However, as the Fête was to be held at Betty’s home, it was only right that she should be the principal in the management of it, and most of the girls were quite content to have it so.
Betty had invited four girls from Boston, and Dorothy, Jeanette, Constance, and Lena arrived a few days before the Fourth, quite ready to take part in the festivities.
The Van Courts, too, who were one of the principal families of Greenborough, had agreed to lend all the assistance they could, and so the garden-party bade fair to be a great success. It was called an “Independence Day Reception,” and the tickets were prettily printed in red and blue on white cards, and had tiny flags in the corner. They read thus:
COLUMBIA AND UNCLE SAMAT HOMEAT DENNISTON HALLJULY FOURTHAT THREE O’CLOCK
COLUMBIA AND UNCLE SAMAT HOMEAT DENNISTON HALLJULY FOURTHAT THREE O’CLOCK
Remembering Constance’s disappointment in not being able to take her part at the school commencement, Betty resolved to make it up to her on this occasion.
So, though the club girls insisted that Betty herself should take the part of Columbia, she positively refused to do so, and proposed that Constance Harper should personate the Goddess of Liberty.
This arrangement suited Susie Hale, who didn’t want Betty to have the admiration and applause that would, of course, be given to Columbia as hostess of the entertainment.
Mr. Richard Van Court consented to take the part of Uncle Sam, and thus the principal figures were arranged.
The girls of the club were to wear whatever costumes they chose.
A grand march was to be made first, in which different countries were to be represented.
Betty chose Ireland, and had a lovely green costume made for the occasion. The boys of Greenborough were invited to participate also, and the characters of John Bull, a French marquis, a Spanish troubadour, a Swiss peasant, an Italian, a Chinaman, and other nationalities were chosen by some of the boys and girls. Others were to be in attendance at the various booths, or to act as waiters in the refreshment tent.
When the Fourth of July arrived, all of the Denniston household were astir at daybreak, for there was much to be done that could not be done until the day of the fair.
By midday, however, the place was nearly ready. Pat had worked steadily, and so had all the other servants, as well as the family and the guests. The beautiful grounds of Denniston were gay with decorations.
Flags waved everywhere; bunting was draped, and Japanese lanterns swung from every available point. Big white transparencies, which would be illuminated in the evening, bore the national dates, or announced the goods for sale at the various booths.
The house, too, was decked with flags and lanterns, and the spacious veranda was filled with chairs, where guests might linger to listen to the music.
The band-stand was near by, and a fine orchestra had been engaged to play patriotic airs.
Booths were all about the grounds.
The largest was the main refreshment tent, where dainty little tables were set forth, with Japanese paper table-cloths and napkins all bearing our own national emblems.
The waitresses here were thirteen girls who represented the thirteen original States. They wore white dresses and tricolor sashes and caps, with the name of their States in gilt letters. Another booth held all sorts of small articles for sale—fancy-work, from sofa-pillows to needle-books, all made of red, white, and blue silks; photograph frames made of silk flags; dolls dressed in red, white, and blue; scrap-books made of linen of the same colors, and filled with patriotic pictures and verses. Even such prosaic things as dusters and sweeping-caps were of the three colors and found a ready sale.
Another booth had flags, fire-works, and Fourth of July badges for sale. The lemonade, in accordance with time-honored tradition, was served by “Rebecca at the Well.” The well had been prettily built by a carpenter in imitation of “The Old Oaken Bucket,” and as Rebecca wore the American colors, the dramatic unities were somewhat lost, but nobody minded, as the lemonade was ice-cold and very good. An Indian wigwam was a gay feature. Jack had this in charge, and had superintended the building of it himself.
A tribe of ferocious-looking Indian braves, much befeathered and painted, sold Indian curios, baskets, and beads.
The tennis-courts, bowling-alleys, and croquet-grounds were in order, and patrons could indulge in these games by payment of a small fee.
Inside the house, too, entertainment was provided.
Various indoor games were offered, and there was also a reading-room, with magazines and books for all. In another room was shown an “Historic Loan Collection.” Many of the residents of Greenborough had relics of Revolutionary days, which they loaned for this occasion. As there were many really interesting and valuable specimens, the visitors were quite willing to pay the extra fee required to see them, and the room was well-filled with patrons much of the time. Opposite this room, in another room, was a “Burlesque Loan Collection,” and this attracted quite as much attention.
Stub Graham had this in charge, and he deserved credit for the clever and humorous jokes he devised.
Catalogues had been prepared, and as an inducement to buy them, a large placard outside the door announced that each purchaser of a catalogue would receive, free of charge, a steel-engraving of George Washington. When these premiums proved to be two-cent postage-stamps, and canceled ones at that, much merriment ensued.
Among the so-called Revolutionary relics were such jests as these:
“Early Home of George Washington,” represented by an old-fashioned cradle.
“Vision of Washington’s Old Age:” a pair of spectacles.
“Washington’s Reflections” was a small portrait of Washington arranged so that it was reflected in a triplicate mirror.
“The Most Brilliant Lights of the Washington Era” were a few lighted candles. “The Lone Picket” was a single fence-picket. “The Tax on Tea” showed a few carpet-tacks on some tea.
“A Little Indian” was a small portion of Indian meal.
“An Old-Time Fancy Ball” was a child’s gay-colored worsted ball, much torn.
“Washington at One Hundred Years of Age” was a bird’s-eye map of the city of Washington.
“Away down on the Suwanee River” was a map of Georgia showing plainly the Suwanee River, on which was pasted a tiny bit of down.
“The Last of the Army” was simply the letter Y.
“A Member of Washington’s Cabinet” was an old brass handle from a mahogany cabinet.
These and many other such quips made up an exhibition that amused people quite as much as the display of real relics edified them.
The preparation of all these features meant a great deal of hard work, but it was the sort of work made light by many hands, and so it was enjoyed by all who engaged in it.
And so, by midday on the Fourth of July, everything was in readiness, and the willing workers went to their homes, to return later, ready to reap the results of their labors.
The grand march was to take place at three o’clock, and Columbia and Uncle Sam were to review it from their stand on the veranda. This was to be followed by the singing of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” accompanied by the orchestra.
It had been arranged that Betty should sing the verses as a solo, and that all the others, and indeed all the audience, should join in the chorus. Betty had not cared specially about singing, but had good-naturedly agreed to do so when the music committee asked her to.
Her voice had improved by reason of her singing lessons in Boston, and after practising the national anthem with her mother, she felt that she could manage its high notes successfully.
It seemed a little incongruous for a girl in a green costume and carrying the harp of Erin to sing the American song, but Betty was of New England parentage as well as Irish, and she was glad to show her double patriotism. Constance was greatly pleased at her rôle of Columbia, and her costume was beautiful. Very becoming, as well, was the striped red and white skirt, and the blue bodice spangled with stars. A liberty-cap, and a large well-made shield on which to lean, added to the picturesque effect.
Mr. Dick Van Court was a humorous figure in his “Uncle Sam” suit. He looked just as the Uncle Sam of the cartoons always looks, and as he was a tall, thin young man, the character suited him well. A white beaver hat and the long, sparse locks of hair and white goatee were all in evidence, so that Mr. Dick’s costume was pronounced a success by all the visitors.
About two o’clock Betty went to her room to dress. She had been busy every minute of the day, had scarcely taken time to eat her luncheon, but now everything was in readiness, and she had only to dress and take her place in the grand march at three o’clock.
Slipping on a kimono, she threw herself down on a couch for a moment’s rest before dressing. It was perhaps half an hour later when Constance presented herself at the door of Betty’s room, ready for inspection of her pretty costume.
“May I come in?” she called, as she tapped at Betty’s closed door.
Getting no reply, she tapped again, but after two or three unanswered calls she concluded Betty had gone down-stairs, and so she went down herself.
She didn’t see Betty, but Mr. Van Court was there, in the full glory of his “regimentals,” and the two, as it was not quite time to take their position, strolled about the veranda, looking out upon the grounds.
“It’s just like fairy-land,” said Constance, “and to-night, when the lanterns are lighted, it will be still more so. Oh, here comes the band.”
The orchestra, in resplendent uniforms, took their places on the band-stand, and began their preliminary tuning of instruments.
Then the girls and boys began to arrive, and each costume was greeted with admiring applause.
“WHERE’S BETTY?” SAID JACK, WRAPPED IN HIS INDIAN BLANKET“WHERE’S BETTY?” SAID JACK, WRAPPED IN HIS INDIAN BLANKET
“WHERE’S BETTY?” SAID JACK, WRAPPED IN HIS INDIAN BLANKET
“Where’s Betty?” said Dorothy, as she came down, dressed as a dear little Swiss peasant.
“I don’t know,” answered Constance; “she must be out in the grounds somewhere. She wasn’t in her room when I came down.”
“Well, it’s time she appeared,” said Dorothy. “It’s ten minutes of three now.”
“Where’s Betty?” said Jack, as, wrapped in his Indian blanket, he came suddenly up to the girls, looking somewhat worried.
“I don’t know,” they replied at the same time. “She must be around somewhere.”
“Maybe she is,” said Jack, “but she isn’t dressed for the grand march yet. I’ve just been to her room, and her green dress is all spread out on the bed, and she’s nowhere to be found. Mother doesn’t know where she is.”
“Why, how strange!” said Constance. “Betty’s never late, and it was about two when we both went up-stairs to dress. Where can she be?”
There didn’t seem any real reason for alarm, but it was certainly strange that Betty should disappear so mysteriously. As Constance said, Betty was never late. She was always ready at the appointed time, and it seemed as if something must have happened to her.
“I can’t find Betty anywhere,” said Mrs. McGuire, as she joined the disturbed-looking group. “It’s so strange, for I know she had nothing more to attend to. She stopped at my door about two o’clock, and said everything was ready and she was going to dress.”
It was beginning to look serious now, and Dorothy went back to Betty’s room to make search.
As Jack had said, her pretty green dress was spread out in readiness. The little green slippers stood near by, and the green cap and gilt harp lay on the couch. Surely Betty had not begun to dress. She must have been called away by some one suddenly. Her kimono was flung across a chair as if hurriedly thrown there, and Dorothy looked in the dress-cupboard to see what Betty might be wearing. But there were many suits and dresses hanging there, and Dorothy couldn’t tell which, if any, pretty summer costume was missing. It was very mysterious, and she went slowly down-stairs again, wondering what they should do.
“She’s been kidnapped,” Mrs. McGuire was saying; “I’ve always feared it!”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Van Court, an elderly lady, who was Mr. Dick’s mother. “Of course she hasn’t been kidnapped. I think she has fallen in the pond.”
Jack laughed at this.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Van Court,” he said; “Betty is too big a girl to tumble into the water. I think some one on some committee wanted her to look after some booth or something, and she’s about the place somewhere.”
“That’s all very well,” said Dick Van Court, “but if I know Betty, she’d attend to the matter and be back in time for the march at three o’clock.”
“It’s after three now,” said Dorothy. “Whatever can we do?”
Nobody knew just what to do. It didn’t seem possible that anything unfortunate had occurred, and yet what else could be keeping Betty away, wherever she was?
Meanwhile what had become of Betty?
Well, it was just this:
While she was in her own room, just about to dress in her green suit, a note was brought to her by one of the servants.
The note read thus:
“Deer Bety: Susie isent going to the Forth a July Party atall. She’s mad at you.“Jennie Hale.”
“Deer Bety: Susie isent going to the Forth a July Party atall. She’s mad at you.
“Jennie Hale.”
Jennie Hale was Susie’s younger sister, and Betty saw at once that she had written this note without Susie’s knowledge.
But for Susie, the president of the club, to stay away from the garden-party would be a catastrophe indeed! Betty would be censured for making trouble, and Susie’s friends would say all sorts of things. It was hard on Betty.She had truly tried to make friends with Susie, and thought she had overcome the girl’s silly jealousy. What especial thing Susie was “mad at” now, Betty didn’t know. But she must find out, and make peace, if possible, before time for the garden-party to begin.
She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past two. If she went right over to Susie’s she might fix it up, and get back in time to dress.
She flung off her kimono, and quickly donned a linen suit, selecting the one she could get into most easily.
Then she ran down-stairs, and, without a hat or gloves, jumped into the pony-cart, to which Dixie had been harnessed all day, in case of errands, and drove rapidly down the road toward Susie’s.
It happened that no one noticed her going, but Betty did not think of this, so engrossed was she in the matter in hand.
She dashed up to Susie’s door and rang the bell. Mrs. Hale herself opened the door, and from the cold, hard expression on her face, Betty felt that she was unwelcome.
“I’ve come to see Susie, Mrs. Hale,” she said pleasantly. “Isn’t she ready for the party?”
“No, she isn’t!” snapped Mrs. Hale. “She isn’t going to your old party, so you can sing the solos yourself.”
Then Betty understood. Susie had wanted to sing the solos! Betty remembered now that Susie was the soprano of the village choir, and she probably resented Betty’s being asked to sing the solos instead of herself.
“Oh, my gracious!” exclaimed Betty, annoyed at this foolishness, and yet relieved that it could still be set right, “she can sing the solos, of course! I’d much rather she would! Tell her so, won’t you, and ask her to hurry and come.”
Mrs. Hale looked mollified, but she said:
“She can’t come now. She’s gone to her grandma’s to spend the afternoon.”
“Oh, dear! what a goose she is! Why couldn’t she tell me sooner what she wanted? Where is her grandmother’s?”
Betty was looking at her watch and getting back into the cart, and gathering up the lines, preparatory to going after the truant.
“It’s pretty late,” said Mrs. Hale, glancing at the clock. “She’ll have to come back here to dress, you know.”
“Never mind that!” said Betty, a little impatiently, for she was upset over it all. “Where is her grandmother’s?”
“Oh, out on the Pine Hill road. The third house after you pass the mill.”
Betty groaned, for the place designated was a good two miles away, and Dixie was somewhat tired. But she touched him gently with the whip, and said:
“Dear old Dixie, you’ll help me out, won’t you?” And then they went spinning away toward the Pine Hill road.
Susie, from the window, saw Betty coming, and went out to meet her.
She didn’t look very pleasant, but Betty had no time to waste in coaxing just then.
“Susie Hale,” she said, “get right in this cart. Never mind your hat; just get in this very minute!”
Susie was fairly frightened at Betty’s tones, and though she was unwilling, she couldn’t help doing as she was told.
Silent and a little bewildered, she climbed in beside Betty, and turning quickly, they were soon flying back over the road Betty had come.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Betty began, for she was of no mind to spare Susie’s feelings now. “You, the president of the club, to cut up such a childish caper! You can sing the solos, of course; I don’t care a mite! But you should have told me you wanted to sing them, in the first place.”
“Who told you I wanted to?” said Susie, weakly, now thoroughly ashamed of herself.
“Your mother did, and I’m glad she did, for I never should have guessed what foolish thing was the matter with you. I don’t think anybody that would act like you have is fit to be president of a club!”
Betty’s righteous indignation seemed to show Susie the despicableness of her own conduct, and she began to cry.
THEY WENT SPINNING AWAY TOWARD THE PINE HILL ROADTHEY WENT SPINNING AWAY TOWARD THE PINE HILL ROAD
THEY WENT SPINNING AWAY TOWARD THE PINE HILL ROAD
“I’m sorry,” she said; “truly I am. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I can,” said Betty, “if you’ll do just as I tell you. First, stop crying. Second, jump out of this cart when we get to your house, and get into your costume like lightning! Third, come over to Denniston and take your place in the march and sing the solos, and act pleasantly and nicely about it. I’ll drive home after I leave you, and I’ll send the cart back for you. And you must be ready! Do you hear? Youmustbeready!”
Betty spoke almost savagely, and Susie still looked scared, as she said: “I don’t want to sing your solos now.”
“But you will sing them,” said Betty. “You must sing them, and do your very best, too. You sing as well as I do, and to do as I tell you is the only way you can make up for the trouble you’ve stirred up. Now, here you are at home. Fly and dress. Don’t waste a minute. The cart will be back for you in a quarter of an hour!”
Susie sprang out of the cart and ran into the house, and Betty drove rapidly away to Denniston. As she tore up the driveway among the decorated booths and lantern-hung trees, the funny side of it struck her, and smiling broadly, she reached the veranda, where a bewildered group awaited her.
“Wherehaveyou been?” cried Constance. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been on an errand of mercy,” said Betty, smiling still; “and nothing’s the matter. The grand march must be delayed a little, but I’ll be ready in a jiffy. Come on, Dorothy, and help me dress. Pat, please take Dixie and go over to Mrs. Hale’s and bring Miss Susie back with you.”
And so the grand march was delayed only about half an hour. Susie arrived duly, and sang the solos very prettily. Afterward, when the whole story came out, much indignation was expressed that Betty should have been so bothered, but Betty herself didn’t mind, for it had the result of making Susie her staunch friend forever after.
It happened most conveniently that when Betty was invited to spend a day and a night at Lena Carey’s, her mother was also just about to go for a short visit to a friend who lived only a few stations beyond, on the same railroad.
“So we can start together,” said Betty, gleefully, “and then I can get off at Pleasant Hill, and you can go on to Mapleton.”
“You’re sure they’ll meet you at the station?” said Mrs. McGuire.
“Oh, yes, indeed. Lena wrote that they would meet me in their new motor-car. I shall take only a suitcase,—that will hold enough clothes for such a short stay,—then I won’t have to bother with a trunk.”
So Betty packed a pretty organdie afternoon dress, a dainty chiffon evening frock, and her night things, and the two travelers started on an early morning train.
The Careys were in their summer home at Pleasant Hill, and, after spending the night there, Betty was to go on next day and join her mother at Mapleton.
The arrangement was satisfactory, as Betty would have to travel alone only the few miles that separated the two places.
It was a lovely day, and in her neat blue traveling-suit and straw hat Betty was a very pretty and contented-looking little tourist. She chattered to her mother all the way, and when the train stopped at Pleasant Hill, she kissed Mrs. McGuire good-by, and followed the porter, who carried her suitcase from the car.
Betty watched the cars round the curve, and then turned to look for the Carey motor. She didn’t see it at first, but, as the railroad station was set rather high, and there were steps near by, she assumed the street was below the street-level and she must go down the stairs.
But it did seem as if Lena might have come down to welcome her, for a strange railroad station is always a bit confusing to a new-comer.
Not seeing a porter, or indeed any one, about, Betty picked up her suitcase and started down the stairs.
At the bottom she saw a pleasant shaded road, but very few signs of civilization. However, Lena had told her that Pleasant Hill was merely a “jumping-off place,” but that their own cottage there was delightful.
Betty didn’t mind the lack of people or buildings in general, but she did mind the absence of the Careys. She couldn’t understand it, for she knew she was expected; but she concluded they must have been delayed for some reason, and she had nothing to do but wait.
Just at that moment, she saw a man driving by in an old farm-wagon.
“Wait a minute!” she called, for he was nearly past.
“Hey! what do you want?” the man called back, but he stopped his team, and waited as Betty came down the steps.
“Excuse me,” she said politely, “but have you seen a motor-car around the station?”
The man ruminated.
“Wal, no, miss, I hevn’t. Leastwise, not to-day.”
“But I mean to-day—just now. I’m expecting the Careys to meet me. I just came on the train.”
“Ye did, hey? Well, that ’ere train was a good half-hour late. So, if so be’s them Careys was here, like as not they got tired o’ waitin’ an’ went away again.”
“Where is the Carey place, do you know?”
“Wal, yes’m, I do know. It’s a matter o’ three miles along the hill road. I’ll take you out thar myself if ye like. It’ll cost you a quarter, though—and I’m not very busy.”
So she climbed up on the wagon-seat, and the old farmer turned his horse and off they went.
It was mostly uphill, and therefore slow going, but at last they came in sight of a white house nestling in a tangle of green shrubbery and bright flowers.
“How pretty!” exclaimed Betty; “is that the Carey place?”
“It be,” vouchsafed the taciturn one, and Betty asked no further questions.
They drove in at the green, arched entrance, and up a winding road to the house. It was a truly summery dwelling, with large windows, wide verandas, screens and awnings.
The farmer climbed slowly down from his seat, slowly took Betty’s suitcase and set it on the porch.
Leaving her suitcase on the steps, she went up on the porch and rang the door-bell.
While awaiting an answer she let her gaze stray over the surrounding landscape.
It was wonderfully beautiful, and, as Betty had a passion for pure color, the clear cobalt sky, the various bright and deep greens of the trees, the smooth gray of a little lake, and the purple of the distant hills thrilled her color-loving soul.
“They couldn’t have found a lovelier spot,” thought Betty, “and,” she added to herself, “if ever I find them, I’ll tell them so.”
HE STOPPED HIS TEAM AND WAITED AS BETTY CAME DOWN THE STEPSHE STOPPED HIS TEAM AND WAITED AS BETTY CAME DOWN THE STEPS
HE STOPPED HIS TEAM AND WAITED AS BETTY CAME DOWN THE STEPS
Her ring at the bell had not been answered, and she turned back to the front door to find it as tightly closed as ever.
“Well, I like the Careys’ notions of hospitality,” she said grimly, as she rang the bell again, this time somewhat more forcibly.
Still the door did not open, and Betty felt decidedly puzzled.
Again she rang the bell, and could hear for herself its long, buzzing ring. But nobody answered it, and though she felt sure everything would soon be all right, yet she began to feel a little queer.
“I know it’s the right house,” she thought, “for here’s Lena’s fan in the hammock. That’s the fan I gave her, so she must have left the house lately.”
Greatly puzzled, Betty went around to the back part of the house.
She knocked and banged on the kitchen door, but received no response of any sort. She tried the door, but it was evidently locked and would not open.
She peered in at a window, but all she could see was some dishes piled on the kitchen table.
“Well, I do declare!” she said aloud, “if this isn’t a lovely way to receive an invited guest!”
Though unwilling to admit it, even to herself, Betty was feeling decidedly disturbed. There was a mistake somewhere, that was quite evident. She knew the mistake was not hers, for Lena had written careful directions about her journey, and had said the motor would meet the train.
Resolving to ring the bell again, Betty went slowly back to the front door.
The landscape did not appear quite so attractive as it had at first, and Betty was conscious of a queer depression about her heart.
“I’m not scared!” she assured herself; “I won’t be scared! Theymustbe in the house. Perhaps they’re—perhaps they’re cleaning the attic!” Though not very probable, this seemed a possibility, and Betty pushed the bell with force enough to summon even people busily absorbed in work. But nobody came, and in despair Betty gave up the attic theory.
Half involuntarily, for she had no thought of its being unlocked, she turned the knob of the front door. To her surprise, it opened readily, and she stepped inside.
“Well, for goodness’ sake!” she exclaimed. “Now, they must be at home, or they would have locked the front door.”
Then she called: “Lena! Lena, where are you?”
But no one answered, and her voice reverberated in what was unmistakably an empty house.
Betty gave a little shiver. There is something uncanny in being the only occupant of a strange house.
An undefined sense of fear took possession of her, and she stood hesitating in the hall, almost determined to go no farther.
Had it been a dull, cloudy day, or nearing dusk, she would have scurried out, but in the bright, cheerful sunlight it seemed absurd to feel afraid.
Still, it was with a loudly beating heart that she stepped into a large room opening off the hall.
It was evidently the family living-room, and the familiar things about reassured her somewhat.
Several books which she looked into bore Lena’s name on the fly-leaf, and a light shawl, which she recognized as Mrs. Carey’s, was flung carelessly over a chair-back. Somehow these homelike touches comforted Betty, and she ventured further explorations.
The dining-room was in order, and Betty could not tell whether any one had eaten recently or not. But in the kitchen pantry she noted remnants of breakfasts, which were fresh enough to denote having been placed there that morning. The ice-box showed fresh milk and various cold viands, and when Betty discovered that the kitchen clock was ticking, she concluded that all was well.
“For it’s one of those little tin clocks,” she observed, “that have to be wound every day. So the Careys have just stepped out since breakfast, but why they took all the servants with them, I don’t know. Family picnic, I suppose, with no thought of their arriving guest!”
Wandering back to the front rooms, Betty started to go up-stairs, and then stopped. Suppose something awful had happened!
She paused with her foot on the lowest stair.
“Lena!” she called again, “Lena!”
But there was no answer, and, with a sudden impulse of bravery, Betty ran up-stairs and peeped into the first bedroom she came to. It was, without doubt, Lena’s own room.
She recognised her kimono flung on the bed, and her little Japanese slippers, which had evidently been kicked off across the room. Surely Lena had dressed in a hurry.
Cheered by these visible signs of her friend’s recent presence here, Betty went on through the other rooms.
She found nothing unusual, merely the sleeping-rooms of the Carey family, fairly tidy, but by no means in spick-and-span order.
In fact, they looked as if the whole family had gone away in haste.
“To meet me at the station, I suppose,” cogitated Betty. “Well, I’m here, and I can’t help it, so I may as well make myself at home. I think I’ll bring my suitcase up, and select a room, and put on a cooler dress.”
She went down-stairs more blithely than she had come up. It was all very mysterious, to be sure, but there had been no tragedy, and the Careys must come back soon, wherever they might have gone.
She paused again in the living-room, and sitting down at the open piano, she sang a few lively little songs.
Then, feeling quite merry over her strange experience, she went out to the front porch for her suitcase.
It was just where she had left it. Nobody was in sight. She gazed again over the lovely, serene landscape, and, taking the suitcase, she went, singing, up-stairs.
The guest-room was easily recognized and Betty felt at liberty to appropriate it for her own use. She was an invited guest, and if no hostess or servant was present to conduct her to her room, she must look after her own rights.
“I’m just like Robinson Crusoe,” she chuckled to herself. “I’m stranded on a desert island, with not a human being near. But, luckily, there’s food in the pantry, for really, with all these exciting experiences, I’m getting hungry.”
She opened her suitcase and shook out her pretty dresses. Then she changed her traveling-frock for the light organdie, and having bathed, and brushed her hair, she felt rather better.
“Well, it’s nearly noon,” she said, looking at her watch, “and, as I’ve no one to consult but myself, I may as well have an early luncheon. If the Careys come in while I’m eating, I’ll invite them to lunch with me.”
So down-stairs Betty went, smiling to think of herself as Betty Crusoe.
But as she passed the door of the living-room and glanced inside, her smile faded.
Her eyes grew big with amazement, her cheeks turned pale, and a shiver of fear shook her.
On the table lay a man’s hat!
“Itcouldn’thave been there when I was in here before,” she thought, “for I looked into those books, and now the hat’s on top of them!”
It was a forlorn old hat, of light-gray felt, but soiled and torn, and Betty’s frightened heart told her that it was the hat of some marauder, and not of any member of the Carey family.
With a sudden scream, which she could not repress, she ran and hid behind a large Japanese screen in the corner of the room.
“Who’s there?” called a man’s voice from the hall. It was a loud, gruff voice, and poor Betty shook and shivered as she crouched behind the screen.
“Who’s there?” repeated the voice, and Betty heard heavy footsteps coming in at the living-room door.
Then there was silence. The man was apparently awaiting Betty’s next move. Then he said again: “Who screamed just now? Where are you?” and somehow this time his voice did not sound quite so ferocious. But Betty had no intention of answering, and she squeezed into her corner, hoping that he would go away.
Then suddenly the whimsical idea came to her that, as she was personating Robinson Crusoe, this was probably the Man Friday who had arrived. This amused her so much that she giggled in spite of her fear. The man heard the smothered sound, and going straight to the screen, he pulled it suddenly away.
Betty, who was sitting on the floor, looked up to see a stalwart young man of a college type staring down at her. His costume of summer outing clothes was informal, but at once betokened he was no marauder. Also, his handsome, sunburnt face and frank blue eyes showed a kindly though surprised expression.
Betty was reassured at once, and, truly glad to see a human being of her own walk in life, her face broke into smiles and merry dimples, as she said:
“Hello, Man Friday!”
“Who are you?” was his bewildered response, and then remembering himself, he added: “I beg your pardon; may I assist you to rise?”
He took Betty’s hand, and in a moment she had jumped up from her crouching position, and stood facing him.
“I’m Betty Crusoe,” she said; “I’m stranded on a desert island, and if you’re Man Friday, I hope you’ll protect me from cannibals or bears or whatever wild beasts abound here.”
“Oh, I know you,” said the young man, smiling. “You’re Miss Betty McGuire.”
“I am. I’m a guest of the Careys—only—the Careys don’t seem to be here!”
“No, they’re not. I’m Hal Pennington, at your service. I’m called Pen or Penny for short,—sometimes Bad Penny.”
“I’m sure that’s a libel,” said Betty, smiling at his kind, honest face.
“It is, I assure you, for I’m good as gold. Well, I, too, am a guest of the Careys, and, as you so cleverly observe, they don’t seem to be here!”
“Where are they?”
“Well, you see it was this way. All the servants took it into their foolish heads to leave at once. They decamped last night. So this morning the Careys started off in the motor-car to bring home a lot of new ones.”
“But why didn’t they come to the station for me, as they arranged?”
“Oh, they telegraphed you last night not to come till next week.”
“And I didn’t get the telegram!”
“Thus that explains all! How did you get here?”
“In a rumbly old wagon of a kind farmer. The front door wasn’t locked, so I walked in and made myself at home. Are you staying here?”
“Yes, for a week. I’m sketching some bits of woodland, and I stayed at home to-day rather than go with them to stalk servants. Now, let me see,—this is rather a complicated situation. Shall I, by virtue of prior residence, be host and welcome you as my visitor, or would you rather appropriate the house as your own, and let me be your guest?”
His jolly, boyish face seemed to show that he thought the whole affair a great joke, and Betty fell into the spirit of it.
“When do the Careys return?” she asked.
“Mrs. Carey said they’d surely be home by three o’clock, and I could forage in the pantry to keep myself from starving.”
“All right,” said Betty; “I’ll be hostess, then, until she comes. You’ve heard Lena speak of me?”
“Gracious, yes! I’ve heard you so highly lauded that I doubt if you can live up to the angelic reputation she gives you!”
“Oh, yes, I can,” said Betty, laughing. “Now I’ll be Betty Crusoe, and this house is my desert island. You’re Man Friday, and you must do exactly as I say.”
“I live but to obey your decrees,” said young Pennington, with a deep bow.
“Good! Now, first of all, I’m starving. Are you?”
“I even starve at your command. I am famished.”
“I believe you are, really. Let’s see what we can find.”
Together they went to the pantry, and found cold chicken and peach-pie, a bowl of custard, and various odds and ends of tempting-looking dishes.
“Let’s set the table first,” cried Betty, gleefully. “Do you know where the dishes are?”
“I’ve never really set the table,” Pennington said, “but I’m quite sure the dishes are in the sideboard or the glass cupboard.”
“How clever you are!” said Betty, laughingly; “I do believe you’re right!”
They easily found linen, silver, and glass, and Betty set the table daintily for two.
“Now,” she said, “I’ll get the luncheon. A man’s only a bother in the kitchen. You go and do your sketching until I call you.”
But Hal Pennington was not so easily disposed of.
“No,” he said; “I’ll gather some flowers, and then I’ll arrange them as a decoration for our feast.”
“Do,” said Betty, “that will be lovely!”
Hal went out to the garden, and returned with gay blossoms, which he arranged deftly and with good taste on the table.