“Ah, I can’t quite give you the reason. There is a reason. Please—please—please say yes!”
“It is certainly against my rules.”
“But, dear Mrs. Haddo, it isn’t against your rules if you give leave,” pleaded the girl.
“You are very clever at arguing, Betty. I certainly have liberty to break rules in individual cases. Well, dear child, it shall be so. I will send a line to Mrs. Miles to ask her to expect you and your sisters to-morrow. A servant shall accompany you, and will call again later on.You can only stay about one hour at the farm. To-morrow is a half-holiday, so it will be all right.”
“Oh, how kind of you!” said Betty.
But again Mrs. Haddo noticed that Betty avoided looking into her eyes. “Betty,” she said, “this is a small matter—my yielding to the whim of an impetuous girl in whom I take an interest. But, my dear child, I have to congratulate you. You made a marvellous success—a marvellous success—last night. Several of the girls in the school have spoken of it, and in particular dear Margaret Grant. I wonder if you would improvise for me some evening?”
“Gladly!” replied Betty. And now for one minute her brilliant eyes were raised and fixed on those of Mrs. Haddo. “Gladly,” she repeated—and she shivered slightly—“if you will hear me after next Thursday.”
“It’s all right, girls!” said Betty in her most joyful tone.
“What is all right, Betty and Bess?” asked Sylvia saucily.
“Oh, kiss me, girls,” said Betty, “and let’s have a real frolic! To-morrow is Saturday—a half-holiday, of course—and we’re going to the Mileses’ to have tea.”
“The Mileses’!”
“Yes, you silly children; those dear farmer-folk who keep the dogs.”
“Dan and Beersheba?” cried Hetty.
“Yes, Dan and Beersheba; and we’re going to have a real jolly time, and we’re going to forget dull care. It’llbe quite the most delightful sport we’ve had since we came to Haddo Court. What I should love most would be to vault over the fence and go all by our lonesome selves. But we must have a maid—a horrid, stupid maid; only, of course, she’ll walk behind, and she’ll leave us alone when we get to the farm. She’ll fetch us again by-and-by—that’ll be another nuisance. Still, somehow, I don’t know what there is about school, but I’m not game enough to go without leave.”
“You are changed a good bit,” said Hetty. “I think myself it’s since you were made a Speciality.”
“Perhaps so,” said Betty thoughtfully.
Sylvia nestled close to her sister; while Hetty knelt down beside her, laid her elbows on Betty’s knee, and looked up into her face.
“I wonder,” said Sylvia, “if you like being a Special, or whatever they call themselves, Betty mine?”
Betty did not speak.
“Do you like it?” said Hester, giving her sister a poke in the side as she uttered the words.
“I can’t quite tell you, girls; it’s all new to me at present. Everything is new and strange. Oh girls, England is a cold, cold country!”
“But it is declared by all the geography-books to be warmer than Scotland,” said Sylvia, speaking in a thoughtful voice.
“I don’t mean physical cold,” said Betty, half-laughing as she spoke.
“I begin to like school,” said Hetty. “Lessons aren’t really a bit hard.”
“I think school is very stimulating,” said Sylvia. “The teachers are all so kind, and we are making friends by degrees. The only thing that Hetty and I don’t like is this, Bet, that we see so very little of you.”
“Although I see little of you I never forget you,” was Betty’s answer.
“And then,” continued Sylvia, “we sleep in the same room, which is a great blessing. That is something to be thankful for.”
“And perhaps,” said Betty, “we’ll see more of each other in the future.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing.”
“Betty, you are growing very mysterious.”
“I hope not,” replied Betty. “I should just hate to be mysterious.”
“Well, you are growing it, all the same,” said Hester. “But, oh Bet, you’re becoming the most wonderful favorite in the school! I can’t tell you what the other girls say about you, for I really think it would make you conceited. It does us a lot of good to have a sister like you; for whenever we are spoken to or introduced to a new girl—I mean a girl we haven’t spoken to before—the remark invariably is, ‘Oh, are you related to Betty Vivian, the Speciality?’ And then—and then everything is all right, and the girls look as if they would do anything for us. We are the moon and stars, you are the sun; and it’s very nice to have a sister like you.”
“Well, listen, girls. We’re going to have a real good time to-morrow, and we’ll forget all about school and the lessons and the chapel.”
“Oh, but I do like the chapel!” said Sylvia in a thoughtful voice. “I love to hear Mr. Fairfax when he reads the lessons; and I think if I were in trouble about anything I could tell him, somehow.”
“Could you?” said Betty. She started slightly, and stared very hard at her sister. “Perhaps one could,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Mr. Fairfax is very wonderful.”
“Oh yes, isn’t he?” said Hester.
“But we won’t think of him to-night or to-morrow,” continued Betty, rising to her feet as she spoke. “Wemust imagine ourselves back in Scotland again. Oh, it will be splendid to have that time at the Mileses’ farm!”
The rest of the evening passed without anything remarkable occurring. Betty, as usual, was surrounded by her friends. The younger Vivian girls chatted gaily with others. Every one was quite kind and pleasant to Betty, and Fanny Crawford left her alone. As this was quite the very best thing Fanny could do, Betty thanked her in her heart. But that evening, just before prayer-time, Betty crossed the hall, where she had been sitting surrounded by a group of animated schoolfellows, and went up to Miss Symes. “Have I your permission, Miss Symes,” she said, “not to attend prayers in chapel to-night?”
“Aren’t you well, Betty dear?” asked Miss Symes a little anxiously.
Betty remained silent for a minute. Then she said, “Physically I am quite well; mentally I am not.”
“Dear Betty!”
“I can’t explain it,” said Betty. “I would just rather not attend prayers to-night. Do you mind?”
“No, dear. You haven’t perhaps yet been acquainted with the fact that the Specialities are never coerced to attend prayers. They are expected to attend; but if for any reason they prefer not, questions are not asked.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Betty. She turned and went slowly and thoughtfully upstairs. When she got to her own room she sat quite still, evidently thinking very hard. But when her sisters joined her (and they all went to bed earlier than usual), Betty was the first to drop asleep.
As has already been stated, Betty’s pretty little bed was placed between Sylvia’s and Hetty’s; and now, as she slept, the two younger girls bent across, clasped hands, and looked down at her small white face. They could just get a glimmer of that face in the moonlight, which happened to be shining brilliantly through the three big windows.
All of a sudden, Sylvia crept very softly out of bed, and, running round to Hester’s side, whispered to her, “What is the matter?”
“I don’t know,” replied Hester.
“But something is,” remarked Sylvia.
“Yes, something is,” said Hester. “Best not worry her.”
Sylvia nodded and returned to her own bed.
On the following morning, however, all Betty’s apparent low spirits had vanished. She was in that wild state of hilarity when she seemed to carry all before her. Her sisters could not help laughing every time Betty opened her lips, and it was the same during recess. When many girls clustered round her with their gay jokes, they became convulsed with laughter at her comic replies.
It was arranged by Mrs. Haddo that Betty and her two sisters were to start for the Mileses’ farm at three o’clock exactly. It would not take them more than half an hour to walk there. Mrs. Miles was requested to give them tea not later than four o’clock, and they were to be called for at half-past four. Thus they would be back at Haddo Court about five.
“Only two hours!” thought Betty to herself. “But one can get a great deal of pleasure into two hours.”
Betty felt highly excited. Her sisters’ delight at being able to go failed to interest her. As a rule, with all her fun and nonsense and hilarity, Betty possessed an abundance of self-control. But to-day she seemed to have lost it.
The very staid-looking maid, Harris by name, who accompanied them, could scarcely keep pace with the Vivian girls. They ran, they shouted, they laughed. When they were about half-way to the Mileses’ farm they came to a piece of common which had not yet been inclosed. The day was dry and comparatively warm, and the grass on the common was green, owing to the recent rains.
“Harris,” said Betty, turning to the maid, “would you like to see some Catharine wheels?”
Harris stared in some amazement at the young lady.
“Come along, girls, do!” said Betty. “Harris must have fun as well as the rest of us. You like fun, don’t you Harris?”
“Love it, miss!” said Harris.
“Well, then, here goes!” said Betty. “Harris, please hold our hats.”
The next instant the three were turning somersaults on the green grass of the common, to the unbounded amazement of the maid, who felt quite shocked, and shouted to the young ladies to come back and behave themselves. Betty stopped at once when she heard the pleading note in Harris’s voice.
“You hadn’t ought to have done it,” said Harris; “and if my missis was to know! Oh, what shows you all three do look! Now, let me put your hats on tidy-like. There, that’s better!”
“I feel much happier in my mind now, Harris—and that’s a good thing, isn’t it?” said Betty.
“Yes, miss, it’s a very good thing. But I shouldn’t say, to look at you, that you knew the meaning of the least bit of unhappiness.”
“Of course I don’t,” said Betty; “nor does my sister Sylvia, nor does my sister Hester.”
“We did up in Scotland for a time,” said Hester, who could not understand Betty at all, and felt more and more puzzled at her queer behavior.
“Well, now, we’ll walk sober and steady,” said Harris. “You may reckon on one thing, missies—that I won’t tell what you done on the common, for if I did you’d be punished pretty sharp.”
“You may tell if you like, Harris,” said Betty. “I shouldn’t dream of asking you to keep a secret.”
“I won’t, all the same,” said Harris.
The walk continued without any more exciting occurrences; and when the girls reached the farm they were greeted by Mrs. Miles, her two big boys, and the farmer himself. Here Harris dropped a curtsy and disappeared.
“Oh, I must kiss you, Mrs. Miles!” said Betty. “And, please, this is my sister Sylvia, and this is Hester. They are twins; but, having two sets yourself, you said you did not mind seeing them and giving them tea, even though they are twins.”
“’Tain’t no disgrace, missie, as I’ve heerd tell on,” said the farmer.
“Oh Farmer Miles, I am glad to see you!” said Betty. “Fancy dear, kind Mrs. Haddo giving us leave to come and have tea with you!—I do hope, Mrs. Miles, you’ve got a very nice tea, for I can tell you I am hungry. I’ve given myself an appetite on purpose; for I would hardly touch any breakfast, and at dinner I took the very teeniest bit.”
“And so did I,” said Sylvia in a low tone.
“And I also,” remarked Hester.
“Well, missies, I ha’ got the best tea I could think of, and right glad we are to see you. You haven’t spoken to poor Ben yet, missie.”
Here Mrs. Miles indicated her eldest son, an uncouth-looking lad of about twelve years of age.
“Nor Sammy neither,” said the farmer, laying his hand on Sammy’s broad shoulder, and bringing the red-haired and freckled boy forward.
“I am just delighted to see you, Ben; and to see you, Sammy. And these are my sisters. And, please, Mrs. Miles, where are the twins?”
“The twinses are upstairs, sound asleep; but they’ll be down by tea-time,” said Mrs. Miles.
“And, above all things, where are the dogs?” said Betty.
“Now, missie,” said the farmer, “them dogs has been very rampageous lately, and, try as we would, we couldn’t tame ’em; so we have ’em fastened up in their kennels,and only lets ’em out at night. You shall come and see ’em in their kennels, missie.”
“Oh, but they must be let out!” said Betty, tears brimming to her eyes. “My sisters love dogs just as much as I do. They must see the dogs. Oh, we must have a game with them!”
“I wouldn’t take it upon me, I wouldn’t really,” said the farmer, “to let them dogs free to-day. They’re that remarkable rampageous.”
“Well, take me to them anyhow,” said Betty.
The farmer, his wife, Ben and Sammy, and the three Vivian girls tramped across the yard, and presently arrived opposite the kennels where Dan and Beersheba were straining at the end of their chains. When they heard footsteps they began to bark vociferously, but the moment they saw Betty their barking ceased; they whined and strained harder than ever in their wild rapture. Betty instantly flung herself on her knees by Dan’s side and kissed him on the forehead. The dog licked her little hand, and was almost beside himself with delight. As to poor Beersheba, he very nearly went mad with jealousy over the attention paid to Dan.
“You see for yourself,” said Betty, looking into the farmer’s face, “the dogs will be all right with me. You must let them loose while I am here.”
“It do seem quite wonderful,” said the farmer. “Now, don’t it, wife?”
“A’most uncanny, I call it,” said Mrs. Miles.
“But before you let them loose I must introduce my sisters to them,” said Betty. “Sylvia, come here. Sylvia, kneel by me.”
The girl did so. The dogs were not quite so much excited over Sylvia as they were over Betty, but they also licked their hands and wagged their tails in great delight. Hester went through the same form of introduction; and then, somewhat against his will, the farmer gave the dogstheir liberty. Betty said, in a commanding tone, “To heel, good boys, at once!” and the wild and savage dogs obeyed her.
She paced up and down the yard in a state of rapture at her conquest over these fierce animals. Then she whispered something to Sylvia, who in her turn whispered to Mrs. Miles, who in her turn whispered to Ben; the result of which was that three wicker chairs were brought from the house, Betty and her sisters seated themselves, and the dogs sprawled in ecstasy at their side.
“Oh, we are happy!” said Betty. “Mrs. Miles, was your heart ever very starvingly empty?”
“Times, maybe,” said Mrs. Miles, who had gone, like most of her sex, through a chequered career.
“And weren’t you glad when it got filled up to the brim again?”
“That I was,” said Mrs. Miles.
“My heart was a bit starved this morning,” said Betty; “but it feels full to the brim now. Please, dear, good Mrs. Miles, leave us five alone together. Go all of you away, and let us stay alone together.”
“Meanin’ by that you three ladies and them dogs?”
“Yes, that is what I mean.”
The farmer bent and whispered something to his wife, the result of which was that a minute later Betty and her sisters were alone with the animals. They did not know, however, that the farmer had hidden himself in the big barn ready to spring out should “them fierce uns,” as he termed the animals, become refractory. Then began an extraordinary scene. Betty whispered in the dogs’ ears, and they grovelled at her feet. Then she sang a low song to them; and they stood upright, quivering with rapture. The two girls kept behind Betty, who was evidently the first in the hearts of these extraordinary dogs.
“I could teach them no end of tricks. They could bealmost as lively and delightful as Andrew and Fritz,” said Betty, turning to her sisters.
“Oh yes,” they replied. Then Sylvia burst out crying.
“Silly Sylvia! What is the matter?” said Betty.
“It’s only that I didn’t know my heart was hungry until—until this very minute,” said Sylvia. “Oh, it is awful to live in a house without dogs!”
“I have felt that all along,” said Betty. “But I suppose, after a fashion, we’ve got to endure. Oh do stop crying, Sylvia! Let’s make the most of a happy time.”
The culmination of that happy time was when Mrs. Miles appeared on the scene, accompanied by four little children—two very pretty little girls, dressed in white, their short sleeves tied up with blue ribbons for the occasion; and two little boys a year or two older.
“These be the twinses,” said Mrs. Miles. “These two be Moses and Ephraim, and these two be Deborah and Anna. The elder of the twinses are Moses and Ephraim, and the younger Deborah and Anna. Now, then children, you jest drop your curtsies to the young ladies, and say you are glad to see them.”
“But, indeed, they shall do nothing of the kind,” said Betty. “Oh, aren’t they the sweetest darlings! Deborah, I must kiss you. Anna, put your sweet little arms round my neck.”
The children were in wild delight, for all children took immediately to Betty. But, lo and behold! one of the dogs gave an ominous growl. Was not his idol devoting herself to some one else? In one instant the brute might have sprung upon poor little Deborah had not Betty turned and laid her hand on his forehead. Instantly he gave a sound between a groan and a moan, and crouched at her feet.
“There! I never!” said Mrs. Miles. “You be a reg’lar out-and-out lion-tamer, miss.”
“I’m getting more and more hungry every minute,” said Betty. “Will—will tea be ready soon, Mrs. Miles?”
“I was coming out to fetch you in, my loves.”
The whole party then migrated to the kitchen, which was ornamented especially for the occasion. The long center-table was covered with a snowy cloth, and on it were spread all sorts of appetizing viands—great slabs of honey in the comb, cakes of every description, hot griddle-cakes, scones, muffins, cold chicken, cold ham, and the most delicious jams of every variety. Added to these good things was a great bowl full of Devonshire cream, which Mrs. Miles had made herself from a well-known Devonshire recipe that morning.
“Oh, but doesn’t this look good!” said Betty. She sat down with a twin girl at each side of her, and with a dog resting his head on the lap of each of the twins, and their beseeching eyes fixed on Betty’s face.
“I ha’ got a treat for ’em afterwards, missie,” said Mrs. Miles; “two strong beef-bones. They shall eat ’em, and they’ll never forget you arter that.”
Betty became so lively now that at a whispered word from Sylvia she began to tell stories—by no means the sort of stories she had told at the Specialities’ entertainment, but funny tales, sparkling with wit and humor—tales quite within the comprehension of her intelligent but unlearned audience. Even the farmer roared with laughter, and said over and over to his wife, as he wiped the tears of enjoyment from his eyes, “Well, that do cap all!”
Meanwhile the important ceremony of eating the many good things provided went steadily on, until at last even Betty had to own that she was satisfied.
All rose from their seats, and as they did so Mrs. Miles put a pretty little basket into each girl’s hand. “A few new-laid eggs, dearies,” she said, “and a comb of honey for each of you. You must ask Mrs. Haddo’s leave aforeyou eats ’em, but I know she won’t mind. And there’s some very late roses, the last of the season, that I’ve put into the top of your basket, Miss Betty.”
Alack and alas, how good it all was! How pleasant was the air, how genial the simple life! How Betty and Sylvia and Hester rejoiced in it, and how quickly it was over!
Harris appeared, and at this signal the girls knew they must go. Betty presented her canine darlings with a beef-bone each; and then, with a hug to Mrs. Miles, a hearty hand-clasp to the farmer and the boys, and further hugs to both sets of twins, the girls returned to Haddo Court.
The visit to the farm was long remembered by Betty Vivian. It was the one bright oasis, the one brilliant spark of intense enjoyment, in a dark week. For each day the shadow of what lay before her—and of what she, Betty Vivian, had made up her mind to do—seemed to creep lower and lower over her horizon, until, when Thursday morning dawned, it seemed to Betty that there was neither sun, moon, nor stars in her heaven.
But if Betty lacked much and was full of grave and serious thoughts, there was one quality, admirable in itself, which she had to perfection, and that was her undoubted bravery. To make up her mind to do a certain thing was, with Betty Vivian, to do it. She had not quite made up her mind on Saturday; but on Sunday morning she had very nearly done so, and on Sunday evening she had quite done so. On Sunday evening, therefore, she knelt rather longer than the others, struggling and praying in the beautiful chapel; and when she raised her smallwhite face, and met the eyes of the chaplain fixed on her, a thrill went through her. He, at least, would understand, and, if necessary, give her sympathy. But just at present she did not need sympathy, or rather she would not ask for it. She had great self-control, and she kept her emotions so absolutely to herself that no one guessed what she was suffering. Every day, every hour, she was becoming more and more the popular girl of the school; for Betty had nothing mean in her nature, and could love frankly and generously. She could listen to endless confidences without dreaming of betraying them, and the girls got to know that Betty Vivian invariably meant what she said. One person, however, she avoided, and that person was Fanny Crawford.
Thursday passed in its accustomed way: school in the morning, with recess; school in the afternoon, followed by play, games of all sorts, and many another delightful pastime. Betty went for a walk with her two sisters; and presently, almost before they knew, they found themselves surveying their three little plots of ground in the gardens, which they had hitherto neglected. While they were so employed, Mrs. Haddo quite unexpectedly joined them.
“Oh, my dear girls, why, you have done nothing here—nothing at all!”
Sylvia said, “We are going to almost immediately, Mrs. Haddo.”
And Hetty said, “I quite love gardening. I was only waiting until Betty gave the word.”
“So you two little girls obey Betty in all things?” said Mrs. Haddo, glancing at the elder girl’s face.
“We only do it because we love to,” was the response.
“Well, my dears, I am surprised! Why, there isn’t a sight of your Scotch heather! Has it died? What has happened to it?”
“We made a burnt-offering of it,” said Betty suddenly.
“You did what?” said Mrs. Haddo in some astonishment.
“You see,” said Betty, “it was this way.” She now looked full up at her mistress. “The Scotch heather could not live in exile. So we burnt it, and set all the fairies free. They are in Aberdeenshire now, and quite happy.”
“What a quaint idea!” said Mrs. Haddo. “You must tell me more about this by-and-by, Betty.”
Betty made no answer.
“Meanwhile,” continued Mrs. Haddo, who felt puzzled at the girl’s manner, she scarcely knew why, “I will tell a gardener to have the gardens well dug and laid out in little walks. I will also have the beds prepared, and then you must consult Birchall about the sort of things that grow best in this special plot of ground. Let me see, this is Thursday. I have no doubt Birchall could have a consultation with you on the subject this very minute if you like to see him.”
“Oh yes, please!” said Sylvia.
But Betty drew back. “Do you greatly mind if we do nothing about our gardens until next week?” she asked.
“If you prefer it, certainly,” answered Mrs. Haddo. “The plots of ground are your property while you stay at Haddo Court. You can neglect them, or you can tend them. Some of the girls of this school have very beautiful gardens, full of sweet, smiling flowers; others, again, do nothing at all in them. I never praise those who cultivate their little patch of garden-ground, and I never blame those who neglect it. It is all a matter of feeling. In my opinion, the garden is meant to be a delight; those who do not care for it miss a wonderful joy, but I don’t interfere.” As Mrs. Haddo spoke she nodded to the girls, and then walked quietly back towards the house.
“Wasn’t it funny of her to say that a garden wasmeant to be a delight?” said Sylvia. “Oh Betty, don’t you love her very much?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Betty, and her voice was a little choked.
“Betty,” said Sylvia, “you seem to get paler and paler. I am sure you miss Aberdeenshire.”
“Miss it!” said Betty; “miss it! Need you ask?”
This was the one peep that her sisters were permitted to get into Betty Vivian’s heart before the meeting of the Specialities that evening.
Olive Repton was quite excited preparing for her guests. School had become much more interesting to her since Betty’s arrival. Martha was also a sort of rock of comfort to lean upon. Margaret, of course, was always charming. Margaret Grant was Margaret Grant, and there never could be her second; but the two additional members gave undoubted satisfaction to the others—that is, with the exception of Fanny Crawford, who had, however, been most careful not to say one word against Betty since she became a Speciality.
Olive’s room was not very far from the Vivians’, and as Betty on this special night was hurrying towards the appointed meeting-place she came across Fanny. Between Fanny and herself not a word had been exchanged for several days.
Fanny stopped her now. “Are you ill, Betty?” she said.
Betty shook her head.
“I wish to tell you,” said Fanny, “that, after very carefully considering everything, I have made up my mind that it is not my place to interfere with you. If your conscience allows you to keep silent I shall not speak. That is all.”
“Thank you, Fanny,” replied Betty. She stood aside and motioned to Fanny to pass her. Fanny felt, for some unaccountable reason, strangely uncomfortable. Thecloud which had been hanging over Betty seemed to visit Fanny’s heart also. For the first time since her cousin’s arrival she almost pitied her.
Olive’s room was very bright. She had a good deal of individual taste, and as the gardeners were always allowed to supply the Specialities with flowers for their weekly meetings and their special entertainments, Olive had her room quite gaily decorated. Smilax hung in graceful festoons from several vases and trailed in a cunning pattern round the little supper-table; cyclamen, in pots, further added to the decorations; and there were still some very beautiful white chrysanthemums left in the green-house, a careful selection of which had been made by Birchall that day for the young ladies’ festivities.
And now all the girls were present, and supper began. Hitherto, during the few meetings of the Specialities that had taken place since she became a member, Betty’s voice had sounded brisk and lively; Betty’s merry, sweet laugh had floated like music in the air; and Betty’s charming face had won all hearts, except that of her cousin. But to-night she was quite grave. She sat a little apart from the others, hardly eating or speaking. Suddenly she got up, took a book from a shelf, and began to read. This action on her part caused the other girls to gaze at her in astonishment.
Margaret said, “Is anything the matter, Betty? You neither eat nor speak. You are not at all like our dear, lively Speciality to-night.”
“I don’t want to eat, and I have nothing to say just yet,” answered Betty. “Please don’t let me spoil sport. I saw this book of yours, Olive, and I wanted to find a certain verse in it. Ah, here it is!”
“What is the verse?” asked Olive. “Please read it aloud, Betty.”
Betty obeyed at once.
“Does the road wind uphill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.”
“Does the road wind uphill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.”
There was a dead silence after Betty had read these few words of Christina Rossetti. The girls glanced from one to another. For a minute or so, at least, they could not be frivolous. Then Olive made a pert remark; another girl laughed; and the cloud, small at present as a man’s hand, seemed to vanish. Betty replaced her book on Olive’s book-shelf, and sat quite still and quiet. She knew she was a wet blanket—not the life and soul of the meeting, as was generally the case. She knew well that Margaret Grant was watching her with anxiety, that Martha West and also Fanny Crawford were puzzled at her conduct. As to the rest of the Specialities, it seemed to Betty that they did not go as far down into the root of things as did Margaret and Martha.
This evening was to be one of the ordinary entertainments of the guild or club. There was nothing particular to discuss. The girls were, therefore, to enjoy themselves by innocent chatter and happy confidences, and games if necessary.
When, therefore, they all left the supper-table, Margaret, as president, said, “We have no new member to elect to-night, therefore our six rules need not be read aloud; and we have no entertainment to talk over, for our next entertainment will not take place for some little time. I say, therefore, girls, that the club is open to the amusement of all the members. We are free agents, and can do what we like. Our object, of course, will be to promote the happiness of each and all. Now, Susie Rushworth, what do you propose that we shall do this evening?”
Susie said in an excited voice that she would like to spend a good hour over that exceedingly difficult anddelightful game of “telegrams” and added further that she had brought slips of paper and pencils for the purpose.
A similar question was asked of each girl, and each girl made a proposal according to her state of mind.
Betty was about the fourth girl to be asked. She rose to her feet and said gravely, “I would propose that Susie Rushworth and the other members of the Specialities have their games and fun afterwards; but I have a short story to tell, and I should like to tell it first, if those present are agreeable.”
Margaret felt that the little cloud as big as a man’s hand had returned, and that it had grown much bigger. A curious sense of alarm stole over her. Martha, meanwhile, stared full at Betty, wondering what the girl was going to do. Her whole manner was strange, aloof, and mysterious.
“We will, of course, allow you to speak, Betty dear. We are always interested in what you say,” said Margaret in her gentlest tone.
Betty came forward into the room. She stood almost in the center, unsupported by any chair, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed on Margaret Grant’s face. Just for a minute there was a dead silence, for the girl’s face expressed tragedy; and it was impossible for any one to think of “telegrams,” or frivolous games, or of anything in the world but Betty Vivian at the present moment.
“I have something to say,” she began. “It has only come to me very gradually that it is necessary for me to say it. I think the necessity for speech arose when I found I could not go to chapel.”
“My dear Betty!” said Margaret.
“There were one or two nights,” continued Betty, “when I could not attend.”
“Betty,” said the voice of Fanny Crawford, “don’t you think this room is a little hot, and that you are feelingslightly hysterical? Wouldn’t you rather—rather go away?”
“No, Fanny,” said Betty as she almost turned her back on the other girl. Her nervousness had now left her, and she began to speak with her old animation. “May I repeat a part of Rule No. I.: ‘Each girl who is a member of the Specialities keeps no secret to herself which the other members ought to know’?”
“That is perfectly true,” said Margaret.
“Ihavea secret,” said Betty. After having uttered these words she looked straight before her. “At one time,” she continued, “I thought I’d tell. Then I thought I wouldn’t. Now I am going to tell. I could have told Mrs. Haddo had I seen enough of her—and you, Margaret, if ever you had drawn me out. I could have told you two quite differently from the manner in which I am going to tell that which I ought to speak of. I stand now before the rest of you members of the Speciality Club as guilty, for I have deliberately broken Rule No. I.”
“Go on, Betty,” said Margaret. She pushed a chair towards the girl, hoping she would put her hand upon it in order to steady herself.
But Betty seemed to have gathered firmness and strength from her determination to speak out. She was trembling no longer, nor was her face so deadly pale. “I will tell you all my secret,” she said. “Before I came here I had great trouble. One I loved most dearly and who was a mother to me, died. She died in a little lonely house in Scotland. She was poor, and could not do much either for my sisters or myself. Before her death she sent for me one day, and told me that we should be poor, but she hoped we would be well-educated; and then she said that she was leaving us girls something of value which was in a small, brown, sealed packet, and that the packet was to be found in a certain drawer in her writing-table.She told me that it would be of great use to us three when we most needed it.
“We were quite heartbroken when she died. I left her room feeling stunned. Then I thought of the packet, and I went into the little drawing-room where all my aunt’s treasures were kept. It was dusk when I went in. I found the packet, and took it away. I meant to keep it carefully. I did keep it carefully. I still keep it carefully. I don’t know what is in it.
“I have told you as much as I can tell you with regard to the packet, but there is something else to follow. I had made up my mind to keep the packet, being fully persuaded in my heart that Aunt Frances meant me to do so; but when Sir John Crawford came to Aberdeenshire, and visited Craigie Muir, and spent a night with us in the little gray house preparatory to bringing us to Haddo Court, he mentioned that he had received, amongst different papers of my aunt’s, a document or letter—I forget which—alluding to this packet. He said she was anxious that the packet should be carefully kept for me and for my sisters, and he asked me boldly and directly if I knew anything about it. I don’t excuse myself in the least, and, as a matter of fact, I don’t blame myself. I told him I didn’t know anything about it. He believed me. You see, girls, that I told a lie, and was not at all sorry.
“We came here. I put the packet away into a safe hiding-place. Then, somehow or other, you all took me up and were specially kind to me, and I think my head was a bit turned; it seemed so charming to be a Speciality and to have a great deal to do with you, Margaret, and indeed with you all more or less. So I said to myself, I haven’t broken Rule No. I., for that rule says that ‘no secret is to be kept by one Speciality from another if the other ought really to know about it.’ I tried to persuade myself that you need not know about the packet—that itwas no concern of yours. But, somehow, I could not go on. There was something about the life here, and—and Mrs. Haddo, and the chapel, and you, Margaret, which made the whole thing impossible. I have not been one scrap frightened into telling you this. But now I have told you. I do possess the packet, and I did tell a lie about it. That is all.”
Betty ceased speaking. There was profound stillness in the room.
Then Margaret said very gently, “Betty, I am sure that I am speaking in the interests of all who love you. You will tell this story to-morrow morning to dear Mrs. Haddo, and it will rest with her whether you remain a member of the Specialities or not. Your frank confession to us, although it is a little late in the day, and the peculiar circumstances attending your gaining possession of the packet, incline us to be lenient to you—if only, Betty, you will now do the one thing left to you, and give the packet up—put it, in short, into Mrs. Haddo’s hands, so that she may keep it until Sir John Crawford, who is your guardian, returns.”
Betty’s face had altered in expression. The sweetness and penitence had gone. “I have told you everything,” she said. “I should have told you long ago. I blame myself bitterly for not doing so. But I may as well add that this story is not for Mrs. Haddo; that what I tell you in confidence you cannot by any possibility relate to her—for that, surely, must be against the rules of the club; also, that I will not give the packet up, nor will I tell any one in this room where I have hidden it.”
If Betty Vivian had looked interesting, and in the opinion of some of the girls almost penitent, up to this moment, she now looked so no longer. The expression on her face was bold and defiant. Her curious eyes flashed fire, and a faint color came into her usually pale cheeks. She had never looked more beautiful, but the spirit of defiancewas in her. She was daring the school. She meant to go on daring it.
The girls were absolutely silent. Never before in their sheltered and quiet lives had they come across a character like Betty’s. Such a character was bound to interest them from the very first. It interested them now up to a point that thrilled them. They could scarcely contain themselves. They considered Betty extremely wicked; but in their hearts they admired her for this, and wondered at her amazing courage.
Margaret, who saw deeper, broke the spell. “Betty,” she said, “will you go away now? You have told us, and we understand. We will talk this matter over, and let you know our decision to-morrow. But, first, just say once again what you have said already—that you will not give the packet up, nor tell any one where you have hidden it.”
“I have spoken,” answered Betty; “further words are useless.”
She walked towards the door. Susie Rushworth sprang to open it for her. She passed out, and walked proudly down the corridor. The remaining girls were left to themselves.
Margaret said, “Well, I am bewildered!”
The others said nothing at all. This evening was one of the most exciting they had ever spent. What were “telegrams” or any stupid games compared to that extraordinary girl and her extraordinary revelation?
Margaret was, of course, the first to recover her self-control. “Now, girls,” she said, “we must talk about this; and, first, I want to ask a question: Was there any member of the Specialities who knew of this—I am afraid I must call it by its right name—this crime of Betty Vivian’s?”
“I knew,” said Fanny. Her voice was very low and subdued.
“Then, Fanny, please come forward and tell us what you knew.”
“I don’t think I can add to Betty’s own narrative,” said Fanny, “only I happened to be a witness to the action. I was lying down on the sofa in the little drawing-room at Craigie Muir when Betty stole in and took the packet out of Miss Vivian’s writing-table drawer. She did not see me, and went away at once, holding the packet in her hand. I thought it queer of her at the time, but did not feel called upon to make any remark. You must well remember, girls, that I alone of all the Specialities was unwilling to have Betty admitted as a member of the club. I could see by your faces that you were surprised at my conduct. You were amazed that I, her cousin, should have tried to stop Betty’s receiving this extreme honor. I did so because of that packet. The knowledge that she had taken it oppressed me in a strange way at the time, but it oppressed me much more strongly when my father said to me that there was a little sealed packet belonging to Miss Vivian which could not be found. I immediately remembered that Betty had taken away a sealed packet. I asked him if he had spoken about it, and he said he had; in especial he had spoken to Betty, who had denied all knowledge of it.”
“Well,” said Margaret, “she told us that herself to-night. You have not added to or embellished her story or strengthened it in any way, Fanny.”
“I know that,” said Fanny. “But I have to add now that I did not wish her to join the club, and did my very utmost to dissuade her. When I saw that it was useless I held my tongue; but you must all have noticed that, although she is my cousin, we have not been special friends.”
“Yes, we have noticed it,” said Olive gloomily, “and—and wondered at it,” she continued.
“I am sorry for Betty, of course,” continued Fanny.
“It was very fine of her to confess when she did,” said Margaret.
“It would have been fine of her,” replied Fanny, “if she had carried her confession to its right conclusion—if what she told us she had told to Mrs. Haddo and given up the packet. Now, you see, she refuses to do either of these things; so I don’t see that her confession amounts to anything more than a mere spirit of bravado.”
“Oh no, I cannot agree with you there,” said Margaret. “It is my opinion (of course, not knowing all the circumstances) that Betty’s sin consisted in telling your father a lie—not in taking the little packet, which she believed she had a right to keep. But we need not discuss her sins, for we all of us have many—perhaps many more than poor dear Betty Vivian. What we must consider is what we are to do at the present time. The Specialities have hitherto kept constantly to their rules. I greatly fear, girls, that we cannot keep Betty as a member of the club unless she changes her mind with regard to the packet. If she does, I think I must put it to the vote whether we will overlook this sin of hers and keep her as one of the members, for we love her notwithstanding her sin.”
“Yes, put it to the vote—put it to the vote!” said Susie Rushworth.
Again all hands were raised except Fanny’s.
“Fan—Fanny Crawford, you surely agree with us?” said Margaret.
“No, I do not,” said Fanny. “I think if the club is worth anything we ought not to have a girl in it who told a lie.”
“Ah,” said Margaret, “don’t you remember that very old story: ‘Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone’?” Then she continued, speaking in her sweet and noble voice, “I will own there is something about Betty which most wonderfully attracts me.”
“That sort of charm is fatal,” said Fanny.
“But,” continued Margaret, taking no notice of Fanny’s remark, “that sort of charm which she possesses, that sort of fascination—call it what you will—may be at once her ruin or her salvation. If we Specialities are unkind to her now, if we don’t show her all due compassion and tenderness, she may grow hard. We are certainly bound by every honorable rule not to mention one word of this to Mrs. Haddo or to any of the teachers. Are we, or are we not, to turn our backs on Betty Vivian?”
“If she confesses,” said Fanny, “and returns the packet, you have already decided by a majority of votes to allow her to retain her position in the club.”
“Yes,” said Margaret, “that is quite true. But suppose she does not confess, suppose she sticks to her resolve to keep the packet and not tell any one where she has hidden it, what then?”
“Ah, what then?” said they all.
Olive, the Bertrams, Susie, Martha, Margaret herself, looked full of trouble. Fanny’s cheeks were pink with excitement. She had never liked Betty. In her heart of hearts she knew that she was full of uncharitable thoughts against her own cousin. And how was it, notwithstanding Betty’s ignoble confession, the other girls still loved her?
“What do you intend to do, supposing she does not confess?” said Fanny after a pause.
“In that case,” answered Margaret, “having due regard to the rules of the club, I fear we have no alternative—she must resign her membership, she must cease to be a Speciality. We shall miss her, and beyond doubt we shall still love her. But she must not continue to be a Speciality unless she restores the packet.”
Fanny simulated a slight yawn. She knew well that Betty’s days as a Speciality were numbered.
“She was so brilliant, so vivid!” exclaimed Susie.
“There was no one like her,” said Olive, “for suggesting all kinds of lovely things. And then her story-telling—wasn’t she just glorious!”
“We mustn’t think of any of those things,” said Margaret. “But I think we may all pray—yes, pray—for Betty herself. I, for one, love her dearly. I love her notwithstanding what she said to-night.”
“I think it was uncommonly plucky of her to stand up and tell us what she did,” remarked Martha, speaking for the first time. “She needn’t have done it, you know. It was entirely a case of conscience.”
“Yes, that is it; it was fine of her,” said Margaret. “Now, girls, suppose we have a Speciality meeting to-morrow night? You know by our rules we are allowed to have particular meetings. I will give my room for the purpose; and suppose we ask Betty to join us there?”
“Agreed!” said they all; and after a little more conversation the Specialities separated, having no room in their hearts for games or any other frivolous nonsense that evening.
When Betty had made her confession, and had left Susie Rushworth’s room, she went straight to bed; she went without leave, and dropped immediately into profound slumber. When she awoke in the morning her head felt clear and light, and she experienced a sense of rejoicing at what she had done.
“I have told them, and they know,” she said to herself. “I have given them the whole story in a nutshell. I don’t really care what follows.”
Mingled with her feeling of rejoicing was a curious sense of defiance. Her sisters asked her what was the matter. She said “Nothing.” They remarked on her sound sleep of the night before, on the early time she had retired from the Specialities’ meeting. They again ventured to ask if anything was the matter. She said “No.”
Then Sylvia began to break a very painful piece of information: “Dickie’s gone!”
“Oh,” said Betty, her eyes flashing with anger, “how can you possibly have been so careless as to let the spider loose?”
“He found a little hole just above the door in the attic, and crept into it, and we couldn’t get him out,” said Sylvia.
“No, he wouldn’t come out,” added Hetty, “though we climbed on two chairs, one on top of the other, and poked at him with a bit of stick.”
“Oh, I dare say he’s all right now,” said Betty. “You will probably find him again to-day. He’s sure to come for his raw meat.”
“But don’t you care, Bet? Won’t it be truly awful if our own Dickie is dead?”
“Dead! He won’t die,” said Betty; “but there’s quite a possibility he may frighten some one. I know one person I’d like to frighten.”
“Oh Bet, who do you mean?”
“That horrid girl—that cousin of ours, Fanny Crawford.”
“We don’t like her either,” said the twins.
“She’d be scared to death at Dickie,” said Betty. “She’s a rare old coward, you know. But never mind, don’t bother; you’ll probably find him this morning when you go up with his raw meat. He’s sure to come out of his hole in order to get his food.”
“I don’t think so,” said Hester in a gloomy voice; “for there are lots and lots of flies in that attic, and Dickie will eat them and think them nicer than raw meat.”
“Well, it’s time to go downstairs now,” said Betty.
She was very lively and bright at her lessons all day, and forgot Dickie in the other cares which engrossed her mind. That said mind was in a most curious state. She was at once greatly relieved and rebellious. Sylvia and Hetty watched her, when they could, from afar. Betty’s life as a member of the Specialities separated her a good deal from her sisters. She seldom saw them during the working-hours; but they were quite happy, for they had made some friends for themselves, and the three were always together at night. Betty was not specially reproachful of herself on their account. She could not help being cleverer than they, more brilliant, more able on all occasions to leap to a right conclusion—to discover the meaning of each involved mystery as it was presented to her. All the teachers remarked on her great intelligence, on her curious and wonderful gift for dramatization. The girls in her form were expected once a week to recite from Shakespeare; and Betty’s recitations were sufficiently striking to arrest the attention of the entire room. She flung herself into the part. She was Desdemona, she was Portia, she was Rosalind. She was whatever character she wished to personate. Once she chose that of Shylock; and most uncanny became the expression of her face, and her words were hurled forth with a defiance worthy of the immortal Jew.
All these things made Betty a great favorite with the teachers as well as with the girls. She was, as a rule, neither cross nor bad-tempered. She was not vain for her gifts. She was always ready to help the others by every means in her power.
During recess that day Betty received a small three-cornered note in Margaret Grant’s handwriting. Sheopened it, and saw that it was a brief request that she, Betty Vivian, should meet Margaret and the other members of the Speciality Club in Margaret’s room at half-past seven that evening. “Our meeting will be quite informal, but we earnestly beg for your attendance.”
Betty slipped the note into her pocket. As she did so she observed that Fanny Crawford’s eyes were fixed on her.
“Are you going to attend?” asked Fanny.
“You will know,” replied Betty, “when you go into the room to-night at half-past seven and find me there or not there. Surely that is enough for you!”
“Thanks!” replied Fanny. Then, summoning a certain degree of courage, she came a step nearer. “Betty, if I might consult with you, if I might warn you——”
“But as you may not consult with me, and as you may not warn me, there is nothing to be done, is there?” said Betty. “Hallo!” she cried the next minute, as a schoolgirl whose friendship she had made during the last day or two appeared in sight, “I want to have a word with you, Jessie. Forgive me, Fan; I am very much occupied just at present.”
“Her fall is certain,” thought Fanny to herself. “I wonder how she will like what lies before her to-night. I at least have done my best.”
Punctual to the hour, the Specialities met in Margaret’s room. There was no supper on this occasion, nor any appearance of festivity. The pretty flowers which Margaret usually favored were conspicuous by their absence. Even the electric light was used but sparingly. None of the girls dressed for this evening, but wore their usual afternoon frocks. Betty, however, wore white, and walked into the room with her head well erect and her step firm.
“Sit down, Betty, won’t you?” said Margaret.
“Thanks, Margaret!” answered Betty; and she sank into a chair. She chose one that was in such a positionthat she could face the six girls who were now prepared to judge her on her own merits. She looked at them very quietly. Her face was pale, and her eyes not as bright as usual.
“I am deputed by the others to speak to you, Betty,” said Margaret. “We will make no comment whatsoever with regard to what you told us last night. It isn’t for us to punish you for having told a lie. We have ourselves done very wrong in our lives, and we doubtless have not been tempted as you have been; and then, Betty Vivian, I can assure you that, although you have been but a short time in the school, we all—I think I may say all—love you.”
Betty’s eyes softened. She hitched her chair round a little, so that she no longer saw Fanny, but could look at Margaret Grant and Martha West, who were sitting side by side. Susie’s pretty face was fairly shining with eagerness, and Olive’s eyes were full of tears. The Bertrams clasped each other’s hands, and but for Margaret’s restraining presence would have rushed to Betty’s there and then and embraced her.
“But,” said Margaret, “although we do love you—and I think will always love you, Betty—we must do our duty by the club. You confessed a sin to us—not at the time, as you ought to have done, but later on. No one compelled you to confess what you did last night. There was no outside pressure brought to bear on you. It must have been your conscience.”
“I told you so,” said Betty.
“Therefore,” continued Margaret, “your conscience must be very wide-awake, Betty, and you have done—well, so far—very nobly; so nobly that nothing will induce us to ask you to withdraw from our club, provided——”
Betty’s eyes brightened, and some of the tension in her face relaxed.
“I have taken the votes of the members on that point,” Margaret continued, “therefore I know what I am speaking about. What we do most emphatically require is that you carry your confession to its logical conclusion—that what you have said to us you say to the kindest woman in all the world, to dear Mrs. Haddo, and that you put the little packet which has cost you such misery into Mrs. Haddo’s hands. Don’t speak for a minute, please, Betty. We have been praying about you, all of us; we have been longing—longing for you to do this thing. Please don’t speak for a minute. It is not in our power to turn you from the school, nor to relate to Mrs. Haddo nor to any of the teachers what you have told us. But we can dismiss you from the Speciality Club—that does lie in our province; and we must do so, bitterly as we shall regret it, if you do not carry your confession to its logical conclusion.”
“Then I must go,” said Betty very gently.
“Oh Betty!” exclaimed Olive; and she burst into a flood of weeping. “Dear, dear, dear Betty, don’t go—please don’t go!”
“We will all support you if you are nervous,” continued Margaret. “I think we may say we will all support you, and Mrs. Haddo is so sweet; and then, if you want to see him, there’s Mr. Fairfax, who could tell you what to do better than we can. Don’t decide now, dear Betty. Please, please consider this question, and let us know.”
“But I have decided,” said Betty. “I told you what I thought right. I love the club, and every single member of it—except my cousin, Fanny Crawford. I don’t love Fanny, and she doesn’t love me—I say so quite plainly; therefore, once again, I break Rule I. You see, girls, I cannot stay. I must become again an undistinguished member of this great school. Don’t suppose it will hurt my vanity; but it will touch deeper things in me, and I shall never, never forget your kindness. I can by no possibility do more than I have done. Good-bye, dearMargaret; I am more than sorry that I have given you all this trouble.”
As Betty spoke she unclasped the little silver true-lover’s knot from the bosom of her dress and put it into Margaret’s hand. Then she walked out of the room, a Speciality no longer.
When she had gone, the girls talked softly together. They were terribly depressed.
“We never had a member like her. What a pity our rules are so strict!” said Olive.
“Nonsense, Olive!” said Margaret. “We must do our best, our very best; and even yet I have great hopes of Betty. She can be re-elected some day, perhaps.”
“Oh, she is like no one else!” said one girl after another.
The girls soon dispersed; but as Fanny was going to her room Martha West joined her. “Fanny,” she said, “I, as the youngest member of the Specialities, would like to ask you a question. Why is it that your cousin dislikes you so much?”
“I can’t tell,” replied Fanny. “I have always tried to be kind to her.”
“But you don’t cordially like her yourself!”
“That is quite true,” said Fanny; “but then I have seen her at home, when you have not. She has great gifts of fascination; but I know her for what she really is.”
“When you speak like that, Fanny Crawford, I no longer like you,” remarked Martha; and she walked away in the direction of her room.
All the Speciality girls, including Betty, were present at prayers in the chapel that evening. Betty sat a little apart from her companions, she stood apart from them, she prayed apart from them. She seemed like one isolated and alone. Her face was very white, her eyes large and dark and anxious. From time to time the girls who loved her looked at her with intense compassion. But Fannygave her very different glances. Fanny rejoiced in her discomfort, and heartily hoped that she would now lose her prestige in the school.
Until the advent of Betty Vivian, Fanny was rather a favorite at Haddo Court. She was certainly not the least bit original. She was prim and smug and self-satisfied to the last degree, but she always did the right thing in the right way. She always looked pretty, and no one ever detected any fault in her. Her mistresses trusted her, and some of the girls thought it worth their while to become chums with her.
Fanny, however, now saw at a glance that she was in the black looks of the other Specialities. This fact angered her uncontrollably, and she made up her mind to bring Betty to further shame. It was not sufficient that she should be expelled from the Speciality Club; the usual formula must be gone through. All the girls knew of this formula; and they all, with the exception of Fanny, wished it not to be observed in the case of Betty Vivian. But Fanny knew her power, and was resolved to use it. The Speciality Club exercised too great an influence in the school for its existence to be lightly regarded. A member of the club, as has been said, enjoyed many privileges besides being accorded certain exemptions from various irksome duties. It was long, long years since any member had been dismissed in disgrace; it was certainly not within the memory of any girl now in the school. But Fanny had searched the old annals, and had come across the fact that about thirty years ago a Speciality had done something which brought discredit on herself and the club, and had therefore been expelled; she had also discovered that the fact of her expulsion had been put up in large letters on a blackboard. This board hung in the central hall, and generally contained notices of entertainments or class-work of a special order for the day’s programme. Miss Symes wrote out this programme day by day.
On the morning after Betty had been expelled from the Specialities, Fanny ran up to Miss Symes. “By the way,” she said, “I am afraid you will have to do it, for it is the rule of the club.”
“I shall have to do what, my dear Fanny?”
“You will just have to say, please, on the blackboard that Betty Vivian is no longer a member of the Specialities.”
Miss Symes stopped writing. She was busily engaged notifying the hour of a very important German lesson to be given by a professor who came from town. “What do you mean, Fanny?”
“What I say. By the rules of the club we can give no reasons, but must merely state that Betty Vivian is no longer a member. It ought to be known. Will you write it on the blackboard?”
Miss Symes looked at Fanny with a curious expression on her face. “Thank you for telling me,” she said. She then crossed the great hall to where Margaret and some other girls of the Specialities were assembled. She told Margaret what Fanny had already imparted to her, and asked if it was true.
“It is true, alas!” said Margaret.
“But I thought Betty was such a prime favorite with you all,” said Miss Symes; “and she really is such a sweet girl! I have never been more attracted by any one.”
“I cannot give you any particulars, Miss Symes; but I think we have done right,” said Margaret.
“If you have had any hand in it, dear, I make no doubt on the subject,” replied Miss Symes. “It is a sad pity. Fanny says it is one of your rules that an expelled member has her name published on the blackboard, the fact being also stated that she has been expelled.”
“Oh,” said Margaret, “that is a very old rule. We don’t want it to be carried into effect in Betty’s case.”
“But if it is a rule, dear, and if it has never been abolished——”
“It has not been abolished,” said Margaret. “It would distress Betty very much.”
“Nevertheless, Margaret, if it is right to expel Betty it is right to publish that fact on the blackboard, always provided it is a rule of the Specialities.”
“I am afraid it is a rule,” said Margaret. “But we are all unhappy about her. We hate having her expelled.”
“Can I help you in any way, dear Margaret?”
“No, Miss Symes; no one can help us, and the deed is done now.”
Miss Symes went very slowly to the blackboard, and wrote on it simply: “Betty Vivian has resigned her membership of the Speciality Club.”
This notice caused flocks of girls to surround the blackboard during the morning, and the news flew like wildfire all over the school. Betty herself approached as an eager group were scrutinizing the words, saw her name, read it calmly (her lips curling slightly with scorn), and turned away. No one dared to question her, but all looked at her in wonder.
Betty went through her lessons with her accustomed force and animation, and there was no difference to be observed between her manner of to-day and that of yesterday. After school she very simply told her sisters that she had withdrawn from the Specialities, and then begged of them not to pursue the subject. “I am not going to explain,” she said, “so you needn’t ask me. I shall have more time to devote to you in the future, and that’ll be a good thing.” She then left them and went for a long walk by herself.
Now, it is one of those dreadful things which most surely happen to weak human nature that when an evil and jealous and unkind thought gets into the heart, that same thought, though quite unimportant at first, graduallyincreases in dimensions until it overshadows all other thoughts and gains complete and overwhelming mastery of the mind. Had any one said to Fanny Crawford a fortnight or three weeks before the Vivians’ arrival at the school that she would have felt towards Betty as she now did, Fanny would have been the first to recoil at the monstrous fungus of hatred which existed in her mind. Had Betty been a very plain, unattractive, uninteresting girl, Fanny would have patronized her, kept her in her place, but at the same time been kind to her. But Fanny’s rage towards Betty now was almost breaking its bounds. Was not Fanny’s own father educating the Vivians? Was it not he who had persuaded Mrs. Haddo to admit them to the school? She herself was the only daughter of a rich and distinguished man. The Vivians were nobodies. Why should they be fussed about, and talked of, and even loved—yes, loved—while she, Fanny, was losing her friends? The thought was unbearable! Fanny had managed by judicious precaution to get Betty to reveal part of her secret, and Betty was no longer a member of the Specialities. Betty’s name was on the blackboard too, and by no means honorably mentioned. But more things could be done.