Certainly it was nice to be a Speciality. Even Fanny Crawford completely altered her manner to Betty Vivian. There were constant and earnest consultations amongst the members of the club in that charming sitting-room. Betty, of course, was eagerly questioned, and Betty was able to give daring and original advice. Whenever Betty spoke some one laughed, or some one looked with admiration at her; and when she was silent one or other of the girls said anxiously, “But do you approve, Betty? If you don’t approve we must think out something else.”
Betty soon entered into the full spirit of the thing, and one and all of the girls—Fanny excepted—said that she was the most delightful Speciality who had ever come to Haddo Court. During this time she was bravely trying to keep her vows. She had bought a little copy of Jeremy Taylor’s “Holy Living,” and read the required portion every day, but she did not like it; it had to do with a life which at one time she would have adored, but which now did not appeal to her. She liked that part of each day which was given up to fun and frolic, and she dearly loved the respect and consideration and admiration shown her by the other girls of the school.
It was soon decided that the next great entertainment of the Specialities was to be given in Betty Vivian’s bedroom. Each girl was to subscribe three shillings, and the supper, in consequence, was to be quite sumptuous. Fanny Crawford, as the most practical member, was toprovide the viands. She was to go into the village, accompanied by one of the teachers, two days before the date arranged in order to secure the most tempting cakes and pastry, and ginger-beer, and cocoa, and potted meat for sandwiches. Betty wondered how the provisions could be procured for so small a sum; but Fanny was by no means doubtful.
Now, Betty had of worldly wealth the exact sum of two pounds ten shillings; and when it is said that Betty possessed two pounds ten shillings, this money was really not Betty’s at all, but had to be divided into three portions, for it was equally her sisters’. But as Sylvia and Hester always looked upon Betty as their chief, and as nothing mattered to them provided Betty was pleased, she gave three shillings from this minute fund without even telling them that she had done so. Then the invitations were sent round, and very neatly were they penned by Susie Rushworth and Olive Repton. It was impossible to ask all the girls of the school; but a select list from the girls in the upper school was carefully made, each Speciality being consulted on this point.
Martha West, who was now a full-blown member, suggested Sibyl Ray at once.
Fanny gave a little frown of disapproval. “Martha,” she said, “I must say that I don’t care for your Sibyl.”
“And I like her,” replied Martha. “She is not your style, Fan; but she just needs the sort of little help we can give her. We cannot expect every one to be exactly like every one else, and Sibyl is not half bad. It would hurt her frightfully if she were not invited to the first entertainment after I have become a Speciality.”
“Well, that settles it,” said Fanny in a cheerful tone; “she gets an invitation of course.”
The teachers were never invited to these assemblies, but there was a murmur of anticipation in the whole school when the invitations went round. Who were tobe the lucky ones? Who was to go? Who was not to go? As a rule, it was so managed by the Specialities that the whole of the upper school was invited once during the term to a delightful evening in one of the special bedrooms. But the first invitation of the season—the one after the admission of two new members, that extraordinary Betty Vivian and dear, good old Martha West—oh, it was of intense interest to know who were to go and who to stay behind!
“I’ve got my invitation,” said a fat young girl of the name of Sarah Butt.
“And I,” “And I,” “And I,” said others.
“I am left out,” said a fifth.
“Well, Janie, don’t fret,” said Sarah Butt; “your turn will come next time.”
“But I did so want to see Betty Vivian! They say she is the life of the whole club.”
“Silly!” exclaimed Sarah; “why, you see her every day.”
“Yes, but not as she is in the club. They all say that she is too wonderful! Sometimes she sits down cross-legged and tells them stories, and they get so excited they can’t move. Oh, I say, do—do look! look what is in the corner of your card, Sarah! ‘After supper, story-telling by Betty Vivian. Most of the lights down.’ There, isn’t it maddening! I do call it a shame; they might have asked me!”
“Well, I will tell you all the stories to-morrow,” said Sarah.
“You!” The voice was one of scorn. “Why, you can’t tell a story to save your life; whereas Betty, she looks a story herself all the time. She has it in her face. I can never take my eyes off her when she is in the room.”
“Well, I can’t help it,” answered Sarah. “I am glad I’m going, that is all. The whole school could not be asked, for the simple reason that the room wouldn’t hold us. I shall be as green as grass when your invitationcomes, and now you must bear your present disappointment.”
Fanny Crawford made successful and admirable purchases. On the nights when the Specialities entertained, unless it was midsummer, the girls met at six-thirty, and the entertainment continued until nine.
On that special evening Mrs. Haddo, for wise reasons all her own, excused the Specialities and their guests from attending prayers in the chapel. She had once made a little speech about this. “You will pray earnestly in your rooms, dears, and thank God for your happy evening,” she had said; and from that moment the Specialities knew that they might continue their enjoyment until nine o’clock.
Oh, it was all fascinating! Betty was very grave. Her high spirits deserted her that morning, and she went boldly to Mrs. Haddo—a thing which few girls dared to do.
Mrs. Haddo was seated by her fire. She was reading a new book which had just been sent to her by post. “Betty, what do you want?” she said when the girl entered.
“May I take a very long walk all alone? Do you mind, Mrs. Haddo?”
“Anywhere you like, dear, provided you do not leave the grounds.”
“But I want to leave the grounds, Mrs. Haddo.”
“No, dear Betty—not alone.”
Betty avoided the gaze of Mrs. Haddo, who looked up at her. Betty’s brilliant eyes were lowered, and the black, curling lashes lay on her cheeks.
Mrs. Haddo wanted to catch Betty’s soul by means of her eyes, and so draw her into communion with herself. “Betty, why do you want to walk outside the grounds, and all alone?”
“Restless, I suppose,” answered Betty.
“Is this club too exciting for you, my child?”
“Oh no, I love it!” said Betty. Her manner changed at the moment. “And, please, don’t take my hand. I—oh, it isn’t that I don’t want to hold your hand; but I—I am not worthy! Of course I will stay in the grounds to please you. Good-bye.”
Having got leave to take her walk, Betty started off with vigor. The fresh, keen air soothed her depressed spirits; and soon she was racing wildly against the gale, the late autumn leaves falling against her dress and face as she ran. She would certainly keep her word to Mrs. Haddo, although her desire—if she had a very keen desire at that moment—was again to vault over those hideous prison-bars, and reach the farm, and receive the caresses of Dan and Beersheba. But a promise is a promise, and this could not be thought of. She determined, therefore, to tire herself out by walking.
She had managed to avoid all her companions. The Specialities were very much occupied making arrangements for the evening. The twins had found friends of their own, and were happily engaged. No one noticed Betty as she set forth. She walked as far as the deserted gardens. Then she crossed the waste land, and stood for a minute looking at that poor semblance of Scotch heather which grew in an exposed corner. She felt inclined to kick it, so great was her contempt for the flower which could not bloom out of its native soil. Then suddenly her mood changed. She fell on her knees, found a bit of heather which still had a few nearly withered bells on it; and, raising it tenderly to her lips, kissed it. “Poor little exile!” she said. “Well, I am an exile too!”
She rose and skirted the waste land; at one side there was a somewhat steep incline which led through a plantation to a more cultivated part of the extensive grounds. Betty had never been right round the grounds of Haddo Court before, and was pleased at their size, and, on a day like this, at their wildness. She tried to picture herself back in Scotland. Once she shut her eyes for a minute, and bringing her vivid imagination to her aid, seemed to see Donald Macfarlane and Jean Macfarlane in their cosy kitchen; while Donald said, “It’ll be a braw day to-morrow;” or perhaps it was the other way round, and Jean remarked, “There’ll be a guid sprinklin’ o’ snaw before mornin’, or I am much mistook.”
Betty sighed, and walked faster. By-and-by, however, she stood still. She had come suddenly to the stump of an old tree. It was a broken and very aged stump, and hollow inside. Betty stood close to it. The next moment, prompted by an uncontrollable instinct, she thrust in her hand and pulled out a little sealed packet. She looked at it wildly for a minute, then put it back again. It was quite safe in this hiding-place, for she had placed it in a corner of the old stump where it was sheltered from the weather, and yet could never by any possibility be seen unless the stump was cut down. She had scarcely completed this action before a voice from behind caused her to jump and start.
“Whatever are you doing by that old stump of a tree, Betty?”
Betty turned swiftly. The color rushed to her face, leaving it the next instant paler than ever. She was confronted by the uninteresting and very small personality of Sibyl Ray.
“I am doing nothing,” said Betty. “What affair is it of yours?”
“Oh, I am not interested,” said Sibyl. “I was just taking a walk all alone, and I saw you in the distance; andI rushed up that steep path yonder as fast as I could, hoping you would let me join you and talk to you. You know I am going to be present at your Speciality party to-night. I do admire you so very much, Betty! Then, just as I was coming near, you thrust your hand down into that old stump, and you certainly did take something out. Was it a piece of wood, or what? I saw you looking at it, and then you dropped it in again. It looked like a square piece of wood, as far as I could tell from the distance. What were you doing with it? It was wood, was it not?”
“If you like to think it was wood, it was wood,” replied Betty. Here was another lie! Betty’s heart sank very low. “I wish you would go away, Sibyl,” she said, “and not worry me.”
“Oh, but mayn’t I walk with you? What harm can I do? And I do admire you so immensely! And won’t you take the thing out of the tree again and let me see it? I want to see it ever so badly.”
“No, I am sure I won’t. You can poke for it yourself whenever you please,” said Betty. “Now, come on, if you are coming.”
“Oh, may I come with you really?”
“I can’t prevent you, Sibyl. As a matter of fact, I was going out for a walk all alone; but as you are determined to bear me company, you must.”
Betty felt seriously alarmed. She must take the first possible opportunity to get the precious packet out of its present hiding-place and dispose of it elsewhere. But where? That was the puzzle. And how soon could she manage this? How quickly could she get rid of Sibyl Ray?
Sibyl’s small, pale-blue eyes were glittering with curiosity. Betty felt she must manage her. Then suddenly, by one of those quick transitions of thought, Rule VI. occurred to her. It was her duty to be kind to Sibyl, eventhough she did not like her. She would, therefore, now put forth her charm for the benefit of this small, unattractive girl. She accordingly began to chatter in her wildest and most fascinating way. Sibyl was instantly convulsed with laughter, and forgot all about the old stump of tree and the bit of wood that Betty had fished out, looked at, and put back again. The whole matter would, of course, recur to Sibyl by-and by; but at present she was absorbed in the great delight of Betty’s conversation.
“Oh, Betty, I do admire you!” she said.
“Well, now, listen to one thing,” said Betty. “I hate flattery.”
“But it isn’t flattery if I mean what I say. If I do admire a person I say so. Now, I admire our darling Martha West. She has always been kind to me. Martha is a dear, a duck; but, of course, she doesn’t fascinate in the way you do. Several of the other girls in my form—I’m in the upper fifth, you know—have been talking about you and wondering where your charm lay. For you couldn’t be called exactly pretty; although, of course, that very black hair of yours, and those curious eyes which are no color in particular, and yet seem to be every color, and your pale face, make you quite out of the common. We love your sisters too; they are darlings, but neither of them is like you. Still, you’re not exactly pretty. You haven’t nearly such straight and regular features as Olive Repton; you’re not as pretty, even, as Fanny Crawford. Of course Fan’s a dear old thing—one of the very best girls in the school; and she is your cousin, isn’t she, Betty?”
“Yes.”
“Betty, it is delightful to walk with you! And isn’t it just wonderful to think that you’ve not been more than a few weeks in the school before you are made a Speciality, and with all the advantages of one? Oh, it does seem quite too wonderful!”
“I am glad you think so,” said Betty.
“But it is very extraordinary. I don’t think it has ever been done before. You see, your arrival at the school and everything else was completely out of the common. You didn’t come at the beginning of term, as most new girls do; you came when term was quite a fortnight old; and you were put straight away into the upper school without going through the drudgery, or whatever you may like to call it, of the lower school. Oh, I do—yes, I do—call it perfectly wonderful! I suppose you are eaten up with conceit?”
“No, I am not,” said Betty. “I am not conceited at all. Now listen, Sibyl. You are to be a guest, are you not, at our Speciality party to-night?”
“Of course I am; and I am so fearfully excited, more particularly as you are going to tell stories with the lights down. I’m going to wear a green dress; it’s a gauzy sort of stuff that my aunt has just sent me, and I think it will suit me very well indeed. Oh, it is fun to think of this evening!”
“Yes, of course it’s fun,” said Betty. “Now, I tell you what. Why don’t you go into the front garden and ask the gardener for permission to get a few small marguerite daisies, and then make them into a very simple wreath to twine round your hair? The daisies would suit you so well; you don’t know how nice they’ll make you look.”
“Will they?” said Sibyl, her eyes sparkling. “Do you really think so?”
“Of course I think so. I have pictures of all the girls in my mind; and I often shut my eyes and think how such a girl would look if she were dressed in such a way, and how such another girl would look if she wore something else.”
“And when you think of me?” said Sibyl.
But Betty had never thought of Sibyl. She was silent.
“And when you think of me?” repeated Sibyl, her facebeaming all over with delight. “You think of me, do you, darling Betty, as wearing green, with a wreath of marguerites in my hair?”
“Yes, that is how I think of you,” said Betty.
“Very well, I’ll go and find the gardener. Mrs. Haddo always allows us to have cut flowers that the gardener gives us.”
“Don’t have the wreath too big,” said Betty; “and be sure you get the gardener to choose small marguerites. Now, be off—won’t you?—for I want to continue my walk.”
Sibyl, in wild delight, rushed into one of the flower-gardens. Betty watched her till she was quite out of sight. Then, quick as thought, she retraced her steps. She must find another hiding-place for the packet. With Sibyl’s knowledge, her present position was one of absolute danger. Sibyl would tell every girl she knew all about Betty’s action when she stood by the broken stump of the old tree. She would describe how Betty thrust in her hand and took something out, looked at it, and put it back again. The girls would go in a body, and poke, and examine, and try to discover for themselves what Betty had taken out of the trunk of the old oak-tree. Betty must remove the sealed packet at once, or it would be discovered.
“What a horrible danger!” thought the girl. “But I am equal to it.”
She ran with all her might and main, and presently, reaching the tree, thrust her hand in, found the brown packet carefully tied up and sealed, and slipped it into her pocket. Quite close by was a little broken square of wood. Betty, hating herself for doing so, dropped it into the hollow of the tree. The bit of wood would satisfy the girls, for Sibyl had said that Betty had doubtless found some wood. Having done this, she set off to retrace her steps again, going now in the direction of the desertedgardens and the patch of common. She had no spade with her, but that did not matter. She went to the corner where the heather was growing. Very carefully working round a piece with her fingers, she loosened the roots; they had gone deep down, as is the fashion with heather. She slipped the packet underneath, replaced the heather, kissed it, said, “I am sorry to disturb you, darling, but you are doing a great work now;” and then, wiping the mud from her fingers, she walked slowly home.
The packet would certainly be safe for a day or two under the Scotch heather, which, as a matter of fact, no one thought of interfering with from one end of the year to another. Before Betty left this corner of the common she took great care to remove all trace of having disturbed the heather. Then she walked back to the Court, her heart beating high. The tension within her was so great as to be almost unendurable. But she would not swerve from the path she had chosen.
On the occasion of the Specialities’ first entertainment, Betty Vivian, by request, wore white. Her sisters, who of course would be amongst the guests, also wore white. The little beds had been removed to a distant part of the room, where a screen was placed round them. All the toilet apparatus was put out of sight. Easy-chairs and elegant bits of furniture were brought from the other rooms. Margaret Grant lent her own lovely vases, which were filled with flowers from the gardens. The beautiful big room looked fresh and fragrant when the Specialities assembled to welcome their guests. Betty stood behind Margaret. Martha West—a little ungainly as usual, but with her strong, firm, reliable face looking even stronger and more reliable since she had joined the great club of the school—was also in evidence. Fanny Crawford stood close to Betty. Just once she looked at her, and then smiled. Betty turned when she did so, and greeted that smile with a distinct frown of displeasure. Yet everyone knew that Betty was to be the heroine of the evening.
Punctual to the minute the guests arrived—Sibyl Ray in her vivid-green dress, with the marguerites in her hair.
No one made any comment as the little girl came forward; only, a minute later, Fanny whispered to Betty, “What a ridiculous and conceited idea! I wonder who put it into her head?”
“I did,” said Betty very calmly; “But she hasn’t arranged them quite right.” She left her place, and going up to Sibyl, said a few words to her. Sibyl flushed and looked lovingly into Betty’s face. Betty then took Sibyl behind the screen, and, lo and behold! her deft fingers put the tiny wreath into a graceful position; arranged the soft, light hair so as to produce the best possible effect; twisted a white sash round the gaudy green dress, to carry out the idea of the marguerites; and brought Sibyl back, charmed with her appearance, and looking for once almost pretty.
“What a wonder you are, Betty!” said Martha West in a pleased tone. “Poor little Sib, she doesn’t understand how to manage the flowers!”
“She looks very nice now,” said Betty.
“It was sweet of you to do it for her,” said Martha. “And, you know, she quite worships you; she does, really.”
“There was nothing in my doing it,” replied Betty. She felt inclined to add, “For she was particularly obliging to me to-day;” but she changed these words into, “I suggested the idea, so of course I had to see it carried out properly.”
“The white sash makes all the difference,” said Martha. “You are quite a genius, Betty!”
“Oh no,” said Betty. She looked for a minute into Martha’s small, gray, very honest eyes, and wished with all her heart and soul that she could change with her.
The usual high-jinks and merriment went on while theeatables were being discussed. But when every one had had as much as she could consume with comfort, and the oranges, walnuts, and crackers were put aside for the final entertainment, Margaret (being at present head-girl of the Specialities) proposed round games for an hour.“After that,” she said, “we will ask Betty Vivian to tell us stories.”
“Oh, but we all want the stories now!” exclaimed several voices.
Margaret laughed. “Do you know,” she said, “it is only a little past seven o’clock, and we cannot expect poor Betty to tell stories for close on two hours? We’ll play all sorts of pleasant and exciting games until eight o’clock, and then perhaps Betty will keep her word.”
Betty had purposely asked to be excused from joining in these games, and every one said she understood the reason. Betty was too precious and valuable and altogether fascinating to be expected to rush about playing Blind-Man’s Buff, and Puss-in-the-Corner, and Charades, and Telegrams, and all those games which schoolgirls love.
The sound from the Vivians’ bedroom was very hilarious for the next three-quarters of an hour; but presently Margaret came forward and asked all the girls if they would seat themselves, as Betty was going to tell stories.
“With the lights down! Oh, please, please, don’t forget that! All the lights down except one,” said Susie Rushworth.
“Yes, with all the lights down except one,” said Margaret. “Betty, will you come and sit here? We will cluster round in a semi-circle. We shall be in shadow, but there must be sufficient light for us to see your face.”
The lights were arranged to produce this effect. There was now only one light in the room, and that streamed over Betty as she sat cross-legged on the floor, her customary attitude when she was thoroughly at home and excited.There was not a scrap of self-consciousness about Betty at these moments. She had been working herself up all day for the time when she might pour out her heart. At home she used to do so for the benefit of Donald and Jean Macfarlane and of her little sisters. But, up to the present, no one at school had heard of Betty’s wild stories. At last, however, an opportunity had come. She forgot all her pain in the exercise of her strong faculty for narrative.
“I see something,” she began. She had rather a thrilling voice—not high, but very clear, and with a sweet ring in it. “I see,” she continued, looking straight before her as she spoke, “a great, great, a very great plain. And it is night, or nearly so—I mean it is dusk; for there is never actual night in my Scotland in the middle of summer. I see the great plain, and a girl sitting in the middle of it, and the heather is beginning to come out. It has been asleep all the winter; but it is coming out now, and the air is full of music. For, of course, you all understand,” she continued—bending forward so that her eyes shone, growing very large, and at the same moment black and bright—“you all know that the great heather-plants are the last homes left in England for the fairies. The fairies live in the heather-bells; and during the winter, when the heather is dead, the poor fairies are cold, being turned out of their homes.”
“Where do they go, then, I wonder?” asked a muffled voice in the darkened circle of listeners.
“Back to the fairies’ palace, of course, underground,” said Betty. “But they like the world best, they’re such sociable little darlings; and when the heather-bells are coming out they all return, and each fairy takes possession of a bell and lives there. She makes it her home. And the brownies—they live under the leaves of the heather, and attend to the fairies, and dance with them at night just over the vast heather commons. Then, by a magical kind of movement, each little fairy sets her own heather-bellringing, and you can’t by any possibility imagine what the music is like. It is so sweet—oh, it is so sweet that no music one has ever heard, made by man, can compare to it! You can imagine for yourselves what it is like—millions upon millions of bells of heather, and millions upon millions of fairies, and each little bell ringing its own sweet chime, but all in the most perfect harmony. Well, that is what the fairies do.”
“Have you ever seen them?” asked the much-excited voice of Susie Rushworth.
“I see them now,” said Betty. She shut her eyes as she spoke.
“Oh, do tell us what they are like?” asked a girl in the background.
Betty opened her eyes wide. “I couldn’t,” she answered. “No one can describe a fairy. You’ve got to see it to know what it is like.”
“Tell us more, please, Betty?” asked an eager voice.
“Give me a minute,” said Betty. She shut her eyes. Her face was deadly white. Presently she opened her eyes again. “I see the same great, vast moor, and it is winter-time, and the moor from one end to the other is covered—yes, covered—with snow. And there’s a gray house built of great blocks of stone—a very strong house, but small; and there’s a kitchen in that house, and an old man with grizzled hair sits by the fire, and a dear old woman sits near him, and there are two dogs lying by the hearth. I won’t tell you their names, for their names are—well, sacred. The old man and woman talk together, and presently girls come in and join them and talk to them for a little bit. Then one of the girls goes out all alone, for she wants air and freedom, and she is never afraid on the vast white moor. She walks and walks and walks. Presently she loses sight of the gray house; but she is not afraid, for fear never enters her breast. She walks so fast that her blood gets very warm and tingleswithin her, and she feels her spirits rising higher and higher; and she thinks that the moor covered with snow is even more lovely and glorious than the moor was in summer, when the fairy bells were ringing and the fairies were dancing all over the place.
“I see her,” continued Betty; “she is tired, and yet not tired. She has walked a very long way, and has not met one soul. She is very glad of that; she loves great solitudes, and she passionately loves nature and cold cannot hurt her when her heart is so warm and so happy. But by-and-by she thinks of the old couple by the fireside and of the girls she has left behind. She turns to go back. I see her when she turns.” Betty paused a minute. “The sky is very still,” she continued. “The sky has millions of stars blazing in its blue, and there isn’t a cloud anywhere; and she clasps her hands with ecstasy, and thanks God for having made such a beautiful world. Then she starts to go home; but——”
Up to this point Betty’s voice was glad and triumphant. Now its tone altered. “I see her. She is warm still, and her heart glows with happiness; and she does not want anything else in all the world except the gray house and the girls she left behind, and the dogs by the fireside, and the old couple in the kitchen. But presently she discovers that, try as she will, and walk as hard as she may, she cannot find the gray stone house. She is not frightened—that isn’t a bit her way; but she knows at once what has happened, for she has heard of such things happening to others.
“It is midnight—a bitterly cold midnight—and she is lost in the snow! She knows it. She does not hesitate for a single minute what to do, for the old man in the gray house has told her so many stories about other people who have been lost in the snow. He has told her how they fell asleep and died, and she knows quite well that she must not fall asleep. When the morning dawns she willfind her way back right enough; but there are long, long hours between now and the morning. She finds a place where the snow is soft, and she digs and digs in it, and then lies down in it and covers herself up. The snow is so dry that even with the heat of her body it hardly melts at all, and the great weight of snow over her keeps her warm. So now she knows she is all right, provided always she does not go to sleep.
“She is the sort of girls who will never, by any possibility, give in while there is the most remote chance of her saving the situation. She has covered every scrap of herself except her face, and she is—oh, quite warm and comfortable! And she knows that if she keeps her thoughts very busy she may not sleep. There is no clock anywhere near, there is no sound whatever to break the deep stillness. The only way she can keep herself awake is by thinking. So she thinks very hard. That girl has often had a hard think—a very hard think—in the course of her life; but never, never one like this before, when she buries herself in the snow and forces her brain to keep her body awake.
“She tries first of all to count the minutes as they pass; but that is sleepy work, more particularly as she is tired, and really sometimes almost forgets herself for a minute. So she works away at some stiff, long sums in arithmetic, doing mental arithmetic as rapidly as ever she can. And so one hour passes, perhaps two. At the end of the second hour something very strange happens. All of a sudden she feels that arithmetic is pure nonsense—that it never leads anywhere nor does any one any good; and she feels also that never in the whole course of her life has she lain in a snugger bed than her snow-bed. And she remembers the fairies and their music in the middle of the summer night; and—hark! hark!—she hears them again! Why have they left their palace underground to come and see her? It is sweet of them, it is beautiful! They sit onher chest, they press close to her face, they kiss her with their wee lips, they bring comforting thoughts into her heart, they whisper lovely things into her ears. She has not felt alone from the very first; but now that the fairies have come she never, never could be happier than she is now. And then, away from the fairies (who stay close to her all the time), she lifts her eyes and looks at the stars; and oh, the stars are so bright! And, somehow, she remembers that God is up there; and she thinks about white-clad angels who came down once, straight from the stars, by means of a ladder, to help a good man in a Bible story; and she really sees the ladder again, and the angels going up and coming down—going up and coming down—and she gives a cry and says, ‘Oh, take me too! Oh, take me too!’ One angel more beautiful than she could possibly describe comes towards her, and the fairies give a little cry—for, sweet as they are, they have nothing to do with angels—and disappear. The angel has his strong arms round her, and he says, ‘Your bed of snow is not so beautiful as where you shall lie in the land where no trouble can come.’ Then she remembers no more.”
At this point in her narrative Betty made a dramatic pause. Then she continued abruptly and in an ordinary tone, “It is the dogs who find her, and they dig her out of the snow, and the dear old shepherd and his wife and some other people come with them; and so she is brought back to the gray house, and never reaches the open doors where the angels ladder would have led her through. She is sorry—for days she is terribly sorry; for she is ill, and suffers a good bit of pain. But she is all right again now; only, somehow, she can never forget that experience. I think I have told you all I can tell you to-night.”
Instantly, at a touch, the lights were turned on again, and the room was full of brilliancy. Betty jumped up from her posture on the floor. The girls flocked round her.
“But, oh Betty! Betty! say, please say, was it you?”
“I am going to reveal no secrets,” said Betty. “I said I saw the girl. Well, I did see her.”
“Then she must have been you! She must have been you!” echoed voice after voice. “And were you really nearly killed in the snow? And did you fall asleep in your snow-bed? And did—oh, did the fairies come, and afterwards the angels? Oh Betty, do tell!”
But Betty’s lips were mute.
If Betty Vivian really wished to keep her miserable secret, she had done wisely in removing the little packet from its shelter in the trunk of the old oak-tree; for of course Sibyl remembered it in the night, although Betty’s wonderful story had carried her thoughts far away from such trivial matters for the time being. Nevertheless, when she awoke in the night, and thought of the fairies in the heather, and of the girl lying in the snow-bed, she thought also of Betty standing by the stump of a tree and removing something from within, looking at it, and putting it back again.
Sibyl, therefore, took the earliest opportunity of telling her special friends that there was a treasure hidden in the stump of the old tree. In short, she repeated Betty’s exact action, doing so in the presence of Martha West.
Martha was a girl who invariably kept in touch with the younger girls. There are girls who in being removed from a lower to an upper school cannot stand their elevation, and are apt to be a little queer and giddy; they have not quite got their balance. Such girls could not fallinto more excellent hands than those of Martha. She heard Sibyl now chatting to a host of these younger girls, and, catching Betty’s name, asked immediately what it was all about. Sibyl repeated the story with much gusto.
“And Betty did look queer!” she added. “I asked her if it was a piece of wood, and she said ‘Yes;’ but, all the same, she didn’t like me to see her. Of course she’s a darling—there’s no one like her; and she recovered herself in a minute, and walked with me a long way, and then suggested that I should wear the marguerites. Of course I had to go into the flower-garden to find Birchall and coax him to cut enough for me. Then I had to get Sarah Butt to help me to make the wreath, for I never made a wreath before in my life. But Sarah would do anything in the world that Betty suggested, she is so frightfully fond of her.”
“We are all fond of her, I think,” said Martha.
“Well, then she went off for a walk by herself, and I don’t think she came in until quite late.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” said Martha. “Now, look here, girls, don’t waste your time talking rubbish. You are very low down in the school compared to Betty Vivian, and, compared to Betty Vivian, you are of no account whatever, for she is a Speciality, and therefore holds a position all her own. Love her as much as you like, and admire her, for she is worthy of admiration. But if I were you, Sibyl, I wouldn’t tell tales out of school. Let me tell you frankly that you had no right to rush up to Betty when she was alone and ask her what she was doing. She was quite at liberty to thrust her hand into an old tree as often as ever she liked, and take some rubbish out, and look at it, and drop it in again. You are talking sheer folly. Do attend to your work, or you’ll be late for Miss Skeene when she comes to give her lecture on English literature.”
No girl could ever be offended by Martha, and thework continued happily. But during recess that day Sibyl beckoned her companions away with her; and she, followed by five or six girls of the lower fifth, visited the spot where Betty had stood on the previous evening. Betty was much taller than any of these girls, and they found when they reached the old stump that it was impossible for them to thrust their hands in. But this difficulty was overcome by Sibyl volunteering to sit on Mabel Lee’s shoulders—and, if necessary, even to stand on her shoulders while the other girls held her firm—in order that she might thrust her hand into the hollow of the oak-tree. This feat was accomplished with some difficulty, but nothing whatever was brought up except withered leaves and débris and a broken piece of wood much saturated with rain.
“This must have been what she saw,” said Sibyl. “I asked her if it was wood, and I think she said it was. Only, why did she look so very queer?”
The girls continued their walk, but Martha West stayed at home. She had hushed the remarks made by the younger girls that morning, nevertheless, she could not get them out of her mind. Sibyl’s story was circumstantial. She had described Betty’s annoyance and distress when they met, Betty’s almost confusion. She had then said that it was Betty who suggested that she was to wear the marguerites.
Now Martha, in her heart of hearts, thought this suggestion of Betty’s very far-fetched; and being a very shrewd, practical sort of girl, there came an awful moment when she almost made up her mind that Betty had done this in order to get rid of Sibyl. Why did she want to get rid of her? Martha began to believe that she was growing quite uncharitable.
At that moment, who should appear in sight, who should utter a cry of satisfaction and seat herself cosily by Martha’s side, but Fanny Crawford!
“This is nice,” said Fanny with a sigh. “I did so want to chat with you, Martha. I so seldom see you quite all by yourself.”
“I am always to be seen if you really wish to find me, Fanny,” replied Martha. “I am never too busy not to be delighted to see my friends.”
“Well, of course we are friends, being Specialities,” was Fanny’s remark.
“Yes,” answered Martha, “and I think we were friends before. I always liked you just awfully, Fan.”
“Ditto, ditto,” replied Fanny. “It is curious,” she continued, speaking in a somewhat sententious voice, “how one is drawn irresistibly to one girl and repelled by another. Now, I was always drawn to you, Matty; I always liked you from the very, very first. I was more than delighted when I heard that you were to become one of us.”
Martha was silent. It was not her habit to praise herself, nor did she care to hear herself praised. She was essentially downright and honest. She did not think highly of herself, for she knew quite well that she had very few outward charms.
Fanny, however, who was the essence of daintiness, looked at her now with blue-gray eyes full of affection. “Martha,” she said, “I have such a lot to talk over! What did you think of last night?”
“I thought it splendid,” replied Martha.
“And Betty—what did you think of Betty?”
“Your cousin? She is very dramatic,” said Martha.
“Yes, that is it,” replied Fanny; “she is dramatic in everything. I doubt if she is ever natural or her true self.”
“Fanny!”
“Oh, dear old Martha, don’t be so frightfully prim! I don’t intend to break Rule No. I. Of course I love Betty. As a matter of fact, I have loved her before any of youset eyes on her. She is my very own cousin, and but for father’s strong influence would never have been at this school at all. Still, I repeat that she is dramatic and hardly ever herself.”
“She puzzles me, I confess,” said Martha, a little dubiously; “but then,” she added, “I can’t help yielding to her charm.”
“That is it,” said Fanny—“her charm. But look down deep into your heart, Martha, and tell me if you think her charm healthy.”
“Well, I see nothing wrong about it.” Then Martha became abruptly silent.
“For instance,” said Fanny, pressing a little closer to her companion, “why ever did she make your special protégé Sibyl Ray such a figure of fun last night?”
“I thought Sibyl looked rather pretty.”
“When she entered the room, Martha?”
“Oh no; she was quite hideous then, poor little thing! But Betty soon put that all right; she had very deft fingers.”
“I know,” said Fanny. “But what I want to have explained is this: why Betty, a girl who is more or less worshiped by half the girls in the school, should trouble herself with such a very unimportant person as Sibyl Ray, I want to know. Can you tell me?”
“Even if I could tell you, remembering Rule No. I., I don’t think I would,” said Martha.
Fanny sat very still for a minute or two. Then she got up. “I don’t see,” she remarked, “why Rule No. I. should make us unsociable each with the other. The very object of our club is that we should have no secrets, but should be quite open and above-board. Now, Martha West, look me straight in the face!”
“I will, Fanny Crawford. What in the world are you accusing me of?”
“Of keeping something back from me which, as amember of the Specialities, you have no right whatever to do.”
A slow, heavy blush crept over Martha’s face. She got up. “I am going to look over my German lesson,” she said. “Fräulein will want me almost immediately.” Then she left Fanny, who stared after her retreating figure.
“I will find out,” thought Fanny, “what Martha is keeping to herself. That little horror Betty will sow all kinds of evil seed in the school if I don’t watch her. I did wrong to promise her, by putting my finger to my lips, that I would be silent with regard to her conduct. I see it now. But if Betty supposes that she can keep her secret to herself she is vastly mistaken. Hurrah, there’s Sibyl Ray! Sib, come here, child; I want to have a chat with you.”
It was a bitterly cold and windy day outside; there were even sleet-showers falling at intervals. Winter was coming on early, and with a vengeance.
“Why have you come in?” asked Fanny.
“It’s so bitterly cold out, Fanny.”
“Well, sit down now you are in. You are a nice little thing, you know, Sib, although at present you are very unimportant. You know that, of course?”
“Yes,” said Sibyl; “I am told it nearly every hour of the day.” She spoke in a wistful tone. “Sometimes,” she added, “I could almost wish I were back in the lower school, where I was looked up to by the smaller girls and had a right good time.”
“We can never go back, Sib; that is the law of life.”
“Of course not.”
“Well, sit down and talk to me. Now, I have something to say to you. Do you know that I am devoured with curiosity, and all about a small girl like yourself?”
“Oh Fanny,” said Sibyl, immensely flattered, “I am glad you take an interest in me!”
“I must be frank,” said Fanny. “Up to the present Ihave taken no special interest in you, except in so far as you are Martha’s protégé; but when I saw you in that extraordinary dress last night I singled you out at once as a girl with original ideas. Do look me in the face, Sib!”
Sibyl turned. Fanny’s face was exquisitely chiselled. Each neat little feature was perfect. Her eyes were large and well-shaped, her brows delicately marked, her complexion pure lilies and roses; her hair was thick and smooth, and yet there were little ripples about it which gave it, even in its schoolgirl form, a look of distinction. Sibyl, on the contrary, was an undersized girl, with the fair, colorless face, pale-blue eyes, the lack of eyebrows and eyelashes, the hair thin and small in quantity, which make the most hopeless type of all as regards good looks.
“I wonder, Sib,” said Fanny, “if you, you little mite, are really eaten up with vanity?”
“I—vain! Why should you say so?”
“I only thought it from your peculiar dress last night.”
Sibyl colored and spoke eagerly. “Oh, but that wasn’t me at all; it was that quite too darling Betty!”
“Do you mean my cousin, Betty Vivian?”
“Of course, who else?”
“Well, what had she to do with it?”
“I will tell you if you like, Fanny. She didn’t expect me to keep it a secret. I met her when I was out——”
“You—met Betty—when you were out?”
“Yes.” There was a kind of reserve in Sibyl’s tone which made Fanny scent a possible mystery.
“Where did you meet her?” was the next inquiry.
“Well, she was standing by the stump of an old tree which is hollow inside. It is just at the top of the hill by the bend, exactly where the hill goes down towards the ‘forest primeval.’”
“Can’t say I remember it,” said Fanny. “Go on, Sib. So Betty was standing there?”
“Yes, oh yes. I saw her in the distance. I was expecting to meet Clarice and Mary Moss; but they failed me, although they had faithfully promised to come. So when I saw Betty I could not resist running up to her; but when I got quite close I stood still.”
“Well, you stood still. Why?”
“Oh Fan, she was doing such a funny thing! She was bending down and looking over into the hollow of the tree. Then, all of a sudden, she thrust her hand in—far down—and took something out of the tree and looked at it. I could just catch sight of what it was——”
“Yes, go on. What was it? Don’t be afraid of me, Sib. I have a lot of chocolates in my pocket that I will give you presently.”
“Oh thank you, Fanny! It is nice to talk to you. I couldn’t see very distinctly what she had in her hand, only she was staring at it, and staring at it; and then she dropped it in again, right down into the depths of the tree; and I saw her bending more than ever, as though she were covering it up.”
“But you surely saw what it was like?”
“It might have been anything—I wasn’t very near then. I ran up to her, and asked her what it was.”
“And what did she say?”
“Oh, she said it was a piece of wood, and that she had dropped it into the tree.”
Fanny sat very still. A coldness came over her. She was nearly stunned with what she considered the horror of Betty’s conduct.
“What is the matter?” asked Sibyl.
“Nothing at all, Sib; nothing at all. And then, what happened?”
“Betty was very cross at being disturbed.”
“That is quite probable,” said Fanny with a laugh.
“She certainly was, and I—I—I am afraid I annoyed her; but after a minute or two she got up and allowedme to walk with her. We walked towards the house, and she told me all kinds of funny stories; she really made me scream with laughter. She is the jolliest girl! Then, all of a sudden, we came in sight of the flower-gardens; and she asked me what I was going to wear last night, and I told her about the green chiffon dress which auntie had sent me; and then she suggested a wreath of small marguerites, and told me to get Birchall to cut some for me. She said they would be very becoming, and of course I believed her. There’s nothing in my story, is there, Fanny?”
“That depends on the point of view,” answered Fanny.
“I don’t understand you.”
“Nor do I mean you to, kiddy.”
“Well, there’s one thing more,” continued Sibyl, who felt much elated at being allowed to talk to one of the most supercilious of all the Specialities. “I couldn’t get out of my head about Betty and the oak-tree; so just now—a few minutes ago—I got some of my friends to come with me, and we went to the oak-tree, and I stood on Mabel Lee’s shoulder, and I poked and poked amongst the débris and rubbish in the hollow of the trunk, and there was nothing there at all—nothing except just a piece of wood. So, of course, Betty spoke the truth—it was wood.”
“How many chocolates would you like?” was Fanny’s rejoinder.
“Oh Fanny, are you going to give me some?”
“Yes, if you are a good girl, and don’t tell any one that you repeated this very harmless and uninteresting little story to me about my Cousin Betty. Of course she is my cousin, and I don’t like anything said against her.”
“But I wasn’t speaking against darling Betty!” Sibyl’s eyes filled with tears.
“Of course not, monkey; but you were telling me a little tale which might be construed in different ways.”
“Yes, yes; only I don’t understand. Betty had a perfect right to poke her hand into the hollow of the tree, and to bring up a piece of wood, and look at it, and put it back again; and I don’t understand your expression, Fanny, that it all depends on the point of view.”
“Keep this to yourself, and I will give you some more chocolates sometime,” was Fanny’s answer. “I can be your friend as well as Martha—that is, if you are nice, and don’t repeat every single thing you hear. The worst sin in a schoolgirl—at least, the worst minor sin—is to be breaking confidences. No schoolgirl with a shade of honor in her composition would ever do that, and certainly no girl trained at Haddo Court ought to be noted for such a characteristic. Now, Sibyl, you are no fool; and, when I talk to you, you are not to repeat things. I may possibly want to talk to you again, and then there’ll be more chocolates and—and—other things; and as you are in the upper school, and are really quite a nice girl, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if I invited you to have tea with me in my bedroom some night—oh, not quite yet, but some evening not far off. Now, off with you, and let me see how well you can keep an innocent little confidence between you and me!”
Sibyl ran off, munching her chocolates, wondering a good deal at Fanny’s manner, but in the excitement of her school-life, soon forgetting both her and Betty Vivian. For, after all, there was no story worth thinking about. There was nothing in the hollow of the old tree but the piece of wood, and nothing—nothing in the wide world—could be made interesting out of that.
Meanwhile, Fanny thought for a time. The first great entertainment of the Specialities was over. Betty was now a full-blown member, and as such must be treated in a manner which Fanny could not possibly have assumed towards her before this event took place. Fannyblamed herself for her weakness in consenting to keep Betty’s secret. She had done so on the spur of the moment, influenced by the curious look in the girl’s eyes, and wondering if she would turn to her with affection if she, Fanny, were so magnanimous. But Betty had not turned to her with either love or affection. Betty was precisely the Betty she had been before she joined the club. It is true she was very much sought after and consulted on all sorts of matters, and her name was whispered in varying notes of admiration among the girls, and she was likely (unless a spoke were put in her wheel) to rise to one of the highest positions in the great school. Betty had committed one act of flagrant wickedness. Fanny was not going to mince matters; she could not call it by any other name. There were no extenuating circumstances, in her opinion, to excuse this act of Betty’s. The fact that she had first stolen the packet, and then told Sir John Crawford a direct lie with regard to it, was the sort of thing that Fanny could never get over.
“One act of wickedness leads to another,” thought Fanny. “Contrary to my advice, my beseechings, she has joined our club. She has taken a vow which she cannot by any possibility keep, which she breaks every hour of every day; for she holds a secret which, according to Rule No. I., the other Specialities ought to know. What was she doing by the old stump? What did she take out and look at so earnestly? It was not a piece of wood. That idea is sheer nonsense.”
Fanny thought and thought, and the more she thought the more uncomfortable did she grow. “It is perfectly horrible!” she kept saying to herself. “I loathe myself for even thinking about it, but I am afraid I must put a spoke in her wheel. The whole school may be contaminated at this rate. If Betty could do what she did she may do worse, and there isn’t a girl in the place who isn’t prepared to worship her. Oh, of course I’m not jealous; whyshould I be? I should be a very unworthy member of the Specialities if I were. Nevertheless——”
Just then Sylvia and Hetty Vivian walked through the great recreation-hall arm in arm.
Fanny called them to her. “Where’s Betty?” she asked.
“She told us she’d be very busy for half an hour in our room, and that then she was going downstairs to have a sort of conference—with you, I suppose, Fanny, and the rest of the Specialities.”
Sylvia gave a very impatient shrug of her shoulders.
“Why do you look like that, Sylvia?” asked Fanny.
“Well, the fact is, Hetty and I do hate our own Betty belonging to your club. Whenever we want her now she is engaged; and she has such funny talk all about committee meetings and private conferences in your odious sitting-room. We don’t like it a bit. We much, much preferred our Betty before she joined the Specialities.”
“All the same,” said Fanny, “you must have felt very proud of your Betty last night.”
Hester laughed. “She wasn’t half her true self,” said the girl. “Oh, of course she was wonderful, and much greater than others; but I wish you could have heard her tell stories in Scotland. We used to have just one blink of light from the fire, and we sat and held each other’s hands, and I tell you Betty made us thrill.”
“Well, now that you have reminded me,” said Fanny, rising as she spoke, “I must go and attend that committee meeting. I really forgot it, so I am greatly obliged to you girls for reminding me. And you mustn’t be jealous of your sister; that is a very wrong feeling.”
The girls laughed and ran off, while Fanny slowly walked down the recreation-hall and then ascended some stairs, until she found herself in that particularly cosy and bright sitting-room which was set apart for the Specialities.
Martha West was there, also Susie Rushworth, the twoBertrams, and Olive Repton. But Margaret Grant had not yet appeared, nor had Betty Vivian. Fanny took her seat near Olive. The girls began to chat, and the subject of last night’s entertainment was discussed pretty fully. Most of the girls present agreed that it was remarkably silly of Sibyl Ray to wear marguerites in her hair, that they were very sorry for her, and hoped she would not be so childish again. It was just at that moment that Margaret Grant appeared, and immediately afterwards Betty Vivian. The minutes of the last committee meeting were read aloud, and then Margaret turned and asked the girls if they were thoroughly satisfied with the entertainment of the previous night. They all answered in the affirmative except Fanny, who was silent. Neither did Betty speak, for she had been the chief contributor to the entertainment.
“Well,” continued Margaret, “I may as well say at once that I was delighted. Betty, I didn’t know that you possessed so great a gift. I wish you would improvise as you did last night one evening for Mrs. Haddo.”
Betty turned a little whiter than usual. Then she said slowly, “Alone with her—and with you—I could.”
“I think she would love it,” said Margaret. “It would surprise her just to picture the scene as you threw yourself into it last night.”
“I could do it,” said Betty, “alone with her and with you.”
There was not a scrap of vanity in Betty’s manner. She spoke seriously, just as one who, knowing she possesses a gift, accepts it and is thankful.
“I couldn’t get it out of my head all night,” continued Margaret, “more particularly that part where the angels came. It was a very beautiful idea, Betty dear, and I congratulate you on being able to conjure up such fine images in your mind.”
It was with great difficulty that Fanny could suppressher feelings, but the next instant an opportunity occurred for her to give vent to them.
“Now,” said Margaret, “as the great object of our society is in all things to be in harmony, I want to put it to the vote: How did the entertainment go off last night?”
“I liked every single thing about it,” said Susie Rushworth; “the supper, the games, and, above all things, the story-telling.”
The same feeling was expressed in more or less different words by each girl in succession, until Fanny’s turn came.
“And you, Fanny—what did you think?”
“I liked the supper and the games, of course,” said Fanny.
“And the story-telling, Fanny? You ought to be proud of having such a gifted cousin.”
“I didn’t like the story-telling, and Betty knows why I didn’t like it.”
The unmistakable look of hatred on Fanny’s face, the queer flash in her eyes as she glanced at Betty, and Betty’s momentary quiver as she looked back at her, could not fail to be observed by each girl present.
“Fanny, I am astonished at you!” said Margaret Grant in a voice of marked displeasure.
“You asked a plain question, Margaret. I should have said nothing if nothing had been asked; but you surely don’t wish me to commit myself to a lie?”
“Oh no, no!” said Margaret. “But sisterly love, and—and your own cousin too!”
“I want to say something in private to Betty Vivian; and I would earnestly beg of you, Margaret, not to propose to Mrs. Haddo that Betty should tell her any story until after I have spoken. I have my reasons for doing this; and I do not think, all things considered, that I am really breaking Rule No. I. in adopting this course of action.”
“This is most strange!” said Margaret.
Betty rose and came straight up to Fanny. “Where and when do you want to speak to me, Fanny?” she asked.
“I will go with you now,” said Fanny.
“Then I think,” said Margaret, “our meeting has broken up. The next meeting of the Specialities will be held in Olive Repton’s room on Thursday next. There are several days between now and then; but to-morrow at four o’clock I mean to give a tea to all the club here. I invite you, one and all, to be present; and afterwards we can talk folly to our hearts’ content. Listen, please, girls: the next item on my programme is that we invite dear Mr. Fairfax to tea with us, and ask him a few questions with regard to the difficulties we find in the reading of Jeremy Taylor’s ‘Holy Living.’”
“I don’t suppose, Margaret, it is absolutely necessary for me to attend that meeting?” said Betty.
“Certainly not, Betty. No one is expected to attend who does not wish to.”
“You see, I have no difficulties to speak about,” said Betty with a light laugh.
Margaret glanced at her with surprise.
“Come, Betty,” said Fanny; and the two left the room.
“Where am I to go to?” asked Betty when they found themselves outside.
“Out, if you like,” said Fanny.
“No, thank you. The day is very cold.”
“Then come to my room with me, will you, Betty?”
“No,” said Betty, “I don’t want to go to your room.”
“I must see you somewhere by yourself,” said Fanny. “I have something important to say to you.”
“Oh, all right then,” said Betty, shrugging her shoulders. “Your room will do as well as any other place. Let’s get it over.”
The girls ran upstairs. They presently entered Fanny’s bedroom, which was a small apartment, but very neatand cheerful. It was next door to the Vivians’ own spacious one.
The moment they were inside Betty turned and faced Fanny. “Do you always intend to remain my enemy, Fanny?” she asked.
“Far from that, Betty; I want to be your truest friend.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t talk humbug! If you are my truest friend you will act as such. Now, what is the matter—what is up?”
“I will tell you.”
“I am all attention,” said Betty. “Pray begin.”
“I hurt your feelings downstairs just now by saying that I did not care for your story-telling.”
“You didn’t hurt them in the least, for I never expected you to care. The story-telling wasn’t meant for you.”
“But I must mention now why I didn’t care,” continued Fanny, speaking as quickly as she could. “Had you been the Betty the rest of the school think you I could have lost myself, too, in your narrative, and I could have seen the picture you endeavored to portray. But knowing you as you are, Betty Vivian, I could only look down into your wicked heart——”
“What an agreeable occupation!” said Betty with a laugh which she tried to make light, but did not quite succeed.
Fanny was silent.
After a minute Betty spoke again. “Do you spend all your time, Fanny, gazing into my depraved heart?”
“Whenever I think of you, Betty—and I confess I do think of you very often—I remember the sin you have sinned, the lack of repentance you have shown, and, above all things, your daring spirit in joining our club. It is true that when you joined—after all my advice to you to the contrary, my beseeching of you to withstand this temptation—I gave you to understand that I would besilent. But my conscience torments me because of that tacit promise I gave you. Nevertheless I will keep it. But remember, you are in danger. You know perfectly well where the missing packet is. It is—or was, at least—in the hollow stump of the old oak-tree at the top of the hill, and you positively told Sibyl Ray a lie about it when she saw you looking at it yesterday. Afterwards, in order to divert her attention from yourself, you sent her to gather marguerites to make a wreath for her hair—a most ridiculous thing for the child to wear. What you did afterwards I don’t know, and don’t care to inquire. But, Betty, the fact is that you, instead of being an inspiring influence in this school, will undermine it—will ruin its morals. You are a dangerous girl, Betty Vivian; and I tell you so to your face. You are bound—bound to come to grief. Now, I will say no more. I leave it to your conscience what to do and what not to do. There are some fine points about you; and you could be magnificent, but you are not. There, I have spoken!”
“Thank you, Fanny,” replied Betty in a very gentle tone. She waited for a full minute; then she said, “Is that all?”
“Yes, that is all.”
Betty went away to her own room. As soon as ever she entered, she went straight to the looking-glass and gazed at her reflection. She then turned a succession of somersaults from one end of the big apartment to the other. Having done this, she washed her face and hands in ice-cold water, rubbed her cheeks until they glowed, brushed her black hair, and felt better. She ran downstairs, and a few minutes later was in the midst of a very hilarious group, who were all chatting and laughing and hailing Betty Vivian as the best comrade in the wide world.
Betty was not only brilliant socially; at the same time she had fine intellectual powers. She was the delight ofher teachers, for she could imbibe knowledge as a sponge absorbs water. On this particular day she was at her best during a very difficult lesson at the piano from a professor who came from London. Betty had always a passionate love of music, and to-day she revelled in it. She had been learning one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, and now rendered it with exquisite pathos. The professor was delighted, and in the midst of the performance Mrs. Haddo came into the music-room. She listened with approval, and when the girl rose, said, “Well done!”
Another girl took her place; and Betty, running up to Mrs. Haddo, said, “Oh, may I speak to you?”
“Yes, dear; what is it? Come to my room for a minute, if you wish, Betty.”
“It isn’t important enough for that. Dear Mrs. Haddo, it’s just that I am mad for a bit of frolic.”
“Frolic, my child! You seem to have plenty.”
“Not enough—not enough—not nearly enough for a wild girl of Aberdeenshire, a girl who has lived on the moors and loved them.”
“What do you want, dear child?”
“I want most awfully, with your permission, to go with my two sisters Sylvia and Hester to have tea with the Mileses. I want to pet those dogs again, and I want to go particularly badly between now and next Thursday.”
“And why especially between now and next Thursday?”