For Fanny felt that the school was turning against her—the upper school, whose praise she so prized. The Specialities asked her boldly why she did not love Betty Vivian. There would be no peace for Fanny until Mrs. Haddo knew everything, and dismissed the Vivians to another school. This she would, of course, do at once if she knew the full extent of Betty’s sin. Fanny felt that she must proceed very warily. Betty had hidden the packet, and boldly declared that she would not give it up to any one—that she would rather leave the Specialities than tell her story to Mrs. Haddo and put the little sealed packet into her keeping. Fanny’s present aim, therefore, was to find the packet. She wondered how she could accomplishthis, and looked round her for a ready tool. Presently she made up her mind that the one girl who might help her was Sibyl Ray. Sibyl was by no means strong-minded. Sibyl was unpopular—she pined for notice. Sibyl adored Betty; but suppose—oh, suppose!—Fanny could offer her, as a price for the dirty work she wanted her to undertake, membership in the Speciality Club? Martha West would be on Sibyl’s side, for Martha was always friendly to the plain, uninteresting, somewhat lonely girl. Fanny felt at once that the one tool who could further her aims was Sibyl Ray. There was no time to lose.
Sibyl had been frightfully perturbed at seeing Betty’s name on the blackboard, and she was as eager to talk to Fanny as Fanny was pleased to listen to her.
“Oh Fan!” she said, running up to her on the afternoon of that same day, “may I go for a very little walk with you? I do want to ask you about poor darling Betty!”
“Poor darling Betty indeed!” said Fanny.
“Oh, but don’t you pity her? What can have happened to cause her to be no longer a member of the Specialities?”
“Now, Sibyl, you must be a little goose! Do you suppose for a moment it is within my power to enlighten you?”
“I suppose it isn’t; but I am very unhappy about her, and so are we all. We are all fond of Betty. We think her wonderful.”
Fanny was silent.
“’Tis good of you, Fan, to let me walk with you!”
“I have something to say to you, Sibyl; but before I begin you must promise me most faithfully that you won’t repeat anything I am going to say.”
“Of course not,” said Sibyl. “As if I could!”
“I don’t suppose you would dare. You see, I am one of the older girls of the school, and have been a Speciality for some little time, and it wouldn’t be at all to youradvantage if you did anything to annoy me. I should find out at once, for instance, if you whispered a syllable of this to Martha West, Margaret Grant, or any other member of the Speciality Club.”
“I won’t! I won’t! You may trust me, indeed you may,” said Sibyl.
“I think I may,” answered Fanny, looking down at Sibyl’s poor little apology of a face. “I think you are the sort who would be faithful.”
Sibyl’s small heart swelled with pride. “Betty was kind to me too,” she said; “and she did make me look nice—didn’t she?—when she suggested that I should wear the marguerites.”
“To tell you the truth, Sibyl, you were a figure of fun that night. Betty was laughing in her sleeve at you all the time.”
Sibyl colored, and her small light-blue eyes contracted. “Betty laughing at me! I don’t believe it.”
“Of course she was, child. We all spoke of it afterwards. Why, you don’t know what you looked like when you came into the room in that green dress, with that hideous wreath on your head.”
“I know,” said Sibyl in a humble tone. “I couldn’t make it look all right; but Betty took me behind a screen, and managed it in a twinkling, and put a white sash round my waist, and—oh, I felt nice anyhow!”
“I am glad you felt nice,” said Fanny, “for I can assure you it was more than you looked.”
“Oh Fanny, don’t hurt me! You know I can’t afford very pretty dresses like you. We are rather poor at home, and there are so many of us.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, child; only, haven’t you a grain of sense? Don’t you know perfectly well why Betty wanted you to wear the wreath of marguerites?”
“Just because she was sweet,” said Sibyl, “and she thought I’d look really nice in them.”
“That is all you know! Now, recall something, Sibyl.”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when you saw Betty stoop over that broken stump of the old oak and take something out?”
“Of course I do,” said Sibyl. “It was a piece of wood. I found it the next day.”
“Well, it wasn’t a piece of wood,” said Fanny.
“What can you mean?” asked Sibyl. She stood perfectly still, staring at her companion. Then she burst into a sort of frightened laugh. “But it was a piece of wood, really,” she added. “You are mistaken, Fanny. Of course you know a great deal, but even you can’t know more than I have proved by my own eyesight. It looked in the distance like a small brown piece of wood; and I asked Betty if it was, and she admitted it.”
“Just like her! just like her!” said Fanny.
“Well, then, the very next day,” continued Sibyl, “several girls and I went to the old stump and poked and poked, and found it; so, you see——”
“I don’t see,” replied Fanny. “And now, if you will allow me, Sibyl, and if you won’t chatter quite so fast, I will tell you what I really do know about this matter. I don’t think for a single moment—in fact, I am certain—that Betty Vivian did not trouble herself to poke amongst withered leaves in the stump of the old oak-tree in order to produce a piece of sodden wood. There was something else; and when you asked her if it was a piece of wood she told you—remember, Sibyl, this is in absolute confidence—an untruth. Oh, I am trying to put it mildly; but I must mention the fact—Betty told you an untruth. Did you observe, or did you not, that she was excited and looked slightly annoyed when you suddenly called to her and ran up to her side?”
“I—yes, I think she did look a little put out; but then she is very proud, is Betty, and I am not her special friend, although I love her so hard,” replied Sibyl.
“She walked with you afterwards, did she not?”
“Yes.”
“She went towards the house with you?”
“Of course. I have told you all that, Fanny.”
“When you both reached the gardens she suggested that you should wear the marguerites in your hair?”
“She did, Fanny; and I thought it was such a charming idea.”
“Did it not once occur to you that she wanted to get you out of the way, that she did not care one scrap how you looked at the Speciality entertainment?”
“That certainly did not occur to me,” answered Sibyl; then she added stoutly, for she was a faithful little thing at heart, “and I don’t believe it either.”
“Well, believe it or not as you please; I know it to have been a fact. And now I’ll just tell you something. You must never, never repeat it; if you do, I sha’n’t speak to you again. I know what I am saying to be a fact: I know the reason why Betty Vivian is no longer a Speciality.”
“Oh! oh!” said Sibyl. She colored deeply.
“No longer a Speciality,” repeated Fanny; “and I know the reason why; only, of course, I can never say. But there’s a vacancy in the Speciality Club now for a girl who is faithful and zealous, and who can prove herself my friend.”
Sibyl’s heart began to beat very fast. “A vacancy in the Specialities!” she said in a low tone.
Fanny turned quickly round and faced her. “I could get you in if I liked,” she said. “Would it suit you to be a Speciality?”
“Would it suit me?” said Sibyl. “Oh Fanny, it sounds like heaven! I don’t know what I wouldn’t do—I don’t know what I wouldn’t do to become a member of that club.”
“And Martha West would second any suggestions I made,” continued Fanny. “Of course I don’t know thatI could get you in; but I’d have a good try, provided you help me now.”
“Fanny, what is it you want me to do?”
“I want you, Sibyl, to use your intelligence; and I want you, all alone and without consulting any one, to find out where Betty Vivian has put the treasure which she told you was a piece of wood and which she hid in the old oak stump. You can manage it quite well if you like.”
“I don’t understand!” gasped Sibyl.
“If you repeat a word of this conversation I shall use my influence to have you boycotted in the school,” said Fanny. “My power is great to help or to mar your career in the school. If you do what I want—well, my dear, all I can say is this, that I shall do my utmost to get you into the club. You cannot imagine how nice it is when you are a member. Think what poor Betty has lost, and think how you will feel when you are a Speciality and she is not.”
“I don’t know that I shall feel anything,” replied Sibyl. “Somehow or other, I don’t like this thing you want me to do, Fanny.”
“Well, don’t do it. I will get some one else.”
“And, in the second place,” continued Sibyl, “even if I were willing to do it, I don’t know how. If Betty chooses to hide things—parcels or anything of that sort—I can’t find out where she puts them.”
“You can watch her,” said Fanny. “Now, if you have any gumption about you—and it is my strong belief that you have—you will be able to tell me this time to-morrow something about Betty Vivian and her movements. If by this time to-morrow you know nothing—why, I will relieve you of the task, and you will be as you were before. But if, on the other hand, you help me to save the honor of a great school—which is, I assure you, at the present moment in serious peril—I shall do my utmost to get youadmitted to the Speciality Club. Now, I think that is all.”
As Fanny concluded she shouted to Susie Rushworth, who was going towards the arbor at the top of the grounds, and Sibyl found herself all alone. Fanny had taken her a good long way. They had passed through a plantation of young fir-trees to one of the vegetable-gardens, and thence through an orchard, where the grass was long and dank at this time of year. Somehow or other, Sibyl felt chilled to the bone and very miserable. She had never liked Fanny less than she did at this moment. But she was not strong-minded, and Fanny was one of the most important girls in the school. She was rich, her father was a man of great distinction; she might be head-girl of the school, and probably would when Margaret Grant left; she was also quite an old member of the Specialities. Besides Fanny, even Martha West seemed to fade into insignificance. It was as though the friend of the Prime Minister—the greatest possible friend—had held out a helping hand to a struggling nobody, and offered that nobody a dazzling position. Sibyl was that poor little nobody, and Fanny’s words were weighted with such power that the girl trembled and felt herself shaking all over.
Sibyl’s love for Martha was innocent, pure, and good. Her admiration for Betty was the generous and romantic affection which a little schoolgirl gives to another girl older than herself who is both brilliant and captivating. But, after all, Betty had lost her sceptre and laid down her crown. Betty, for some extraordinary reason, was in disgrace, and Fanny was in the zenith of her power. It would be magnificent to be a Speciality! How those girls who thought little or nothing of Sibyl now would admire her when she passed into that glorious state! She thought of herself as joining the other Specialities in arranging programmes, in devising entertainments; she thought ofthe privileges which would be hers; she thought of that delightful private sitting-room into which she had once dared to peep, and then shot out her little face again, half-terrified at her own audacity. There was no one in the room at the moment; but it did look cosy—the chairs so easy and comfortable, and all covered with such a delicate shade of blue. Sibyl knew that blue became her. She thought how nice she would look sitting in one of those chairs and being hail-fellow-well-met with Margaret Grant, and Martha her own friend, and all the others. Even Betty would envy her then. She and Betty would change places. It would be her part to advise Betty what to do and what to wear. Oh, it was a very dazzling prospect! And she could gain the coveted distinction—but how?
Sibyl felt her heart beating very fast. She had not been trained in a high school of morals. Her father was a very hard-working clergyman with a large family of eight children. Her mother was dead; her elder sisters were earning their own living. Mrs. Haddo had heard of Sibyl, and had taken her into the school on special terms, feeling sure that charity was well expended in such a case. Mr. Ray was far too busy over his numerous duties to look after Sibyl as her mother would have done had she lived. The little girl was brought up anyhow, and her new life at Haddo Court was a revelation to her in more ways than one. She was not pretty; she was not clever; she was not strong-minded; she was very easily influenced. A good girl could have done much for her—Martha had done her very best; but a bad girl could do even more.
While Sibyl was dallying with temptation, thinking to herself how attractive it would be to feel such an important person as Fanny Crawford, she looked down from the height where she was standing and saw Betty Vivian walking slowly across the common.
Betty was alone. Her head was slightly bent, but therest of her young figure was bolt upright. She was going towards the spot where those sparse clumps of heather occupied their neglected position at one side of the “forest primeval.”
When first Sibyl saw Betty her heart gave a great throb of longing to rush to her, to fling her arms round her, to kiss her, to cling to her side. But she suppressed that impulse. She loved Betty, but she was afraid of her. Betty was the last sort of girl to put up with what she considered liberties; Sibyl was a person to whom she was utterly indifferent, and she would by no means have liked Sibyl to kiss her. From Sibyl’s vantage-ground, therefore, she watched Betty, herself unseen. Then it suddenly occurred to her that she might continue to watch her, but from a more favorable point of view.
There was a little knoll at one end of the orchard, and there was a very old gnarled apple-tree at the edge of the knoll. If Sibyl ran fast she could climb into the apple-tree and look right down on to the common. No sooner did the thought come to her than she resolved to act on it. Knowledge is always power, and she need not tell Fanny anything at all unless she liked. She could be faithful to poor Betty, who was in disgrace, and at the same time she might know something about her. It was so very odd that Betty was expelled from the Specialities. She could not possibly have resigned, for had she done so there would have been a great fuss, and everything would have been explained to the satisfaction of the school; whereas that mysterious sentence on the blackboard left the whole thing involved in darkest night. What had Betty done? Had she really told a lie about what she had found in the old stump of oak? Was it not a piece of wood after all? Had she really sent Sibyl into the flower-garden to gather marguerites and make herself a figure of fun at the Specialities’ entertainment? Had she done it to get rid of her just because—because she wanted—she wanted to removesomething from the stump of the old oak-tree? Oh, if Betty were that sort—if it were possible—even Sibyl Ray felt that she could not love her any longer! It was Fanny, after all, who was a noble girl. Fanny wanted to get to the bottom of things. Fanny herself could not do what an unimportant little girl like Sibyl could do. After all, there was nothing shabby in it. If it were shabby, Fanny Crawford, the last girl in the school to do wrong, would not have asked her to attend to the matter.
Sibyl therefore climbed into the old apple-tree and perched amongst its branches, and gazed eagerly down on the bit of common land. She was far nearer to Betty than Betty had the least idea of. She saw her walk towards the pieces of heather, but could not, from her point of view, see what the plants were. She had really no idea that there was any special heather in the grounds; she was not interested in a stupid thing like heather. But she did see Betty go on her knees, and she did see her pull up a root of some sort or other, and she did see her take something out and look at it and put it back again. Then Betty returned very slowly across the common towards the house.
Sibyl was fairly panting now with excitement. Was there ever, ever in all the world, such an easy way of becoming a Speciality? Betty had a secret; and she, Sibyl, had found it out without the slightest difficulty. Betty had hidden something in the old oak, and now she had buried it under some plants at the edge of the common. Sibyl forgot pretence, she forgot honor, she forgot everything but the luring voice of Fanny Crawford and her keen desire to perfect her quest. At that time of year few girls troubled themselves to walk across the “forest primeval.” It was a sort of place that was pleasant enough in warm days of summer, but damp and dull and dreary at this season, when the girls of Haddo Court preferred the upper walks, or the hockey-ground, or thedifferent places where the various games were played. Certainly the “forest primeval” did not occupy much of their attention.
It was getting a little dusk; but Sibyl, too excited to care, scrambled down from her tree, and a few minutes later had dashed across the common, and had discovered by the loosened earth the exact spot where Betty had stooped. She was now beside herself with excitement. It was her turn to go on her knees. She was doing good work; she was, according to Fanny Crawford, saving the honor of the school. She poked and poked with her fingers, and soon got up the already loosened roots of the piece of heather. Down went her hard little hands into the cold clay until at last they touched the tiny packet, which was sealed and tied firmly with strong string.
“Eureka! I have found it!” was Sibyl’s exclamation. She slipped the packet into her pocket, put the heather back into its place, tried to give the disturbed earth the appearance of not having been disturbed at all, and went back to the house. She was so excited she could scarcely contain herself.
The days were getting shorter. Tea was at half-past four, and a kind of light supper at seven o’clock. The girls of the lower school had this meal a little earlier. Sibyl was just in time for tea, which was always served in the great refectory; and here the various members of the upper school were all assembled—except the Specialities, who had tea in their own private room.
“Well, Sibyl, you are late!” said Sarah Butt. “I wanted to take a long walk with you. Where have you been?”
“I have been for a walk with Fanny Crawford,” replied Sibyl with an important air.
Betty, who was helping herself to a cup of tea, glanced up at that moment and fixed her eyes on Sibyl. Sibyl colored furiously and looked away. Betty took no further notice of her, but began to chat with a girl near her.Soon a crowd of girls collected round Betty, and laughed heartily at her remarks.
On any other occasion Sibyl would have joined this group, and been the first to giggle over Betty’s witticisms. But the little parcel in her pocket seemed to weigh like lead. It was a weight on her spirits too. She was most anxious to deliver it over to Fanny Crawford, and to keep Fanny to her word, in order that she might be proposed as a Speciality at the next meeting. She knew this would not be until Thursday. Oh, it was all too long to wait! But she could put on airs already, for would she not very soon cease to be drinking this weak tea in the refectory? Would she not be having her own dainty meal in the Specialities’ private room?
“How red you are, Sibyl!” was Sarah Butt’s remark. “I suppose the cold wind has caught your cheeks.”
“I wish you wouldn’t remark on my appearance,” said Sibyl.
“Dear, dear! Hoity-toity! How grand we are getting all of a sudden!”
“You needn’t snub me in the way you do, Sarah. You’ll be treating me very differently before long.”
“Indeed, your Royal Highness! And may I ask how and why?”
“You may neither ask how nor why; but events will prove,” said Sibyl. She raised her voice a little incautiously, and once again Betty looked at her. There was something about Betty’s glance, at once sorrowful and aloof, which stung Sibyl. Just because she had done Betty a wrong she no longer loved her half as much as she had done. After a pause, she said in a distinct voice, “I am a very great friend of Fanny Crawford, and I am going to see her now on special business.” With these words she marched out of the refectory.
Some of the girls laughed. Betty was quite silent. No one dared question Betty Vivian with regard to her withdrawalfrom the Speciality Club, nor did she enlighten them. But when tea was over she went up to Sylvia and Hetty and said a few words to them both. They looked at her in amazement, but made no kind of protest. After speaking to her sisters, Betty left the refectory.
“What can be the matter with your Betty?” asked one of the girls, addressing the twins.
“There’s nothing the matter with her,” said Sylvia in a stout voice.
“Why are your eyes so red, then?”
“My eyes are red because Dickie’s lost.”
“Who’s Dickie?”
“He is the largest spider I ever saw, and he grows bigger and fatter every day. But he is lost. We brought him from Scotland. He’d sting any one who tried to hurt him; so if any of you see him in your bedrooms or hiding under your pillows you’d best shriek out, for he is a dangerous sort, and ought not to be interfered with.”
“How perfectly appalling!” said the girl now addressed. “You really oughtn’t to keep horrid pets of that sort. And I loathe spiders.”
“Oh, well, you’re not Scotch,” replied Sylvia with a disdainful gesture. “Dickie is a darling to those he loves, but very fierce to those he hates.”
“And is that really why your eyes are so red?” continued the girl—Hilda Morton by name. “Has it nothing to do with that wonderful sister of yours, and the strange fact that she has been expelled from the Speciality Club?”
“She hasn’t been expelled!” said Sylvia in a voice of fury.
“Don’t talk nonsense! The fact was mentioned on the blackboard. If you don’t believe it, you can come and see for yourself.”
“She has left the club, but was not expelled,” said Sylvia. “And I hate you, Hilda! You have no right to speak of my sister like that.”
Meanwhile two girls were pursuing their different ways. Betty was going towards that wing of the building where Mr. Fairfax’s suite of rooms was to be found. She had never yet spoken to him. She wished to speak to him now. The rooms occupied by the Fairfaxes formed a complete little dwelling, with its own kitchen and special servants. These rooms adjoined the chapel; but his family lived apart from the school. It was understood, however, that any girl at Haddo Court was at liberty to ask the chaplain a question in a moment of difficulty.
Betty now rang the bell of the little house. A neat servant opened the door. On inquiring if Mr. Fairfax were within, Betty was told “Yes,” and was admitted at once into that gentleman’s study.
The clergyman rose at her entrance. He recognized her face, spoke to her kindly, said he was glad she had come to see him, and asked her to sit down. “Is anything the matter, my dear? Is there any way in which I can help you?”
“I don’t know,” answered the girl. “I thought perhaps you could; it flashed through my mind to-day that perhaps you could. You have seen me in the chapel?”
“Oh yes; yours is not the sort of face one is likely to forget.”
“I am not happy,” said Betty.
“I am sorry to hear that. But don’t you agree with me that we poor human creatures think too much of our own individual happiness and too little of the happiness of others? It seems to me that the golden rule to live by in this: Provided my brother is happy, all is well with me.”
“That is true to a certain extent,” said Betty; “but—” She paused a minute. Then she said abruptly, “I am not at all the cringing sort, and I am not the girl to grumble, and I love Mrs. Haddo; and, sir, there have been moments when your voice in chapel has given me great consolation.I also love one or two of my schoolfellows. But the fact is, there is something weighing on my conscience, and I cannot tell you what it is. I cannot do the right thing, sir; and I do not see my way ever to do what I suppose you would say was the right thing. I will tell you this much about myself. You have heard of our Speciality Club?”
“Of course I have.”
“The girls were very good to me when I came here—for I am a comparative stranger in the school—and they elected me to be a Speciality.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Fairfax. “That is a very great honor.”
“I know it is; and I was given the rules, and I read them all carefully. But, sir, in a sudden moment of temptation, before I came to Haddo Court, I did something which was wrong, and I am determined not to mend my ways with regard to that matter. Nevertheless, I became a Speciality, knowing that by so doing I should break the first rule of the club.”
Mr. Fairfax was too courteous ever to interrupt any one who came to him to talk over a difficulty. He was silent now, his hands clasped tightly together, his deep-set eyes fixed on Betty’s vivid face.
“I was a Speciality for about a fortnight,” she continued—“perhaps a little longer. But at the last meeting I made up my mind that I could not go on, so I told the girls what I had done. It is unnecessary to trouble you with those particulars, sir. After I had told them they asked me to leave the room, and I went. They had a special meeting of the club last night to consult over my case, and I was invited to be present. I was then told that, notwithstanding the fact that I had broken Rule No. I., I might continue to be a member of the club if I would give up something which I possess and to which I believe I have a full right, and if I would relate my storyin detail to Mrs. Haddo. I absolutely refused to do either of these things. I was thenexpelledfrom the club, sir—that is the only word to use; and the fact was notified on the blackboard in the great hall to-day.”
“Well,” said Mr. Fairfax when Betty paused, “I understand that you repent, and you do not repent, and that you are no longer a Speciality.”
“That is the case, sir.”
“Can you not take me further into your confidence?”
“There is no use,” said Betty, shaking her head.
“I am not surprised, Miss Vivian, that you are unhappy.”
“I am accustomed to that,” said Betty.
“May I ask what you have come to see me about?”
“I wanted to know this: ought I, or ought I not, being unrepentant of my sin, to come to the chapel with the other girls, to kneel with them, to pray with them, and to listen to your words?”
“I must leave that to yourself. If your conscience says, ‘Come,’ it is not for me to turn you out. But it is a very dangerous thing to trifle with conscience. Of course you know that. I can see, too, that you are peculiarly sensitive. Forgive me, but I have often noticed your face, and with extreme interest. You have good abilities, and a great future before you in the upward direction—that is, if you choose. Although you won’t take me into your confidence, I am well aware that the present is a turning-point in your career. You must at least know that I, as a clergyman, would not repeat to any one a word of what you say to me. Can you not trust me?”
“No, no; it is too painful!” said Betty. “I see that, in your heart of hearts, you think that I—I ought not—I oughtnotto come to chapel. I am indeed outcast!”
“No, child, you are not. Kneel down now, and let me pray with you.”
“I cannot stand it—no, I cannot!” said Betty; and she turned away.
When she had gone Mr. Fairfax dropped on his knees. He prayed for a long time with fervor. But that night he missed Betty Vivian at prayers in the beautiful little chapel.
Meanwhile Betty—struggling, battling with herself, determined not to yield, feeling fully convinced that the only wrong thing she had done was telling the lie to Sir John Crawford and prevaricating to Sibyl—was nothing like so much to be pitied as Sibyl Ray herself.
Sibyl had lingered about the different corridors and passages until she found Fanny, who was talking to Martha West. Sibyl was so startled when the two girls came out of the private sitting-room that she almost squinted, and Fanny at once perceived that the girl had something important to tell her. She must not, however, appear to notice Sibyl specially in the presence of Martha.
Martha, on the contrary, went up at once to Sibyl and said in her pleasant voice, “Why, my dear child, it is quite a long time since we have met! And now, I wonder what I can do for you or how I can possibly help you. Would you like to come and have a cosy chat with me in my bedroom for a little? The fact is this,” continued Martha: “we Specialities are so terribly spoilt in the school that we hardly know ourselves. Fancy having a fire in one’s bedroom, not only at night, but at this hour! Would you like to come with me, Sib?”
At another moment Sibyl would have hailed this invitation with rapture. On the present occasion she was about to refuse it; but Fanny said with a quick glance, which was not altogether lost on Martha, “Of course go with Martha, Sibyl. You are in great luck to have such a friend.”
Sibyl departed, therefore, very unwillingly, with the friend she had once adored. Martha’s bedroom was veryplain and without ornaments, but there were snug easy-chairs and the fire burned brightly. Martha invited the little girl to sit down, and asked her how she was.
“Oh, I am all right,” said Sibyl.
Martha looked at her attentively. “I don’t quite understand you, Sib. You have rather avoided me during the last day or two. Is it because I am a Speciality? I do hope that will make no difference with my old friends.”
“Oh no,” said Sibyl. “There’s nothing so wonderful in being a Speciality, is there?”
Martha stared. “Well, to me it is very wonderful,” she said; “and I cannot imagine how those other noble-minded girls think me good enough to join them.”
“Oh Martha, are they so good as all that?”
“They are,” said Martha; and her tone was very gloomy. She was thinking of Betty, whom she longed to comfort, whom she earnestly longed to help.
“It’s so queer about Betty,” said Sibyl after a pause. “She seemed to be such a very popular Speciality. Then, all of a sudden, she ceased to be one at all. I can’t understand it.”
“And you are never likely to, Sibyl. What happens in the club is only known to its members.”
Sibyl grew red. What was coming over her? Two or three hours ago she was a girl—weak, it is true; insignificant, it is true—with a passion for Martha West and a most genuine love and admiration for Betty Vivian. Now she almost disliked Betty; and she could not make out what charm she had ever discovered in poor, plain Martha. She got up impatiently. “You will forgive me, Martha,” she said; “but I have lots of things I want to do. I don’t think I will stay just now. Perhaps you will ask me to come and talk to you another day.”
“No, Sibyl, I sha’n’t. When you want me you must try to find me yourself. I don’t understand what is the matter with you to-day.”
Sibyl grew that fiery red which always distressed her inexpressibly. The next minute she had disappeared. She ran straight to Fanny’s room, hoping and trusting that she might find its inmate within. She was not disappointed, for Fanny was there alone; she was fully expecting Sibyl to come and see her. To Sibyl’s knock she said, “Come in!” and the girl entered at once.
“Well?” said Fanny.
“I have done what you wanted,” said Sibyl. “I watched her, and I saw. Afterwards I went to the place where she had hidden it. I took it. It is in my pocket. Please take it from me. I have done what you wished. I want to get rid of it, and never to think of it again. Fanny, when shall I be elected a Speciality?”
But Fanny did not speak. She had snatched the little packet from Sibyl’s hand and was gazing at it, her eyes almost starting from her head.
“When shall I become a Speciality?” whispered Sibyl.
“Don’t whisper, child! The Vivians’ room is next to mine. Sibyl, we must keep this a most profound secret, I am awfully obliged to you! You have been very clever and prompt. I don’t wish to ask any questions at all. Thank you, Sibyl, from my heart. I will certainly keep my promise, and at the next meeting will propose you as a member. Whether you are elected or not must, of course, depend on the votes of the majority. In the meanwhile forget all this. Be as usual with your schoolfellows. Rest assured of my undying friendship and gratitude. Keep what you have done a profound secret; if anything leaks out there is no chance of your becoming a Speciality. Now, good-bye Sibyl. I mustn’t be seen to take any special notice of you; people are very watchful in cases of this sort. But remember, though I don’t talk to you a great deal, I shall be your true friend; and after you have become a member of our club there will, of course, be no difficulty.”
“Oh, I should love to be a member!” said Sibyl. “I do so hate the tea in the refectory, and you do seem to have such cosy times in your sitting-room.”
Fanny smiled very slightly. “May I give you one word of warning?” she said. “You made a very great mistake to-day when you did not seem willing to pay Martha West a visit. Your election depends far more on Martha than on me. Between now and Thursday—when I mean to propose you as a member in place of Betty Vivian, who has forfeited her right for ever—Martha will be your most valuable ally. I do not say you will be elected—for the rules of the club are very strict, and we are most exclusive—but I will do my utmost.”
“But you promised! I thought I was sure!” said Sibyl, beginning to whimper.
“Nonsense, nonsense, child! I said I would do my best. Now, keep up your friendship with Martha—that is, if you are wise.”
Sibyl left the room. Her momentary elation was over, and she began to hate herself for what she had done. In all probability she would not be elected a Speciality, and then what reward would she have for acting the spy? She had acted the spy. The plain truth seemed now to flash before her eyes. She had been very mean and hard; and she had taken something which, after all, did not belong to her at all, and given it to Fanny. She could never get that something back. She felt that she did not dare to look at Betty Vivian. Why should not Betty hide things if she liked in the stump of an old oak-tree or under a bit of tiresome heather in the “forest primeval?” After all, Betty had not said the thing was wood; but when Sibyl had asked her she had said, “Have it so if you like.” Oh! Sibyl felt just now that she had been made a sort of cat’s-paw, and that she did not like Fanny Crawford one bit.
After this exciting day matters seemed to move rather languidly in the school. Betty was beyond doubt in low spirits. She did not complain; she did not take any one into her confidence. Even to her sisters she was gloomy and silent. She took long walks by herself. She neglected no duty—that is, no apparent duty—and her lessons progressed swimmingly. Her two great talents—the one for music, the other for recitation—were bringing her into special notice amongst the different teachers. She was looked upon by the educational staff as a girl who might bring marked distinction to the school. Thus the last few days of that miserable week passed.
On Tuesday evening Miss Symes had a little talk with Mrs. Haddo.
“What is it, dear St. Cecilia?” asked the head mistress, looking lovingly into the face of her favorite teacher.
“I am anxious about Betty,” was the reply.
“Sit down, dear, won’t you? Emma, I have been also anxious. I cannot understand why that notice was put up on the blackboard, and why Betty has left the club. Have you any clue, dear?”
“None whatsoever,” was Miss Symes’s answer. “Of course I, as a teacher, cannot possibly question any of the girls, and they are none of them willing to confide in me.”
“We certainly cannot question them,” said Mrs. Haddo. “But now I wish to say something to you. Betty has been absent from evening prayers at the chapel so often lately that I think it is my duty to speak to her on the subject.”
“I have also observed that fact,” replied Miss Symes.“Betty does not look well. There is something, beyond doubt, weighing on her mind. She avoids her fellow-pupils, whereas she used to be, I may almost say, the favorite of the school. She scarcely speaks to any one now. When she walks she walks alone. Even her dear little sisters are anxious about her; I can see it, although they are far too discreet to say a word. Poor Betty’s little face seems to me to grow paler every day, and her eyes more pathetic. Mrs. Haddo, can you not do something?”
“You know, Emma, that I never force confidences; I think it a great mistake. If a girl wishes to speak to me, she understands me well enough to be sure I shall respect every word she says; otherwise, I think it best to allow a girl of Betty Vivian’s age to fight out her difficulties alone.”
“As her teacher, I have nothing to complain of,” said Miss Symes. “She is just brilliant. She seems to leap over mental difficulties as though they did not exist. Her intuition is something marvellous, and she will grasp an idea almost as soon as it is uttered. I should like you to hear her play; it is a perfect delight to teach her; her little fingers seem to be endowed with the very spirit of music. And then that delightful voice of hers thrills one when she recites aloud, as she does twice a week in my recitation-class. As a matter of fact, dear Mrs. Haddo, I am deeply attached to Betty; but I feel there is something wrong just now.”
“A turning-point,” said Mrs. Haddo. “How often we come to them in life!”
“God grant she may take the right turning!” was Miss Symes’s remark. She sat silent, gazing gloomily into the fire.
“It is not like you, Emma, to be so despondent,” said the head mistress.
“I cannot help feeling despondent, for I think there ismischief afoot and that Betty is suffering. I wonder if——”
At that moment there came a tap at the door. Mrs. Haddo said, “Come in,” and Mr. Fairfax entered.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Haddo, “you are just the very man we want, Mr. Fairfax! Please sit down.”
Mr. Fairfax immediately took the chair which was offered to him. “I have come,” he said, “to speak to you and to Miss Symes with regard to one of your pupils—Betty Vivian.”
“How strange!” said Mrs. Haddo. “Miss Symes and I were talking about Betty only this very moment. Can you throw any light on what is troubling her?”
“No,” said Mr. Fairfax. “I came here to ask if you could.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know in my capacity as chaplain different things come to my ears; but I am under a promise not to repeat them. I am, however, under no promise in this instance. I was walking through the shrubbery half-an-hour ago—I was, in fact, thinking out the little address I want to give the dear girls next Sunday morning—when I suddenly heard a low sob. I paused to listen; it was some way off, but I heard it quite distinctly. I did not like to approach—you understand one’s feeling of delicacy in such a matter; but it came again, and was so very heartrending that I could not help saying, ‘Who is there? Is any one in trouble?’ To my amazement, a girl started to her feet; she had been lying full-length, with her face downwards, on the damp grass. She came up to me, and I recognized her at once. She was Betty Vivian. There was very little light, but I could see that she was in terrible distress. She could scarcely get out her words. ‘It is lost!’ she said—‘lost! Some one has stolen it!’ And then she rushed away from me in the direction of the house. I thought it my duty to come and tell you, Mrs. Haddo.The girl’s grief was quite remarkable and out of the common. The tone in which she said, ‘It is lost—lost!’ was tragic.”
Mrs. Haddo sat very still for a minute. Then she said gently, “Would you rather speak to her, or shall I?”
“Under the circumstances,” said Mr. Fairfax, “it is only right for me to say something more. Betty Vivian came to see me some days ago, and said that she had been expelled from the Specialities; and she asked me if, under such conditions, she ought to attend evening prayers in the chapel. I begged for her full confidence. She would not give it.”
“And what did you say about evening prayers?”
“I said that was a matter between her own conscience and God. I could not get anything further out of her; but since then you may have observed that she has hardly attended chapel at all.”
“I certainly have noticed it,” said Miss Symes.
Mrs. Haddo did not speak for a minute. Then she said in an authoritative voice, “Thank you, Mr. Fairfax; I am deeply obliged to you for having come to me and taken me so far into your confidence. Emma, will you ask Betty to come to me here? If she resists, bring her, dear; if she still resists, I will go to her. Dear Mr. Fairfax, we must pray for this child. There is something very seriously wrong; but she has won my heart, and I cannot give her up. Will you leave me also, dear friend, for I must see Betty by herself?”
Miss Symes immediately left the room. The clergyman shortly afterwards followed her example.
Of all the teachers, Miss Symes was the greatest favorite in the upper school. She went swiftly through the lounge, where the girls were usually to be found at this hour chatting, laughing, amusing themselves with different games; for this was the relaxation-hour of the day, when every girl might do precisely what she liked. Miss Symesdid not for a moment expect to find Betty in such an animated, lively, almost noisy group. To her amazement, however, she was attracted by peals of laughter; and—looking in the direction whence they came, she perceived that Betty herself was the center of a circle of girls, who were all urging her to “take-off” different girls and teachers in the school.
Betty was an inimitable mimic. At that very moment it seemed to Miss Symes that she heard her own voice speaking—her own very gentle, cultivated, high-bred voice. Amongst the girls who listened and roared with laughter might have been seen Sarah Butt, Sibyl Ray, and several more who had only recently been moved to the upper school.
“Now, please, take-off Mademoiselle. Whoever you neglect, please bestow some attention on Mademoiselle, dear Betty!” cried several voices.
Betty drew herself up, perked her head a little to one side, put on the very slightest suspicion of a squint, and spoke in the high-pitched, rapid tone of the Frenchwoman. She looked her part, and she acted it.
“And now Fräulein—Fräulein!” said another voice.
But before Betty could change herself into a stout German Fräulein, Miss Symes laid a quiet hand on her shoulder. “May I speak to you for a minute, Betty?”
“Why, certainly,” said Betty, starting and reddening faintly.
“Oh, dear St. Cecilia,” exclaimed several of the girls, “don’t take Betty from us now! She is such fun!”
“I was amusing the girls by doing a little bit of mimicry,” said Betty. “Miss Symes, did you see me mimicking you?”
“I both saw and heard you, my dear. Your imitation was excellent.”
“Oh, please, dear St. Cecilia, don’t say you are hurt!” cried Sarah Butt.
“Not in the least,” said Miss Symes. “The gift of mimicry is a somewhat dangerous one, but I don’t think Betty meant it unkindly. I would ask her, however, to spare our good and noble head mistress.”
“We begged of her to be Mrs. Haddo, but she wouldn’t,” said Sibyl.
“Come, Betty,” said Miss Symes. She took the girl’s hand and led her away.
“What do you want with me?” said Betty. The brilliance in her eyes which had been so remarkable a few minutes ago had now faded; her cheeks looked pale; her small face wore a hungry expression.
“Mrs. Haddo wants to see you, Betty.”
“Oh—but—must I go?”
“Need you ask, Betty Vivian? The head mistress commands your presence.”
“Then I will go.”
“Remember, I trust you,” said Miss Symes.
“You may,” answered the girl. She drew herself up and walked quickly and with great dignity through the lounge into the great corridor beyond, and so towards Mrs. Haddo’s sitting-room. Here she knocked, and was immediately admitted.
“Betty, I wish to speak to you,” said Mrs. Haddo. “Sit down, dear. You and I have not had a chat for some time.”
“A very weary and long time ago!” answered Betty. All the vivacity which had marked her face in the lounge had left it.
But Mrs. Haddo, who could read character so rapidly and with such unerring instinct, knew that the girl was, so to speak, on guard. She was guarding herself, and was under a very strong tension. “I have something to say to you, Betty,” said Mrs. Haddo.
Betty lowered her eyes.
“Look at me, my child.”
With an effort Betty raised her eyes, glanced at Mrs. Haddo, and then looked down again. “Wait, please, will you?” she said.
“I am about to do so. You are unhappy.”
Betty nodded.
“Will you tell me what is the matter?”
Betty shook her head.
“Do you think it is right for you to be unhappy in a school like mine, and not to tell me—not to tell the one who is placed over you as a mother would be placed were she alive—what is troubling you?”
“It may be wrong,” said Betty; “but even so, I cannot tell you.”
“You must understand,” said Mrs. Haddo, speaking with great restraint and extreme distinctness, “that it is impossible for me to allow this state of things to continue. I know nothing, and yet in one sense I know all. Nothing has been told me with regard to the true story of your unhappiness, but the knowledge that you are unhappy reached me before you yourself confirmed it. To-night Mr. Fairfax found you out of doors—a broken rule, Betty, but I pass that over. He heard you sobbing in the bitterness of your distress, and discovered that you were lying face downwards on the grass in the fir-plantation. When he called you, you went to him and told him you had lost something.”
“So I have,” answered Betty.
“Is it because of that you are unhappy?”
“Yes, because of that—altogether because of that.”
“What have you lost, dear?”
“Mrs. Haddo, I cannot tell you.”
“Betty, I ask you to do so. I have a right to know. I stand to you in the place of a mother. I repeat that I have a right to know.”
“I cannot—I cannot tell you!” replied Betty.
Mrs. Haddo, who had been seated, now rose, went over to the girl, and put one hand on her shoulder.
Betty shivered from head to foot. Then she sprang to her feet and moved a little away. “Don’t!” she said. “When you touch me it is like fire!”
“My touch, Betty Vivian, like fire!”
“Oh, you know that I love you!” sobbed poor Betty.
“Prove it, then, dear, by giving me your confidence.”
“I would,” said Betty, speaking rapidly, “if that which is causing me suffering had anything at all to do with you. But it has nothing to do with you, Mrs. Haddo, nor with the school, nor with the girls in the school. It is my own private trouble. Once I had a treasure. The treasure is gone.”
“You would, perhaps, like it back again?” said Mrs. Haddo.
“Ah yes—yes! but I cannot get it. Some one has taken it. It is gone.”
“Once again, Betty, I ask you to give me your confidence.”
“I cannot.”
Mrs. Haddo resumed her seat. “Is that your very last—your final—decision, Betty Vivian?”
“It is, Mrs. Haddo.”
“How old are you, dear?”
“I have told you. I was sixteen and a half when I came. I am rather more now.”
“You are only a child, dear Betty.”
“Not in mind, nor in life, nor in circumstances,” replied Betty.
“We will suppose that all that is true,” answered Mrs. Haddo. “We will suppose, also, that you are cast upon the world friendless and alone. Were such a thing to happen, what would you do?”
Betty shivered. “I don’t know,” she replied.
“Now, Betty, I cannot take your answer as final. I will give you a few days longer; at the end of that time I will again beg for your confidence. In the meanwhile I must say something very plainly. You came to this school with your sisters under special conditions which you, my poor child, had nothing to do with. But I must say frankly that I was unwilling to admit you three into the school after term had begun, and it was contrary to my rules to take girls straight into the upper school who had never been in the lower school. Nevertheless, for the sake of my old friend Sir John Crawford, I did this.”
“Not for Fanny’s sake, I hope?” said Betty, her eyes flashing for a minute, and a queer change coming over her face.
“I have done what I did, Betty, for the sake of my dear friend Sir John Crawford, who is your guardian and your sisters’ guardian, and who is now in India. I was unwilling to have you, my dears; but when you arrived and I saw you, Betty, I thanked God, for I thought that I perceived in you one whom I could love, whom I could train, whom I could help. I was interested in you, very deeply interested, from the first. I perceived with pleasure that my feelings towards you were shared by your schoolfellows. You became a favorite, and you became so just because of that beautiful birthright of yours—your keen wit, your unselfishness, and your pleasant and bright ways. I did an extraordinary thing when I admitted you into the school, and your schoolfellows did a thing quite as extraordinary when they allowed you, a newcomer, to join that special club which, more than anything else, has laid the foundation of sound and noble morals in the school. You were made a Speciality. I have nothing to do with the club, my dear; but I was pleased—nay, I was proud—when I saw that my girls had such discernment as to select you as one of their, I might really say august, number. You took your honors in precisely the spirit Ishould have expected of you—sweetly, modestly, without any undue sense of pride or hateful self-righteousness. Then, a few days ago, there came a thunderclap; and teachers and girls were alike amazed to find that you were no longer a member. By the rules of the club we were not permitted to ask any questions——”
“But I, as a late member, am permitted to tell you this much, Mrs. Haddo. I was, and I think quite rightly, expelled from the club.”
“Betty!”
“It is true,” answered Betty.
“And you will not tell me why?”
“No more can I tell you why than I can explain to you what I have lost.”
“Betty, my poor child, there is a mystery somewhere. I am deeply puzzled and terribly distressed. This is Wednesday evening. This day week, at the same hour, I will send for you again and ask for your full and absolute confidence. If you refuse to give it to me, Betty, I will not expel you, my child; but I must send you from Haddo Court. I have an old friend who will receive you until I can get into communication with Sir John Crawford, for the sort of mystery which now exists is bad for the school as a whole. You are intelligent enough to perceive that.”
“Yes, Mrs. Haddo, I am quite intelligent enough to perceive it.” Betty stood up as she spoke.
“Have you anything more to say?”
“Nothing,” replied Betty.
“This day week, then, my child. And one word before we part. The chapel where Mr. Fairfax reads prayers—where God, I hope, is worshiped both in spirit and in truth—is meant as much for the sorrowful, the erring, the sinners, as for those who think themselves close to Him. For, Betty, the God whom I believe in is a very present Help in time of trouble. I want you to realize that at least, and not to cease attending prayers, my dear.”
Betty bent her head. The next minute she went up to Mrs. Haddo, flung herself on her knees by that lady’s side, took her long white hand, kissed it with passion, and left the room.
It was Thursday evening, and Fanny Crawford did not altogether like the prospect which lay before her. Ever since Sibyl had put the little sealed packet into her hands, that packet had lain on Fanny’s heart with the weight of lead. Now that she had obtained the packet she did not want it; she did not dare to let any one guess how it had come into her hands. Fanny the proud, the looked-up-to, the respected, the girl whose conduct had hitherto been so immaculate, had stooped to employ another girl to act as a spy. Fanny was absolutely in the power of that very insignificant person, Sibyl Ray. Sibyl demanded her reward. Fanny must do her utmost to get Sibyl admitted to the club.
On that very evening, as Fanny was going towards the Bertrams’ room, where the meeting was to be held, she was waylaid by Sibyl.
“You won’t forget?—you have promised.”
“Of course I won’t forget, Sibyl. What a tease you are!”
“Can you possibly give me a hint afterwards? You might come to my room just for an instant, or you might push a little note under the door. I am so panting to know. I do so dreadfully want to belong to the club. I have been counting up all the privileges. I shall go mad with joy if I am admitted.”
“I will do my best for you; but whether I can tell youanything or not to-night is more than I can possibly say,” replied Fanny. “Now, do go away, Sibyl; go away, and be quick about it!”
“All right,” said Sibyl. “Of course you know, or perhaps you don’t know, that Betty isn’t well? The doctor came an hour ago, and he says she is to be kept very quiet. I am ever so sorry for her, she is so—so——Oh dear, I am almost sorry now that I took that little packet from under the root of the Scotch heather!”
“Go, Sibyl. If we are seen together it will be much more difficult for me to get you elected,” was Fanny’s response; and at last, to Fanny’s infinite relief, Sibyl took her departure.
All the other members of the club were present when Fanny made her appearance. They were talking in low tones, and as Fanny entered she heard Betty’s name being passed from lip to lip.
“She does look bad, poor thing!” said Olive.
“Did you know,” exclaimed Susie Rushworth, “that after doing that splendid piece of recitation in the class to-day she fainted right off? Miss Symes was quite terrified about her.”
“They say the doctor has been sent for,” said Martha. “Oh dear,” she added, “I never felt so unhappy about a girl before in my life!”
Fanny was not too gratified to hear these remarks. She perceived all too quickly that, notwithstanding the fact that Betty was no longer a member of the club, she still reigned in the hearts of the girls.
“Well, Fan, here you are!” exclaimed Margaret. “Is there anything very special for us to do to-night? I have no inclination to do anything. We are all so dreadfully anxious about Betty and those darling little twins. Do you know, the doctor has ordered them not to sleep in Betty’s room to-night; so Miss Symes is going to look after them. They are such sweet pets! The doctor isn’t veryhappy about Betty. Sometimes I think we made a mistake—that we were cruel to Betty to turn her out of the club.”
Fanny felt that if she did not quickly assert herself all would be lost. She therefore said quietly, “I don’t pretend to share your raptures with regard to Betty Vivian, and I certainly think that if rules are worth anything they ought not to be broken.”
“I suppose you are right,” remarked Olive; “only, Betty seemed to make an exception to every rule.”
“Well,” said Fanny, “if we want a new member——”
“Another Speciality?” said Margaret.
“I was thinking,” continued Fanny, her pretty pink cheeks glowing brightly and her eyes shining, “that we might be doing a kindness to a very worthy little girl who will most certainly not break any of the rules.”
“Whom in the world do you mean?” asked Susie.
“I suppose you will be surprised at my choice; but although seven is the perfect number, there is no rule whatever against our having eight, nine, ten, or even more members of the club.”
“There is no rule against our having twenty members, if those members are worthy,” said Margaret Grant. “But whom have you in the back of your head, Fanny? You look so mysterious.”
“I cannot think of any one myself,” said Martha West.
When Martha said this Fanny made a little gesture of despair. “Well,” she said, “I have taken a fancy to her. I think she is very nice; and I know she is poor, and I know she wants help, and I know that Mrs. Haddo takes a great interest in her. I allude to that dear little thing, Sibyl Ray. You, Martha, surely will support me?”
“Sibyl Ray!” The girls looked at each other in unbounded astonishment. Martha was quite silent, and her cheeks turned pale.
After a long pause Margaret spoke, “May I ask, Fanny,what one single qualification Sibyl Ray has for election to membership in the Speciality Club?”
“But what possible reason is there against her being a member?” retorted Fanny.
“A great many, I should say,” was Margaret’s answer. “In the first place, she is too young; in the second place, she has only just been admitted to the upper school.”
“You can’t keep her out on that account,” objected Fanny, “for she has been longer in the upper school than Betty Vivian.”
“Oh, please don’t mention Betty and Sibyl in the same breath!” was Margaret’s answer.
“I do not,” said Fanny, who was fast losing her temper. “Sibyl is a good, straightforward, honorable girl. Betty is the reverse.”
“Oh Fanny,” exclaimed Martha, “I wouldn’t abuse my own cousin if I were you!”
“Nonsense!” said Fanny. “Whether she is a cousin, or even a sister, I cannot be blind to her most flagrant faults.”
“Of course you have a right to propose Sibyl Ray as a possible member of this club,” said Margaret, “for it is one of our by-laws that any member can propose the election of another. But I don’t really think you will carry the thing through. In the first place, what do you know about Sibyl? I have observed you talking to her once or twice lately; but until the last week or so, I think, you hardly knew of her existence.”
“That is quite true,” said Fanny boldly; “but during the last few days I have discovered that Sibyl is a sweet girl—most charming, most unselfish, most obliging. She is very timid, however, and lacks self-confidence; and I have observed that she is constantly snubbed by girls who are not fit to hold a candle to her and yet look down upon her, just because she is poor. Now, if she were made a member of the club all that would be put a stop to, andshe would have a great chance of doing her utmost in the school. We should be holding out a helping hand to a girl who certainly is neither beautiful nor clever, but who can be made a fine character. Martha, you at least will stand up for Sibyl? You have always been her close friend.”
“And I am fond of her still,” said Martha; “but I don’t look upon her at all in the light in which you do, Fanny. Sibyl, at present, would be injured, not improved, by her sudden elevation to the rank of a Speciality. The only thing I would suggest is that you propose her again in a year’s time; and if during the course of that year she has proved in any sense of the word what you say, I for one will give her my cordial support. At present I cannot honestly feel justified in voting for her, and I will not.”
“Well spoken, Martha!” said Margaret. “Fanny, your suggestion is really ill-timed. We are all unhappy about Betty just now; and to see poor little Sibyl—of course, no one wants to say a word against her—in Betty’s shoes would make our loss seem more irreparable than ever.”
Fanny saw that her cause was lost. She had the grace not to say anything more, but sat back in her chair with her eyes fixed on Margaret’s face. Fanny began to perceive for the first time that some of the girls in this club had immensely strong characters. Margaret Grant and Martha West had, for instance, characters so strong that Fanny discovered herself to be a very unimportant little shadow beside them. The Bertrams were the sort of girls to take sides at once and firmly with what was good and noble, Susie Rushworth was devoted to Margaret, and Olive had been the prime favorite in the club until Betty’s advent. Now it seemed to Fanny that each one of the Specialities was opposed to her, that she stood alone. She did not like the situation. She was so exceedingly anxious; for, strong in the belief that she herself was a person of great importance, and in the further belief that Marthawould support her, she had been practically sure of getting Sibyl admitted to the club. Now Sibyl had no chance whatever, and Sibyl knew things which might make Fanny’s position in the school the reverse of comfortable.
Fanny Crawford on this occasion sat lost in thought, by no means inclined to add her quota to the entertainment of the others, and looking eagerly for the first moment when she might escape from the meeting. Games were proposed; but games went languidly, and once again Betty and Betty’s illness became the subject of conversation.
When this took place Fanny rose impatiently. “There are no further questions to be discussed to-night?” she asked, turning to Margaret.
“None that I know of.”
“Then, if you will excuse me, girls, I will go. I must tell poor little Sibyl——”
“You don’t mean to say you spoke to Sibyl about it?” interrupted Martha.
“Well, yes, I did.” Fanny could almost have bitten out her tongue for having made this unwary admission. “She was so keen, poor little thing, that I told her I would do my best for her. I must say, once and for all, that I have never seen my sister members so hard and cold and indifferent to the interests of a very deserving little girl before. I am, of course, sorry I spoke to her on the matter.”
“You really did very wrong, Fan,” said Margaret in an annoyed voice. “You know perfectly well that we never allude to the possibility of a girl being proposed for membership to that girl herself until we have first made up our minds whether she is worthy or not. Now, you have placed us at a great disadvantage; but, of course, you forgot yourself, Fan. You must tell Sibyl that the thing is not to be thought of. You can put it down to her age or any other cause you like.”
“Of course I must speak the truth,” said Fanny, raisingher voice to a somewhat insolent tone. “The club does not permit the slightest vestige of prevarication. Is that not so?”
“Yes, it is certainly so.”