all four girls had an equal share in the brainwave. They communicated it cautiously to companions, and as it “caught on” they sounded Mrs. Best, and finding her favorably disposed to the scheme, begged her to intercede for them with Miss Burd. The headmistress was wonderfully gracious about the matter, gave full permission for the dance, promised to be present herself, and allowed the invitation to be extended to any mistresses and seniors who would care to join the party. It was quite a long time since the hostel had had any particularly exciting doings, so that the girls flung themselves into their preparation with much enthusiasm. Those who were lucky enough already to possess fancy costumes, or who were able to borrow them, of course scored, and the rest set to work to manufacture anything that came to hand. It was to be in the nature of an impromptu affair, but a few days’ notice was given, and the girls were able to devote a Saturday to the all-absorbing problem. Ingred, home for the weekend, enlisted the help of Mother and Quenrede, and turned the bungalow almost upside down in her quest for suitable accessories. She thought of a number of characters she would have liked to impersonate, but was always balked by the lack of some vital article of dress.
“It’s no use!” she lamented. “I can’t be ‘Joan of Arc’ without a suit of armor, or ‘Queen Elizabeth’ when I haven’t a flowered velvet robe! I’m so tired of all the old things! It’s too stale to twist some roses in my hair for ‘Summer,’ and I’ve been a gipsy so often that everybody knows my red handkerchief and gilt beads. I’d as soon be a Red Indian squaw!”
“And why shouldn’t you be?” asked Quenrede. “It’s a remarkably pretty costume.”
“Oh, I dare say, if I could beg, borrow, or steal it!”
“You’ve no need to do either, my dear. I’ve had a brainwave, and we’ll fix it up for you at home. Yes, I mean it! Allow me to introduce myself: ‘Miss Quenrede Saxon, Court Costumier. The very latest theatrical productions.’ I’ll make you look so that your own mother will hardly know you!”
“I’d like to puzzle them!” rejoiced Ingred. “Miss Burd said she should have a parade, and hinted something about a prize. They always give points to whoever has the best disguise. Masks are barred, but we may paint our faces. I think I shall be rather choice as a squaw!”
“You ought to have me with you as your ‘brave’!” chuckled Hereward.
“It’s a ‘Ladies Only’ dance, so you can’t be invited, my boy! There won’t be a solitary masculine individual present—even the gardener will have gone home.”
“You bet folks will peep in!”
“No, they won’t. The premises are strictly private.”
Quenrede was in some respects a clever and ingenious little person. She was not much good at ordinary dressmaking, where fashion must be followed, but she displayed great originality in her construction of Ingred’s fancy costume. There were two clean sacks in the house, and she commandeered them. She cut one into a skirt and the other into a jumper, stitched up the sides, and frayed out the bottoms to represent fringes. Then she took her watercolor paints, mixed them with Chinese white to form a strong body color, and painted Indian patterns on both garments. The headdress she considered a triumph. She went to a neighboring poultry farm, and boldly begged the tail feathers which had been plucked the day before from some game fowls. These she glued round a cardboard crown, and the effect was magnificent. A dress rehearsal was held, and the family rejoiced over Ingred’s most decidedly Wild West appearance.
“You have a pair of real moccasins that Uncle Ernest sent you for bedroom slippers. I’ll cut some strips of cloth into fringe for leggings, and you can wear Athelstane’s leather belt, and carry an axe for a tomahawk,” said Quenrede, surveying her work with critical satisfaction. “Don’t forget to paint your face!”
“I shan’t show anyone my costume beforehand,” chuckled Ingred. “I really don’t believe anyone will know me! What luck if I won a prize for the best disguise!”
“Bet you anything you like you don’t!” murmured Hereward.
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because there may be others even better!”
“Well, of course, that’s for Miss Burd to judge! But I think I’ve a sporting chance, at any rate!”
The dance was to be held on Monday evening after supper, when it was just beginning to grow dusk. The mistresses had taken the matter up quite enthusiastically, and had stretched some wires across the garden, and hung up Chinese lanterns. The hostel piano had been pulled close to the window, so that the strains of music could float out into the garden. At least fifteen seniors had accepted the invitation, and it was rumored that Miss Burd had invited a few private friends. Supper was held earlier than usual, so as to allow time for the all-important operation of dressing, and the moment it was finished every inmate of the hostel fled to her
