All hands were held up on this occasion, and Fanny held hers the straightest and highest of all.

"Three cheers for Martha West!" said Susie Rushworth.

"It will be splendid to have Martha!" said both the Bertrams; while Olive, always gay, spirited, and full of fun, laughed from sheer delight.

The usual formula was then gone through, and Fanny Crawford was deputed to take a note to Martha inviting her to be present at the next meeting.

"Now, we shall have about half an hour for different sorts of fun," said Margaret. "By the way, Betty," she continued, "sometimes our meetings are rather solemn affairs; we want to discuss the book we are reading, or something has happened that we wish to talk over. On the other hand, there are times when we have nothing but fun and frolic. We're not a bit solemn on these occasions; we loosen all the tension, so to speak, and enjoy ourselves to the utmost."

"And there are times, also," said Olive, "when we are just as busy as bees planning out our next entertainment. Oh Margaret, we can't have one this day week because of Betty and Martha. But don't you think we might have one this day three weeks? And don't you think it might be a very grand affair? And supposing Betty becomes a member—which, of course, you will, Betty, for you couldn't disappoint us now—supposing we have it in Betty's palatial mansion of a bedroom! We can ask no end of girls to that. Oh, won't it be fun?"

"If you ask my sisters, I don't mind at all—that is, if I am a member," said Betty.

"Of course we'll ask the dear twins," said Margaret. She took Betty's hand as she spoke and squeezed it with sudden affection.

Betty pressed a little nearer to her. It was worth even giving up the Scotch moors, and the society of Donald and Jean, and the dogs and the horse, to have such a friend as Margaret Grant.

But now the fun began in earnest, and very good fun it was; for every girl had a considerable sense of humor, so much so that their games were carried on with great spirit. Their laughter was so merry as to be quite infectious; and no one was more amazed than Betty herself when the ordeal of this first visit to the Specialities was over and she was walking quickly downstairs, with Olive by her side, on her way to the chapel.

How beautifully Mr. Fairfax read the evening prayers that night! How lovely it was to listen to his melodious voice and to look at his earnest, intelligent face! How sweet, how wonderful, was the soft, soft music which Mrs. Haddo herself played on the organ!

"Oh yes," thought Betty, "one could be good here, and with the sort of help that Margaret talks about; and high thoughts are nice thoughts, they seem to be what I might call close to the angels. Nevertheless——"

A cloud seemed to fall on the little girl's spirit. She thought of Fanny, and, raising her eyes at the moment, observed that Fanny's eyes were fixed on her. Fanny's eyes were full of queer warning, even of menace; and Betty suddenly experienced a revulsion of all those noble feelings which had animated her a short time ago. Were there two Fanny Crawfords? Or could she possibly look as she looked now, and also as she had done when Margaret Grant read the rules of the Speciality Club aloud?



CHAPTER IX

STRIVING FOR A DECISION

The week passed without anything very special occurring. The weather was still warm and perfect. September had no idea of giving up her mantle of late summer. But September was drawing to a close, and October, with gusty winds and whirling, withered leaves, and much rain, would soon take her place. October was certainly not nearly such a pleasant month as September. Nevertheless, the young and healthy girls who lived their regular life at Haddo Court were indifferent to the weather. They were always busy. Each minute was planned out and fully occupied. There was time for work, and time for play, and time for happy, confidential talks in that bright and pleasant school. There were all kinds of surprises, too; now an unexpected tea-party with Mrs. Haddo, given to a few select girls; then, again, to another few who unexpectedly found themselves select. There were also delightful cocoa-parties in the big private sitting-room of the upper school, as well as games of every description, outdoor and indoor. Night came all too soon in this happy family, and each girl retired to bed wondering what could have made the day so very short.

But during this week Betty was not quite happy. She had received a copy of the rules, and had studied them very carefully. She was, in her heart of hearts, most anxious to become a Speciality. The higher life appealed to her. It appealed to her strong sense of imagination; to her passionate and really unworldly nature; to that deep love which dwelt in her heart, and which, just at present, she felt inclined to bestow on Margaret Grant. But there was Rule I. The rules had been sent, as Margaret had promised, neatly copied and in a sealed envelope, to Betty's room. She had read them upstairs all alone in the Vivians' attic. She had read them while the queer, uncanny eyes of Dickie looked at her. She certainly was not afraid of Dickie; on the contrary, she admired him. She and her sisters were very proud of his increasing size, and each day it was the turn of one girl or the other to take Dickie out of his cage and give him exercise. He was rather alarming in his movements, going at a tremendous rate, and giving more than one uncanny glance at the Vivian girl who was his jailer for the time.

On this special occasion, when Betty brought the rules to the Vivian attic, she forgot all about Dickie. He was out, running round and round the attic, rushing up the walls, peering at Betty from over the top of the door, creeping as far as the ceiling and then coming down again. He was, as a rule, easily caught, for Sylvia and Hetty always kept his meal of raw meat till after he had had his exercise. But Betty had now forgotten that it was necessary to have a bait to bring Dickie once more into the shelter of his cage. She had consequently fed him first, then let him free, and then stood by the small window of the attic reading the rules of the Specialities. It was Rule I. which troubled her. Rule I. ran as follows: "Each girl gives perfect confidence to her fellow members, keeps no secret to herself which those members ought to know, is ready to consider each member as though she were her own sister, to help her in time of trouble and to rejoice with her in periods of joy."

To be quite frank, Betty did not like this rule. She was willing to give a certain amount of affection to most of the girls who belonged to the Specialities; but as to considering even nice girls like the Bertrams as her own sisters, and Susie Rushworth (who was quite agreeable and gay and kind) in that relationship, and Olive Repton also, as she would Sylvia and Hetty, she did not think she could do it. She could be kind to them—she would love to be kind to them; she would love to help each and all in times of trouble, and to rejoice with them in periods of joy; but to feel that they were her sisters—that certainly was difficult. She believed it possible that she could admit Margaret Grant into a special and close relationship; into a deep friendship which partook neither of sisterhood nor of anything else, but stood apart and alone—the sort of friendship that a young, enthusiastic girl will give to a friend of strong character a little older than herself. But as to Fanny—she could never love Fanny. From the very first moment she had set eyes on her—away, far away, in Scotland—she had disliked her, she had pronounced her at once in her own mind as "niminy-priminy." She had told her sisters frankly what she felt about Fanny. She had said in her bold, independent way, "Fanny is too good for the likes of me. She is the sort of girl who would turn me into a bad un. I don't want to have anything to do with her."

Fanny, however, had taken no notice of Betty's all too evident antagonism. Fanny was, in her heart of hearts, essentially good-natured; but Betty was as impossible for her to understand as it was impossible for the moon to comprehend the brightness of the sun. Fanny had been shocked at what she had witnessed when she saw Betty take the sealed packet from the drawer. She remembered the whole thing with great distress of mind, and had felt a sense of shock when she heard that the Vivian girls were coming to the school. But her feelings were very much worse when her father had informed her that the packet could nowhere be found—that he had specially mentioned it to Betty, who declared that she knew nothing about it. Oh yes, Fanny and Betty were as the poles apart; and Betty knew now that were she to take the vows of the Specialities fifty times over she could never keep them, as far as Fanny Crawford was concerned. Then there was another unpleasant part of the same rule: "Each girl gives perfect confidence to her fellow-members, keeps no secret to herself which those members ought to know." Betty undoubtedly had a secret—a very precious one. She had even told a lie in order to hug that secret to her breast. She had brought it away with her to the school, and now it was safe—only Betty knew where.

What puzzled her was this: was it necessary for the members to know her secret? It had nothing to do with any of them. Nevertheless, she was an honest sort of girl and could not dismiss the feeling from her own mind that Rule I. was practically impossible to her. The Specialities had met on Thursday in Margaret Grant's room. The next meeting was to be held in Susie Rushworth's. Susie's room was in another wing of the building, and was not so large or luxurious as that of Margaret. The next meeting would, however, be quite formal—except for the admission of Betty to the full privileges of the club, and the reading aloud of the rules to Martha West. During the course of the week the Specialities seldom or never spoke of their meeting-day. Nevertheless, Betty from time to time caught Fanny's watchful eyes fixed on her.

On the next Thursday morning she awoke with a slight headache. Miss Symes noticed when she came downstairs that Betty was not quite herself, and at once insisted on her going back to her room to lie down and be coddled. Betty hated being coddled. She was never coddled in the gray stone house; she was never coddled on the Scotch moors. She had occasional headaches, like every one else, and occasional colds; but they had to take care of themselves, and get well as best they could. Betty used to shake herself with anger when she thought of any one making a fuss about her when she was ill, and was consequently rather cross when Miss Symes took her upstairs, made her lie down, and put a wrap over her.

"You must lie down and try to sleep, Betty. I hope you will be quite well by dinner-time. Don't stir till I come for you, dear."

"Oh, but I will!" said Betty, raising her head and fixing her bright, almost feverish eyes on Miss Symes's face.

"What do you mean, dear? I have desired you to stay quiet."

"And I cannot obey," replied Betty. "Please, Miss Symes, don't be angry. If I were a low-down sort of girl, I'd sneak out without telling you; but as I happen to be Betty Vivian, I can't do that. I want to get into the fresh air. Nothing will take away my headache like a walk. I want to get as far as that dreadful piece of common land you have here, and which you imagine is like a moor. I want to walk about there for a time."

"Very well, Betty; you are a good girl to have confided in me. You have exactly two hours. Stay quiet for one hour. If at the end of that time your head is no better, out for an hour; then return to your usual duties."

Betty lay very still for the whole of that hour. Her thoughts were busy. She was haunted by Rule I., and by the passionate temptation to ignore it and yet pretend that she would keep it—in short, to be a member of the Specialities under false colors. One minute she was struggling hard with the trouble which raged within her, the next minute she was making up her mind to decline to be associated with the Specialities.

When the hour had quite expired she sprang to her feet. Oh yes, her head still ached! But what did that matter? She could not be bothered with a trifling thing like a mere headache. She ran upstairs to the Vivian attic. Dickie was in his cage. Betty remembered what terrible trouble she had had to catch him on the day when she received a copy of the rules. She shook her head at him now, and said, "Ah Dickie, you're a bad boy! I am not going to let you out of your cage again in a hurry." Then she went out.

The wind had changed during the night, and heavy clouds were coming up from the north. Betty felt herself much colder than she had ever done in Scotland. She shivered, and walked very fast. She passed the celebrated oak-tree where she and her sisters had hidden during their first day at school. She went on to the place where the three little gardens were marked for their benefit. But up to the present no Vivian had touched the gardens, and there were the black remains of the bonfire where the poor Scotch heather had been burnt almost in the center of Betty's patch of ground.

Oh, the school was horrible—the life was horrible! Oh why had she ever come here? She wanted to be a Speciality; but she could not, it was not in her. She hated—yes, she hated—Fanny Crawford more each minute, and she could never love those other uninteresting girls as though they were her sisters. In analyzing her feelings very carefully, she came to the conclusion that she only wanted to join the Specialities in order to be Margaret's friend. She knew quite well what privileges would be accorded to her were she a member; and she also knew—for she had been told—that it was a rare thing to allow a girl so lately come to the school to take such an important position.

Betty had a natural love of power. With a slight shudder she walked past the little patches of ground and across what she contemptuously called the miserable common. This common marked the boundaries of Mrs. Haddo's school. There were iron railings at least six feet high guarding it from the adjacent land. The sight of these railings was absolute torture to Betty. She said aloud, "Didn't I know the whole place was a prison? But prison-bars sha'n't keep me long in restraint!"

She took out her handkerchief, and, pulling up some weedy grass, put the handkerchief on one spiked bar and the grass on the other, and thus protecting herself, made a light bound over the fence. The exercise and the sense of freedom did her good. She laughed aloud, and continued her walk through unexplored regions. She could not go very fast, however; for she was hindered here by and there by a gateway, and here again by a farmstead, and yet again by a cottage, with little children running about amongst the autumn flowers.

"How can people live in a place like this?" thought Betty.

Then, all of a sudden, two ferocious dogs rushed out upon the girl, clamored round her, and tried to stop her way. Betty laughed softly. There was a delightful sound in her laugh. Probably those dogs had never heard its like before. It was also possible, notwithstanding the fact that Betty was wearing a new dress, that something of that peculiar instinct which is imparted to dogs told these desperate champions that Betty had loved a dog before.

"Down, silly creature!" said Betty, and she patted one on the head and put her arm on the neck of the other. Soon they were fawning about her and jumping on her and licking her hands. She felt thoroughly happy now. Her headache had quite vanished. The dogs, the darlings, were her true friends! There was a little piece of grass quite close to where they had attacked her, and she squatted deliberately down on it and invited the dogs to stretch themselves by her side. They did so without a minute's delay. They were in raptures with her, and one dog only growled when she paid too much attention to the other.

She began to whisper alternately in the shaggy ears of each. "Ah, you must have come from Scotland! You must, anyhow, have met Andrew! Do you think you are as brave as Andrew, for I doubt it?"

Then she continued to the other dog, "And you must have been born in the same litter with Fritz. Did you ever look into the eyes of Fritz and see straight down into his gallant heart? I should be ashamed of you, ashamed of you, if you were not as brave and noble as Fritz."

There was such pathos in Betty's voice that the dogs became quite penitent and abject. They had certainly never been in Scotland, and Andrew and Fritz were animals unknown to them; but for some reason the mysterious being who understood dogs was displeased with them, and they fawned and crouched at her feet.

It was just at that moment that a sturdy-looking farmer came up. He gazed at Betty, then at the two dogs, uttered a light guffaw, and vanished round the corner. In a very few minutes he returned, accompanied by his sturdy wife and his two rough, growing sons.

"Wife," he said, "did you ever see the like in all your life—Dan and Beersheba crouching down at that young girl's feet? Why, they're the fiercest dogs in the whole place!"

"I heard them barking a while back," said Mrs. Miles, the farmer's wife, "and then they stopped sudden-like. If I'd known they were here I'd have come out to keep 'em from doing mischief to anybody; but hearing no more sound I went on with my churning. Little miss," she added, raising her voice, "you seem wonderful took with dogs."

Betty instantly rose to a standing position. "Yes, I am," she said. "Please, are these Scotch, and have they come from Aberdeenshire?"

The farmer laughed. "No, miss," he said; "we bred 'em at home."

Betty was puzzled at this.

The dogs did not take the slightest notice of the farmer, his wife, or his sons, but kept clinging to the girl and pressing their noses against her dress.

"May I come again to see them, please?" asked Betty. "They've got the spirit of the Scotch dogs. They are the first true friends I have met since I left Scotland."

"And may I make bold to ask your name, miss?" inquired the farmer's wife.

"Yes, you may," said Betty. "It isn't much of a name. It's just Betty Vivian, and I live at Haddo Court."

"My word! Be you one of them young ladies?"

"I don't know quite what you mean; but I am Betty Vivian, and I live at Haddo Court."

"But how ever did you get on the high road, miss?" asked the farmer.

Betty laughed. "I went to the edge of what they call the common," she said. "I found a fence, and I vaulted over—that is all. I don't like your country much, farmer; there's no space about it. But the dogs, they are darlings!"

"You're the pluckiest young gel I ever come across," said the man. "How you managed to tame 'em is more than I can say. Why, they are real brutes when any one comes nigh the farm; and over and over I has said to the wife, 'You ought to lock them brutes up, wife.' But she's rare and kindhearted, and is very fond of them, whelps that they be."

"I wonder," said the woman, "if missie would come into the house and have a bite of summat to eat? We makes butter for the Court, miss; and we sends up all our eggs, and many a pair of fat chickens and turkeys and other fowl. We're just setting down to dinner, and can give you some potatoes and pork."

Betty laughed gleefully. "I'd love potatoes and pork more than anything," she said. "May Dan and Beersheba dine with us?"

"Well, miss, I don't expect you'll find it easy to get 'em parted from you."

So Betty entered the farmyard, and walked through, in her direct fashion, without picking her steps; for she loved, as she expressed it, a sense of confusion and the sight of different animals. She had a knack of making herself absolutely at home, and did so on the present occasion. Soon she was seated in the big bright kitchen of the farmhouse, and was served with an excellent meal of the best fresh pork and the most mealy potatoes she had seen since she left Scotland. Mrs. Miles gave her a great big glass of rich milk, but she preferred water. Dan sat at one side of her, Beersheba at the other. They did not ask for food; but they asked imploringly for the pat of a firm, brown little hand, and for the look of love in Betty's eyes.

"I have enjoyed myself," said the girl, jumping up. "I do think you are the nicest people anywhere; and as to your dogs, they are simply glorious. Might not I come here again some day, and—and bring my sisters with me? They are twins, you know. Do you mind twins?"

"Bless your sweet voice!" said Mrs. Miles; "is it a-minding twins we be when we has two sets ourselves?"

"My sisters are very nice, considering that they are twins," said Betty, who was always careful not to overpraise her own people; "and they are just as fond of dogs as I am. Oh, by the way, we have a lovely spider—a huge, glorious creature. His name is Dickie, and he lives in an attic at the Court. He's as big as this." Betty made an apt illustration with her fingers.

"Lor', miss, he must be an awful beast! We're dead nuts agen spiders at the Stoke Farm."

Betty looked sad. "It is strange," she said, "how no one loves Dickie except our three selves. We won't bring him, then; but may we come?"

"It all depends, miss, on whether Mrs. Haddo gives you leave. 'Tain't the custom, sure and certain, for young ladies from the Court to come a-visiting at Stoke Farm; but if so be she says yes, you'll be heartily welcome, and more than welcome. I can't say more, can I, miss?"

"Well, I have had a happy time," said Betty; "and now I must be going back."

"But," said the farmer, "missie, you surely ain't going to get over that big fence the same way as you come here?"

"And what else should I do?" said Betty.

"'Taint to be done, miss. There's a drop at our side which makes the fence ever so much higher, and how you didn't hurt yourself is little less than a miracle to me. I'll have the horse put to the cart and drive you round to the front entrance in a jiffy. Dan and Beersheba can follow, the run'll do them no end of good."

"Yes, missie, you really must let my husband do what he wishes," said Mrs. Miles.

"Thank you," said Betty in a quiet voice. Then she added, looking up into Mrs. Miles's face, "I love Mrs. Haddo very much, and there is one girl at the school whom I love. I think I shall love you too, for I think you have understanding. And when I come to see you next—for of course Mrs. Haddo will give me leave—I will tell you about Scotland, and the heather, and the fairies that live in the heather-bells; and I will tell you about our little gray stone house, and about Donald Macfarlane and Jean Macfarlane. Oh, you will love to hear! You are something like them, except that unfortunately you are English."

"Don't put that agen me," said Mrs. Miles, "for I wouldn't be nothing else if you was to pay me fifty pounds down. There, now, I can't speak squarer than that!"

Just at that moment the farmer's voice was heard announcing that the trap was ready. Betty hugged Mrs. Miles, and was followed out of the farm-kitchen by the excited dogs.

The next minute they were driving in the direction of the Court, and Betty was put down just outside the heavy wrought-iron gates. "Good-bye, Farmer Miles," she said, "and take my best thanks. I am coming again to see those darling dogs. Good-bye, dears, good-bye."

She pressed a kiss on each very rough forehead, passed through the little postern door, heard the dogs whining behind her, did not dare to look back, and ran as fast as she could to the house. She was quite late for the midday dinner; and the first person she met was Miss Symes, who came up to her in a state of great excitement. "Why, Betty!" she said, "where have you been? We have all been terribly anxious about you."

"I went out for a walk," said Betty, "and——"

"Did you go beyond the grounds? We looked everywhere."

"Oh yes," said Betty. "I couldn't be kept in by rails or bars or anything of that sort. I am a free creature, you know, Miss Symes."

"Come, Betty," said Miss Symes, "you have broken a rule; and you have no excuse, for a copy of the rules of the school is in every sitting-room and every classroom. You must see Mrs. Haddo about this."

"I am more than willing," replied Betty.

Betty felt full of courage, and keen and well, after her morning's adventure. Miss Symes took Betty's hand, and led her in the direction of Mrs. Haddo's private sitting-room. That good lady was busy over some work which she generally managed to accomplish at that special hour. She was seated at her desk, putting her signature to several notes and letters which she had dictated early that morning to her secretary. She looked up as Betty and Miss Symes entered.

"Ah, Miss Symes!" said Mrs. Haddo. "How do you do, Betty? Sit down. Will you just wait a minute, please?" she added, looking up into the face of her favorite governess. "I want you to take these letters as you are here, and so save my ringing for a servant. Get Miss Edgeworth to stamp them all, and put them into their envelopes, and send them off without fail by next post."

A pile of letters was placed in Miss Symes's hands. She went away at once; and Mrs. Haddo, in her usual leisurely and gracious manner, turned and looked at Betty.

"Well, Betty Vivian," she said kindly, "I have seen you for some time at prayers and in the different classrooms, and also at chapel; but I have not had an opportunity of a chat with you, dear, for several days. Sit down, please, or, rather, come nearer to the fire."

"Oh, I am so hot!" said Betty.

"Well, loosen your jacket and take off your hat. Now, what is the matter? Before we refer to pleasant things, shall we get the unpleasant ones over? What has gone wrong with you, Betty Vivian?"

"But how can you tell that anything has gone wrong?"

"I know, dear, because Miss Symes would not bring you to my private sitting-room at this hour for any other reason."

"Well, I don't think anything has gone wrong," said Betty; "but Miss Symes does not quite agree with me. I will tell you, of course; I am only longing to."

"Begin, dear, and be as brief as possible."

"I had a headache this morning, and went to lie down," began Betty. "Miss Symes wanted me to stay lying down until dinner-time, but afterwards she gave me leave to go out when I had been in my room for an hour. I did so. I went as far as that bit of common of yours."

"Our 'forest primeval'?" said Mrs. Haddo with a gracious smile.

"Oh, but it isn't really!" said Betty.

"Some of us think it so, Betty."

Betty gave a curious smile; then with an effort she kept back certain words from her lips, and continued abruptly, "I got to the end of the common, and there was a railing——"

"The boundary of my estate, dear."

"Well," said Betty, "it drove me mad. I felt I was in prison, and that the railing formed my prison bars. I vaulted over, and got into the road. I walked along for a good bit—I can't quite tell how far—but at last two dogs came bounding out of a farmyard near by. They barked at first very loudly; but I looked at them and spoke to them, and after that we were friends of course. I sat on the grass and played with them, and they—I think they loved me. All dogs do—there is nothing in that. The farmer and his wife came out presently and seemed surprised, for they said that Dan and Beersheba were very furious."

"My dear girl—Dan and Beersheba—those dogs!"

"Those were the names they called them. We call our dogs on the Scotch moors Andrew and Fritz. They are much bigger dogs than Dan and Beersheba; but Dan and Beersheba are darlings for all that. I went into the Mileses' house and had my dinner with them. It was a splendid dinner—pork and really nice potatoes—and the dogs sat one on each side of me. Mrs. Haddo, I want to go to the Mileses' again some day to tea, and I want to take Sylvia and Hester with me. The Mileses don't mind about their being twins, and they'll be quite glad to see them, and Sylvia and Hester are about as fond of dogs as I am. Mrs. Miles said she was quite willing to have us if you gave leave, but not otherwise."

"Betty!" said Mrs. Haddo when the girl had ceased. She raised her head, and looked full into the wonderful, pathetic, half-humorous, half-defiant eyes, and once again between her soul and Betty's was felt that firm, sure bond of sympathy. Involuntarily the girl came two or three steps closer. Mrs. Haddo, with a gesture, invited her to kneel by her, and took one of her hands. "Betty, my child, you know why you have come to this school?"

"I am sure I don't," said Betty, "unless it is to be with you and—and Margaret Grant."

"I am glad you have made Margaret your friend. She is a splendid girl—quite the best girl in the whole school; and she likes you, Betty—she has told me so. I am given to understand that you are to have the honorable distinction of becoming a Speciality. The club is a most distinguished one, and has a beneficial effect on the tone of the upper school. I am glad that you are considered worthy to join. I know nothing about the rules; I can only say that I admire the results of its discipline on its members. But now to turn to the matter in hand. You broke a very stringent rule of the school when you got over that fence, and the breaking of a rule must be punished."

"I don't mind," said Betty in a low tone.

"But I want you to mind, Betty. I want you to be truly sorry that you broke one of my rules."

"When you put it like that," said Betty, "I do get a bit choky. Don't say too much, or perhaps I'll howl. I am not so happy as you think. I am fighting hard with myself every minute of the time."

"Poor little girl! can you tell me why you are fighting?"

"No, Mrs. Haddo, I cannot tell you."

"I will not press you, dear. Well, Betty, one of my rules is that the girls never leave the grounds without leave; and as you have broken that rule you must receive the punishment, which is that you remain in your room for the rest of the day until eight o'clock this evening, when I understand that you are due at the meeting of the Specialities."

"I will go to my room," said Betty. "I don't mind punishment at all."

"You ran a very great risk, dear, when you went into that byroad and were attacked by those fierce dogs. It was a marvel that they took to you. It is extremely wrong of Farmer Miles to have them loose, and I must speak to him."

"And please," said Betty, "may we go to tea there—we three—one evening?"

"I will see about that. Try to keep every rule. Try, with all your might and main, to conquer yourself. I am not angry with you, dear. It is impossible to tame a nature like yours, and I am the last person on earth to break your spirit. But go up to your room now, and—kiss me first."

Betty almost choked when she gave that kiss, when her eyes looked still deeper into Mrs. Haddo's beautiful eyes, and when she felt her whole heart tingle within her with that new, wonderful sensation of a love for her mistress which even exceeded her love for Margaret Grant.



CHAPTER X

RULE I. ACCEPTED

Betty's room was empty, and at that time of day was rather chill, for the three big windows were wide open in order to let in the fresh, keen air. Betty walked into the room still feeling that mysterious tingling all over her, that tingling which had been awakened by her sudden and unexpected love for Mrs. Haddo. That love had been more or less dormant within her heart from the very first; but to-day it had received a new impetus, and the curious fact was that she was almost glad to accept punishment because it was inflicted by Mrs. Haddo. Being the sort of girl she was, it occurred to her that the more severe she herself made the punishment the more efficacious it would be.

She accordingly sat down by one of the open windows, and, as a natural consequence, soon got very chilled. As she did not wish to catch cold and become a nuisance in the school, she proceeded to shut the windows, and had just done so—her fingers blue and all the beautiful glow gone from her young body—when there came a tap at the room door. Betty at first did not reply. She hoped the person, whoever that person might be, would go away. But the tap was repeated, and she was obliged in desperation to go to the door and see who was there.

"I, and I want to speak to you," replied the voice of Fanny Crawford.

Instantly there rose a violent rebellion in Betty's heart. All her love for Mrs. Haddo, with its softening influence, vanished; it melted slowly out of sight, although, of course, it was still there. Her pleasant time at the Mileses' farm, the delightful affection of the furious dogs, the excellent dinner, the quick drive back, were forgotten as though they had never existed; and Betty only remembered Rule I., and that she hated Fanny Crawford. She stood perfectly still in the middle of the room.

Fanny boldly opened the door and entered. "I want to speak to you, Betty," she said.

"But I don't want to speak to you," replied Betty.

"Oh, how bitterly cold this room is!" said Fanny, not taking much notice of this remark. "I shall light the fire myself; yes, I insist. It is all laid ready; and as it is absolutely necessary for us to have a little chat together, I may as well make the room comfortable for us both."

"But I don't want you to light the fire; I want you to go."

Fanny smiled. "Betty, dear," she said, "don't be unreasonable. You can't dislike me as much as you imagine you do! Why should you go on in this fashion?" As Fanny spoke she knelt down by the guard, put a match to the already well-laid fire, and soon it was crackling and roaring up the chimney.

"You are here," said Fanny, "because you broke a rule. We all know, every one in the school knows, Mrs. Haddo is not angry, but she insists on punishment. She never, never excuses a girl who breaks a rule. The girl must pay the penalty; afterwards, things are as they were before. It is amazing what an effect this has in keeping us all up to the mark and in order. Now, Betty—Bettina, dear—come and sit by the fire and let me hold your hands. Why, they're as blue as possible; you are quite frozen, you poor child!"

Fanny spoke in quite a nice, soothing voice. She had the same look on her face which she had worn that evening in Margaret Grant's bedroom. She seemed really desirous to be nice to Betty. She knew that Betty was easily influenced by kindness; this was the case, for even Fanny did not seem quite so objectionable when she smiled sweetly and spoke gently. She now drew two chairs forward, one for herself and one for Betty. Betty had been intensely cold, and the pleasant glow of the fire was grateful. She sank into the chair which Fanny offered her with very much the air of being the proprietor of the room, and not Betty, and waited for her companion to speak. She did not notice that Fanny had placed her own chair so that the back was to the light, whereas Betty sat where the full light from the three big windows fell on her face.

"Well, now, I call this real comfy!" said Fanny. "They will send up your tea, you know, and you can have a book from the school library if you like. I should recommend 'The Daisy Chain' or 'The Heir of Redclyffe.'"

"I don't want any books, thanks," said Betty.

"But don't you love reading?"

"I can't tell you. Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't."

"Betty, won't you tell me anything?"

"Fanny, I have nothing to tell you."

"Oh, Betty, with a face like yours—nothing!"

"Nothing at all—to you," replied Betty.

"But to others—for instance," said Fanny, still keeping her good temper, "to Margaret Grant, or to Mrs. Haddo?"

"They are different," said Betty.

Fanny was silent for a minute. Then she said, "I want to tell you something, and I want to be quite frank. You have made a very great impression so far in the school. For your age and your little experience, you are in a high class, and all your teachers speak well of you. You are the sort of girl who is extremely likely to be popular—to have, in short, a following. Now, I don't suppose there is in all the world anything, Betty Vivian, that would appeal to a nature like yours so strongly as to have a following—to have other girls hanging on your words, understanding your motives, listening to what you say, perhaps even trying to copy you. You will be very difficult to copy, Betty, because you are a rare piece of original matter. Nevertheless, all these things lie before you if you act warily now."

"Go on," said Betty; "it is interesting to hear one's self discussed. Of course, Fan, you have a motive for saying all this to me. What is it?"

"I have," said Fanny.

"You had better explain your motive. Things will be easier for us both afterwards, won't they?"

"Yes," said Fanny in a low tone, "that is true."

"Go on, then," said Betty.

"I want to speak about the Specialities."

"Oh, I thought you were coming to them! They are to meet to-night, are they not, in Susie Rushworth's room?"

"That is correct."

"And I am to be present?" said Betty.

"You are to be present, if you will."

"Why do you say 'if you will?' You know quite well that I shall be present."

"Martha West will also be there," continued Fanny. "She will go through very much the sort of thing you went through last week, and she will be given a week to consider before she finally decides whether she will join. Betty, have you made up your mind what to do? You might tell me, mightn't you? I am your own—your very own—cousin, and it was through my father you got admitted to this school."

"Thanks for reminding me," said Betty; "but I don't know that I do feel as grateful as I ought. Perhaps that is one of the many defects in my nature. You have praised me in a kind way, but you don't know me a bit. I am full of faults. There is nothing good or great about me at all. You had best understand that from the beginning. Now, I may as well say at once that I intend to be present at the Specialities' meeting to-night."

"You do! Have you read Rule I.?"

"Oh, yes, I have read it. I have read all the rules."

"Don't you understand," said Fanny, speaking deliberately, "that there is one dark spot in your life, Betty Vivian, that ought to preclude you from joining the Specialities? That dark spot can only be removed by confession and restitution. You know to what I allude?"

Betty stood up. Her face was as white as death. After a minute she said, "Are you going to do anything?"

"I ought; it has troubled me sorely. To tell you the truth, I did not want you to be admitted to the club; but the majority were in your favor. If ever they know of this they will not be in your favor. Oh, Betty, you cannot join because of Rule I.!"

"And I will join," said Betty, "and I dare you to do your very worst!"

"Very well, I have nothing more to say. I am sorry for you, Betty Vivian. From this moment on remember that, whatever wrong thing you did in the past, you are going to do doubly and trebly wrong in the future. You are going to take a false vow, a vow you cannot keep. God help you! you will be miserable enough! But even now there is time, for it is not yet four o'clock. Oh, Betty, I haven't spoken of this to a soul; but can you not reconsider?"

"I mean to join," said Betty. "Rule I. will not, in my opinion, be broken. The rule is that each member keeps no secret to herself which the other members ought to know. Why ought they know what concerns only me—me and my sisters?"

"Do you think," said Fanny, bending towards her, and a queer change coming over her face—"do you think for a single moment that you would be made a Speciality if the girls of this school knew that you had told my father a lie? I leave it to your conscience. I will say no more."

Fanny walked out of the room, shutting the door carefully behind her. Miss Symes came up presently. It was the custom of St. Cecilia to be particularly kind to the girls who were in disgrace. Often and often this most sweet woman brought them to see the error of their ways. Mrs. Haddo had told her about Betty, and how endearing she had found her, and what a splendid nature she fully believed the girl to possess. But when Miss Symes, full of thoughts for Betty's comfort, entered the room, followed by a servant bringing a little tray of temptingly prepared tea, Betty's look was, to say the least of it, dour; she did not smile, she scarcely looked up, there was no brightness in her eyes, and there were certainly no smiles round her lips.

"The tray there, please, Hawkins," said Miss Symes. The woman obeyed and withdrew.

"I am glad you have a fire, Betty, dear," said Miss Symes when the two were alone. "Now, you must be really hungry, for you had what I consider only a snatch-dinner. Shall I leave you alone to have your tea in comfort, or would you like me to sit with you for a little?"

"Oh, thanks so much!" replied Betty; "but I really would rather be alone. I have a good deal to think over."

"I am afraid, my dear child, you are not very well."

"On the contrary, I never was better," was Betty's response.

"Your headache quite gone?"

"Quite," said Betty with an emphatic nod.

"Well, dear, I am sorry you have had to undergo this unpleasant time of solitary confinement. But our dear Mrs. Haddo is not really angry; she knows quite well that you did not consider. She takes the deepest interest in you, Betty, my child."

"Oh, don't speak of her now, please!" said Betty with a sort of groan. "I would rather be alone."

"Haven't you a book of any sort? I will go and fetch one for you; and you can turn on the electric light when it gets dark."

"If you have something really interesting—that will make me forget everything in the world except what I am reading—I should like it."

Miss Symes went away, and returned in a few minutes with "Treasure Island." Strange as it may seem, Betty had not yet read this wonderful book.

Without glancing at the girl, Miss Symes again left the room. In the corridor she met Fanny Crawford. "Fanny," she said, "do you know what is the matter with Betty Vivian?"

Fanny smiled. "I have been to see her," she said. "Is she in bad spirits? It didn't occur to me that she was."

"Oh, you have been to see her, have you?"

"Yes, only a short time ago. She looked very cold when I entered the room; but I took the liberty to light the fire, and sat with her until suddenly she got cross and turned me out. She is a very queer girl is Betty."

"A very fine girl, my dear!"

Fanny made no response of any sort. She waited respectfully in case Miss Symes should wish to say anything further. But Miss Symes had nothing more to say; she only guessed that the change between the Betty in whom Mrs. Haddo had been so interested, and the Betty she had found, must be caused in some inexplicable way by Fanny Crawford. What was the matter with Fanny? It seemed to Miss Symes that, since the day when she had taken the girl into her full confidence with regard to the coming of the Vivians, she was changed, and not for the better. There was a coldness, an impatience, a want of spontaneity about her, which the teacher's observant eye noticed, but, being in the dark as to the cause, could not account for.

Meanwhile Betty ate her tea ravenously, and when it was finished turned on the electric light and read "Treasure Island." This book was so fascinating that she forgot everything else in its perusal: the sealed packet in its safe hiding-place, the Specialities themselves, the odious Fanny Crawford, Rule I.—everything was forgotten. Presently she raised her head with a start. It was half-past seven. Olive Repton was coming to fetch her at five minutes to eight, when the Specialities were all expected to assemble in Susie Rushworth's room.

Betty put on a black dress that evening. It was made of a soft and clinging material, and was sufficiently open at the neck to show the rounded purity of the young girl's throat, and short in the sleeves to exhibit the moldings of her arms. She was a beautifully made creature, and black suited her almost better than white. Her curiously pale face—which never had color, and yet never showed the slightest indication of weak health—was paler than usual to-night; but her eyes were darker and brighter, and there was a determination about her which slightly altered the character of her expression.

The twins came rushing in at ten minutes to eight.

"Oh, Bet, you are ready!" exclaimed Sylvia. "You are going to become a real Speciality! What glorious fun! How honored we'll be! I suppose you won't let us into any of the secrets?"

"Of course not, silly Sylvia!" replied Betty, smiling again at sight of her sisters. "But I tell you what," she added; "if you both happen to be awake when I come back, which I think very doubtful, I am going to tell you what happened this morning—something too wonderful. Don't be too excited about it, for it will keep until to-morrow; but think that I had a marvelous adventure, and, oh, my dears, it had to do with dogs!"

"Dogs!" cried both twins simultaneously.

"Yes, such glorious darlings! Oh, I've no time now—I must be off! Good-bye, both of you. Go to sleep if you like; I can tell you everything in the morning."

"I think we'll lie awake if it has anything to do with dogs," said Hetty. "We have been starving for them ever since we came here."

But Betty was gone. Olive took her hand. "Betty," she said as they walked very quickly towards the other wing of the house, "I like you better in black than in white. Black seems to bring out the wonderful—oh, I don't know what to call it!—the wonderful difference between you and other people."

"Don't talk about me now," said Betty. "I am only one, and we shall be seven in a very short time. Seven in one! Isn't it curious? A sort of body composed of seven people!"

"There'll be eight before long. The Specialities are going to be the most important people this term, that I am quite sure of," said Olive. "Well, here's Susie's room, and it wants two minutes to eight."

Susie greeted her guests with much cordiality. They all found seats. Supper was laid on a round table in one corner of the room. Olive, being an old member, was quite at home, and handed round cups of cocoa and delicious cakes to each of the girls. They ate and chatted, and when Martha West made her appearance there was a shout of welcome from every one.

"Hail to the new Speciality!" exclaimed each girl in the room, Betty Vivian alone excepted.

Martha was a heavily made girl, with a big, sallow face; quantities of black hair, which grew low on her forehead, and which, as no effort on her part would keep it from falling down on one side, gave her a somewhat untidy appearance; she had heavy brows, too, which were in keeping with the general contour of her face, and rather small gray eyes. There was no one, however, in the whole school who was better loved than Martha West. Big and ungainly though she was, her voice was one of the sweetest imaginable. She had also great force of character, and was regarded as one of the strong girls of the school. She was always helping others, was the soul of unselfishness, and although not exactly clever, was plodding and persevering. She was absolutely without self-consciousness; and when her companions welcomed her in this cheery manner she smiled broadly, showing a row of pearly white teeth, and then sat down on the nearest chair.

When supper was over, Margaret Grant came forward and stood by the little center-table, on which lay the vellum-bound book of the rules of the club. Margaret opened it with great solemnity, and called to Betty Vivian to stand up.

"Betty Vivian," she said, "we agreed a week ago to-day to admit you to the full membership of a Speciality. According to our usual custom, we sent you a copy of the rules in order that you might study them in their fullness. We now ask you if you have done so?"

"I have," replied Betty. "I have read them, I should think, thirty or forty times."

"Are you prepared, Betty Vivian, to accept our rules and become a member of the Specialities, or do you prefer your full liberty and to return to the ordinary routine of the school? We, none of us, wish you to adopt the rules as part of your daily life unless you are prepared to keep them in their entirety."

"I wish to be a Speciality," replied Betty. Then she added slowly—and as she spoke she raised her brilliant eyes and fixed them on Fanny Crawford's face—"I am prepared to keep the rules."

"Thank you, Betty! Then I think, members, Betty Vivian can be admitted as a member of our little society. Betty, simple as our rules are, they comprise much: openness of heart, sisterly love, converse with great thoughts, pleasure in its truest sense (carrying that pleasure still further by seeing that others enjoy it as well as ourselves), respect to all our teachers, and, above all things, forgetting ourselves and living for others. You see, Betty Vivian, that though the rules are quite simple, they are very comprehensive. You have had a week to study them. Again I ask, are you prepared to accept them?"

"Yes, I am prepared," said Betty; and again she flashed a glance at Fanny Crawford.

"Then I, as head of this little society for the time being, admit you as a member. Please, Betty, accept this little true-lovers' knot, and wear it this evening in your dress. Now, girls, let us every one cheer Betty Vivian, and take her to our hearts as our true sister in the highest sense of the word."

The girls flocked round Betty and shook hands with her. Amongst those who did so was Fanny Crawford. She squeezed Betty's hand significantly, and at the same moment put her finger to her lips. This action was so quick that only Betty observed it; but it told the girl that, now that she had "crossed the Rubicon," Fanny would not be the one to betray her.

Betty sank down on a chair. She felt excited, elated, pleased, and horrified. The rest of the evening passed as a sort of dream. She could scarcely comprehend what she had done. She was a Speciality. She was bound by great and holy rules, and yet in reality she was a far lower girl than she had ever been in all her life before.

The rules were read aloud in their fullness to Martha West, and the usual week's grace was accorded her. Then followed the fun, during the whole of which time Betty was made the heroine of the occasion, as Martha would doubtless be that day week. The girls chatted a great deal to-night, and Betty was told of all the privileges which would now be hers. She had never known until that moment that Mrs. Haddo, when she found what excellent work the Speciality Club did in the school, had fitted up a charming sitting-room for its members. Here, in winter, the fire burned all day. Fresh flowers were always to be seen. Here were to be found such books as those of Ruskin, Tennyson, Browning—in short, a fine collection of the greater writers. Betty was told that she was now free to enter this room; that, being a Speciality, she would be exempt from certain small and irksome duties in order to give her more time to attend to those broad rules of life which she had now adopted as her code.

Betty listened, and all the time, as she listened, her heart sank lower and lower. Fanny did not even pretend to watch Betty now. She had, so to speak, done with her. Fanny felt as sure as though some angel in the room were recording the fact that Betty was now well started on the downward track. She felt ashamed of her as a cousin. She felt the greatest possible contempt for her. But if she was herself to keep Rule I., she must force these feelings out of sight, and tolerate Betty until she saw the error of her ways.

"The less I have to do with her in the future the better," thought Fanny. "It would be exceedingly unpleasant for me if it were known that I had allowed her to be admitted without telling Margaret what I knew. But, somehow, I couldn't do it. I thought Betty herself would be great enough to withstand a paltry temptation of this sort. How different Martha West is! She will be a famous stand-by for us all."

The evening came to an end. The girls went down to prayers.

Betty was now a Speciality. She wore the beautiful little silver badge shining in the folds of her black evening frock. But she did not enjoy the music in the chapel nor Mr. Fairfax's rendering of the evening prayers as she had done when last she was there. Betty had a curious faculty, however, which she now exercised. Hers was a somewhat complex nature, and she could shut away unpleasant thoughts when she so desired. She was a Speciality. She might not have become one but for Fanny. Mrs. Haddo's influence, though unspoken, might have held her back. Margaret Grant might have kept her from doing what she herself would have scorned to do. But Fanny! Fanny had managed to bring out the worst in Betty; and the worst in a character like hers was very vigorous, very strong, very determined while it was in the ascendant. Instead of praying to-night, she turned her thoughts to the various and delightful things which would now be hers in the school. She would be regarded on all hands with added respect. She would have the entree to the Specialities' delightful sitting-room. She would be consulted by the other girls of the upper school, for every one consulted the Specialities on all manner of subjects. People would cease to speak of her as "that new girl Betty Vivian;" but they would say when they saw her approach, "Oh, she is one of the Specialities!" Her position in the school to-night was assured. She was safe; and Fanny, with that swift gesture, had indicated to her that she need not fear anything from her lips. Fanny would be silent. No one else knew what Fanny knew. And, after all, she had done no wrong, because her secret had nothing whatever to do with the other members of the club. The wrong—the one wrong—which she felt she had committed was in promising to love each member as though she were her sister, especially as she had to include Fanny Crawford in that number. But she would be kind to all, and perhaps love might come—she was not sure. Fanny would be kind to her, of course. In a sort of way they must be friends in the future. Oh, yes, it was all right.

She was startled when Olive Repton touched her. She rose from her knees with a hot blush on her face. She had forgotten chapel, she had not heard the words of the benediction. The girls streamed out, and went at once to their respective bedrooms.

Betty was glad to find her sisters asleep. After the exciting events of that evening, even Dan and Beersheba had lost their charm. So weary was she at that moment that she dropped her head on her pillow and fell sound asleep.



CHAPTER XI

A SPECIALITY ENTERTAINMENT

Certainly it was nice to be a Speciality. Even Fanny Crawford completely altered her manner to Betty Vivian. There were constant and earnest consultations amongst the members of the club in that charming sitting-room. Betty, of course, was eagerly questioned, and Betty was able to give daring and original advice. Whenever Betty spoke some one laughed, or some one looked with admiration at her; and when she was silent one or other of the girls said anxiously, "But do you approve, Betty? If you don't approve we must think out something else."

Betty soon entered into the full spirit of the thing, and one and all of the girls—Fanny excepted—said that she was the most delightful Speciality who had ever come to Haddo Court. During this time she was bravely trying to keep her vows. She had bought a little copy of Jeremy Taylor's "Holy Living," and read the required portion every day, but she did not like it; it had to do with a life which at one time she would have adored, but which now did not appeal to her. She liked that part of each day which was given up to fun and frolic, and she dearly loved the respect and consideration and admiration shown her by the other girls of the school.

It was soon decided that the next great entertainment of the Specialities was to be given in Betty Vivian's bedroom. Each girl was to subscribe three shillings, and the supper, in consequence, was to be quite sumptuous. Fanny Crawford, as the most practical member, was to provide the viands. She was to go into the village, accompanied by one of the teachers, two days before the date arranged in order to secure the most tempting cakes and pastry, and ginger-beer, and cocoa, and potted meat for sandwiches. Betty wondered how the provisions could be procured for so small a sum; but Fanny was by no means doubtful.

Now, Betty had of worldly wealth the exact sum of two pounds ten shillings; and when it is said that Betty possessed two pounds ten shillings, this money was really not Betty's at all, but had to be divided into three portions, for it was equally her sisters'. But as Sylvia and Hester always looked upon Betty as their chief, and as nothing mattered to them provided Betty was pleased, she gave three shillings from this minute fund without even telling them that she had done so. Then the invitations were sent round, and very neatly were they penned by Susie Rushworth and Olive Repton. It was impossible to ask all the girls of the school; but a select list from the girls in the upper school was carefully made, each Speciality being consulted on this point.

Martha West, who was now a full-blown member, suggested Sibyl Ray at once.

Fanny gave a little frown of disapproval. "Martha," she said, "I must say that I don't care for your Sibyl."

"And I like her," replied Martha. "She is not your style, Fan; but she just needs the sort of little help we can give her. We cannot expect every one to be exactly like every one else, and Sibyl is not half bad. It would hurt her frightfully if she were not invited to the first entertainment after I have become a Speciality."

"Well, that settles it," said Fanny in a cheerful tone; "she gets an invitation of course."

The teachers were never invited to these assemblies, but there was a murmur of anticipation in the whole school when the invitations went round. Who were to be the lucky ones? Who was to go? Who was not to go? As a rule, it was so managed by the Specialities that the whole of the upper school was invited once during the term to a delightful evening in one of the special bedrooms. But the first invitation of the season—the one after the admission of two new members, that extraordinary Betty Vivian and dear, good old Martha West—oh, it was of intense interest to know who were to go and who to stay behind!

"I've got my invitation," said a fat young girl of the name of Sarah Butt.

"And I," "And I," "And I," said others.

"I am left out," said a fifth.

"Well, Janie, don't fret," said Sarah Butt; "your turn will come next time."

"But I did so want to see Betty Vivian! They say she is the life of the whole club."

"Silly!" exclaimed Sarah; "why, you see her every day."

"Yes, but not as she is in the club. They all say that she is too wonderful! Sometimes she sits down cross-legged and tells them stories, and they get so excited they can't move. Oh, I say, do—do look! look what is in the corner of your card, Sarah! 'After supper, story-telling by Betty Vivian. Most of the lights down.' There, isn't it maddening! I do call it a shame; they might have asked me!"

"Well, I will tell you all the stories to-morrow," said Sarah.

"You!" The voice was one of scorn. "Why, you can't tell a story to save your life; whereas Betty, she looks a story herself all the time. She has it in her face. I can never take my eyes off her when she is in the room."

"Well, I can't help it," answered Sarah. "I am glad I'm going, that is all. The whole school could not be asked, for the simple reason that the room wouldn't hold us. I shall be as green as grass when your invitation comes, and now you must bear your present disappointment."

Fanny Crawford made successful and admirable purchases. On the nights when the Specialities entertained, unless it was midsummer, the girls met at six-thirty, and the entertainment continued until nine.

On that special evening Mrs. Haddo, for wise reasons all her own, excused the Specialities and their guests from attending prayers in the chapel. She had once made a little speech about this. "You will pray earnestly in your rooms, dears, and thank God for your happy evening," she had said; and from that moment the Specialities knew that they might continue their enjoyment until nine o'clock.

Oh, it was all fascinating! Betty was very grave. Her high spirits deserted her that morning, and she went boldly to Mrs. Haddo—a thing which few girls dared to do.

Mrs. Haddo was seated by her fire. She was reading a new book which had just been sent to her by post. "Betty, what do you want?" she said when the girl entered.

"May I take a very long walk all alone? Do you mind, Mrs. Haddo?"

"Anywhere you like, dear, provided you do not leave the grounds."

"But I want to leave the grounds, Mrs. Haddo."

"No, dear Betty—not alone."

Betty avoided the gaze of Mrs. Haddo, who looked up at her. Betty's brilliant eyes were lowered, and the black, curling lashes lay on her cheeks.

Mrs. Haddo wanted to catch Betty's soul by means of her eyes, and so draw her into communion with herself. "Betty, why do you want to walk outside the grounds, and all alone?"

"Restless, I suppose," answered Betty.

"Is this club too exciting for you, my child?"

"Oh no, I love it!" said Betty. Her manner changed at the moment. "And, please, don't take my hand. I—oh, it isn't that I don't want to hold your hand; but I—I am not worthy! Of course I will stay in the grounds to please you. Good-bye."



CHAPTER XII

A VERY EVENTFUL DAY

Having got leave to take her walk, Betty started off with vigor. The fresh, keen air soothed her depressed spirits; and soon she was racing wildly against the gale, the late autumn leaves falling against her dress and face as she ran. She would certainly keep her word to Mrs. Haddo, although her desire—if she had a very keen desire at that moment—was again to vault over those hideous prison-bars, and reach the farm, and receive the caresses of Dan and Beersheba. But a promise is a promise, and this could not be thought of. She determined, therefore, to tire herself out by walking.

She had managed to avoid all her companions. The Specialities were very much occupied making arrangements for the evening. The twins had found friends of their own, and were happily engaged. No one noticed Betty as she set forth. She walked as far as the deserted gardens. Then she crossed the waste land, and stood for a minute looking at that poor semblance of Scotch heather which grew in an exposed corner. She felt inclined to kick it, so great was her contempt for the flower which could not bloom out of its native soil. Then suddenly her mood changed. She fell on her knees, found a bit of heather which still had a few nearly withered bells on it; and, raising it tenderly to her lips, kissed it. "Poor little exile!" she said. "Well, I am an exile too!"

She rose and skirted the waste land; at one side there was a somewhat steep incline which led through a plantation to a more cultivated part of the extensive grounds. Betty had never been right round the grounds of Haddo Court before, and was pleased at their size, and, on a day like this, at their wildness. She tried to picture herself back in Scotland. Once she shut her eyes for a minute, and bringing her vivid imagination to her aid, seemed to see Donald Macfarlane and Jean Macfarlane in their cosy kitchen; while Donald said, "It'll be a braw day to-morrow;" or perhaps it was the other way round, and Jean remarked, "There'll be a guid sprinklin' o' snaw before mornin', or I am much mistook."

Betty sighed, and walked faster. By-and-by, however, she stood still. She had come suddenly to the stump of an old tree. It was a broken and very aged stump, and hollow inside. Betty stood close to it. The next moment, prompted by an uncontrollable instinct, she thrust in her hand and pulled out a little sealed packet. She looked at it wildly for a minute, then put it back again. It was quite safe in this hiding-place, for she had placed it in a corner of the old stump where it was sheltered from the weather, and yet could never by any possibility be seen unless the stump was cut down. She had scarcely completed this action before a voice from behind caused her to jump and start.

"Whatever are you doing by that old stump of a tree, Betty?"

Betty turned swiftly. The color rushed to her face, leaving it the next instant paler than ever. She was confronted by the uninteresting and very small personality of Sibyl Ray.

"I am doing nothing," said Betty. "What affair is it of yours?"

"Oh, I am not interested," said Sibyl. "I was just taking a walk all alone, and I saw you in the distance; and I rushed up that steep path yonder as fast as I could, hoping you would let me join you and talk to you. You know I am going to be present at your Speciality party to-night. I do admire you so very much, Betty! Then, just as I was coming near, you thrust your hand down into that old stump, and you certainly did take something out. Was it a piece of wood, or what? I saw you looking at it, and then you dropped it in again. It looked like a square piece of wood, as far as I could tell from the distance. What were you doing with it? It was wood, was it not?"

"If you like to think it was wood, it was wood," replied Betty. Here was another lie! Betty's heart sank very low. "I wish you would go away, Sibyl," she said, "and not worry me."

"Oh, but mayn't I walk with you? What harm can I do? And I do admire you so immensely! And won't you take the thing out of the tree again and let me see it? I want to see it ever so badly."

"No, I am sure I won't. You can poke for it yourself whenever you please," said Betty. "Now, come on, if you are coming."

"Oh, may I come with you really?"

"I can't prevent you, Sibyl. As a matter of fact, I was going out for a walk all alone; but as you are determined to bear me company, you must."

Betty felt seriously alarmed. She must take the first possible opportunity to get the precious packet out of its present hiding-place and dispose of it elsewhere. But where? That was the puzzle. And how soon could she manage this? How quickly could she get rid of Sibyl Ray?

Sibyl's small, pale-blue eyes were glittering with curiosity. Betty felt she must manage her. Then suddenly, by one of those quick transitions of thought, Rule VI. occurred to her. It was her duty to be kind to Sibyl, even though she did not like her. She would, therefore, now put forth her charm for the benefit of this small, unattractive girl. She accordingly began to chatter in her wildest and most fascinating way. Sibyl was instantly convulsed with laughter, and forgot all about the old stump of tree and the bit of wood that Betty had fished out, looked at, and put back again. The whole matter would, of course, recur to Sibyl by-and by; but at present she was absorbed in the great delight of Betty's conversation.

"Oh, Betty, I do admire you!" she said.

"Well, now, listen to one thing," said Betty. "I hate flattery."

"But it isn't flattery if I mean what I say. If I do admire a person I say so. Now, I admire our darling Martha West. She has always been kind to me. Martha is a dear, a duck; but, of course, she doesn't fascinate in the way you do. Several of the other girls in my form—I'm in the upper fifth, you know—have been talking about you and wondering where your charm lay. For you couldn't be called exactly pretty; although, of course, that very black hair of yours, and those curious eyes which are no color in particular, and yet seem to be every color, and your pale face, make you quite out of the common. We love your sisters too; they are darlings, but neither of them is like you. Still, you're not exactly pretty. You haven't nearly such straight and regular features as Olive Repton; you're not as pretty, even, as Fanny Crawford. Of course Fan's a dear old thing—one of the very best girls in the school; and she is your cousin, isn't she, Betty?"

"Yes."

"Betty, it is delightful to walk with you! And isn't it just wonderful to think that you've not been more than a few weeks in the school before you are made a Speciality, and with all the advantages of one? Oh, it does seem quite too wonderful!"

"I am glad you think so," said Betty.

"But it is very extraordinary. I don't think it has ever been done before. You see, your arrival at the school and everything else was completely out of the common. You didn't come at the beginning of term, as most new girls do; you came when term was quite a fortnight old; and you were put straight away into the upper school without going through the drudgery, or whatever you may like to call it, of the lower school. Oh, I do—yes, I do—call it perfectly wonderful! I suppose you are eaten up with conceit?"

"No, I am not," said Betty. "I am not conceited at all. Now listen, Sibyl. You are to be a guest, are you not, at our Speciality party to-night?"

"Of course I am; and I am so fearfully excited, more particularly as you are going to tell stories with the lights down. I'm going to wear a green dress; it's a gauzy sort of stuff that my aunt has just sent me, and I think it will suit me very well indeed. Oh, it is fun to think of this evening!"

"Yes, of course it's fun," said Betty. "Now, I tell you what. Why don't you go into the front garden and ask the gardener for permission to get a few small marguerite daisies, and then make them into a very simple wreath to twine round your hair? The daisies would suit you so well; you don't know how nice they'll make you look."

"Will they?" said Sibyl, her eyes sparkling. "Do you really think so?"

"Of course I think so. I have pictures of all the girls in my mind; and I often shut my eyes and think how such a girl would look if she were dressed in such a way, and how such another girl would look if she wore something else."

"And when you think of me?" said Sibyl.

But Betty had never thought of Sibyl. She was silent.

"And when you think of me?" repeated Sibyl, her face beaming all over with delight. "You think of me, do you, darling Betty, as wearing green, with a wreath of marguerites in my hair?"

"Yes, that is how I think of you," said Betty.

"Very well, I'll go and find the gardener. Mrs. Haddo always allows us to have cut flowers that the gardener gives us."

"Don't have the wreath too big," said Betty; "and be sure you get the gardener to choose small marguerites. Now, be off—won't you?—for I want to continue my walk."

Sibyl, in wild delight, rushed into one of the flower-gardens. Betty watched her till she was quite out of sight. Then, quick as thought, she retraced her steps. She must find another hiding-place for the packet. With Sibyl's knowledge, her present position was one of absolute danger. Sibyl would tell every girl she knew all about Betty's action when she stood by the broken stump of the old tree. She would describe how Betty thrust in her hand and took something out, looked at it, and put it back again. The girls would go in a body, and poke, and examine, and try to discover for themselves what Betty had taken out of the trunk of the old oak-tree. Betty must remove the sealed packet at once, or it would be discovered.

"What a horrible danger!" thought the girl. "But I am equal to it."

She ran with all her might and main, and presently, reaching the tree, thrust her hand in, found the brown packet carefully tied up and sealed, and slipped it into her pocket. Quite close by was a little broken square of wood. Betty, hating herself for doing so, dropped it into the hollow of the tree. The bit of wood would satisfy the girls, for Sibyl had said that Betty had doubtless found some wood. Having done this, she set off to retrace her steps again, going now in the direction of the deserted gardens and the patch of common. She had no spade with her, but that did not matter. She went to the corner where the heather was growing. Very carefully working round a piece with her fingers, she loosened the roots; they had gone deep down, as is the fashion with heather. She slipped the packet underneath, replaced the heather, kissed it, said, "I am sorry to disturb you, darling, but you are doing a great work now;" and then, wiping the mud from her fingers, she walked slowly home.

The packet would certainly be safe for a day or two under the Scotch heather, which, as a matter of fact, no one thought of interfering with from one end of the year to another. Before Betty left this corner of the common she took great care to remove all trace of having disturbed the heather. Then she walked back to the Court, her heart beating high. The tension within her was so great as to be almost unendurable. But she would not swerve from the path she had chosen.

On the occasion of the Specialities' first entertainment, Betty Vivian, by request, wore white. Her sisters, who of course would be amongst the guests, also wore white. The little beds had been removed to a distant part of the room, where a screen was placed round them. All the toilet apparatus was put out of sight. Easy-chairs and elegant bits of furniture were brought from the other rooms. Margaret Grant lent her own lovely vases, which were filled with flowers from the gardens. The beautiful big room looked fresh and fragrant when the Specialities assembled to welcome their guests. Betty stood behind Margaret. Martha West—a little ungainly as usual, but with her strong, firm, reliable face looking even stronger and more reliable since she had joined the great club of the school—was also in evidence. Fanny Crawford stood close to Betty. Just once she looked at her, and then smiled. Betty turned when she did so, and greeted that smile with a distinct frown of displeasure. Yet every one knew that Betty was to be the heroine of the evening.

Punctual to the minute the guests arrived—Sibyl Ray in her vivid-green dress, with the marguerites in her hair.

No one made any comment as the little girl came forward; only, a minute later, Fanny whispered to Betty, "What a ridiculous and conceited idea! I wonder who put it into her head?"

"I did," said Betty very calmly; "But she hasn't arranged them quite right." She left her place, and going up to Sibyl, said a few words to her. Sibyl flushed and looked lovingly into Betty's face. Betty then took Sibyl behind the screen, and, lo and behold! her deft fingers put the tiny wreath into a graceful position; arranged the soft, light hair so as to produce the best possible effect; twisted a white sash round the gaudy green dress, to carry out the idea of the marguerites; and brought Sibyl back, charmed with her appearance, and looking for once almost pretty.

"What a wonder you are, Betty!" said Martha West in a pleased tone. "Poor little Sib, she doesn't understand how to manage the flowers!"

"She looks very nice now," said Betty.

"It was sweet of you to do it for her," said Martha. "And, you know, she quite worships you; she does, really."

"There was nothing in my doing it," replied Betty. She felt inclined to add, "For she was particularly obliging to me to-day;" but she changed these words into, "I suggested the idea, so of course I had to see it carried out properly."

"The white sash makes all the difference," said Martha. "You are quite a genius, Betty!"

"Oh no," said Betty. She looked for a minute into Martha's small, gray, very honest eyes, and wished with all her heart and soul that she could change with her.

The usual high-jinks and merriment went on while the eatables were being discussed. But when every one had had as much as she could consume with comfort, and the oranges, walnuts, and crackers were put aside for the final entertainment, Margaret (being at present head-girl of the Specialities) proposed round games for an hour. "After that," she said, "we will ask Betty Vivian to tell us stories."

"Oh, but we all want the stories now!" exclaimed several voices.

Margaret laughed. "Do you know," she said, "it is only a little past seven o'clock, and we cannot expect poor Betty to tell stories for close on two hours? We'll play all sorts of pleasant and exciting games until eight o'clock, and then perhaps Betty will keep her word."

Betty had purposely asked to be excused from joining in these games, and every one said she understood the reason. Betty was too precious and valuable and altogether fascinating to be expected to rush about playing Blind-Man's Buff, and Puss-in-the-Corner, and Charades, and Telegrams, and all those games which schoolgirls love.

The sound from the Vivians' bedroom was very hilarious for the next three-quarters of an hour; but presently Margaret came forward and asked all the girls if they would seat themselves, as Betty was going to tell stories.

"With the lights down! Oh, please, please, don't forget that! All the lights down except one," said Susie Rushworth.

"Yes, with all the lights down except one," said Margaret. "Betty, will you come and sit here? We will cluster round in a semi-circle. We shall be in shadow, but there must be sufficient light for us to see your face."

The lights were arranged to produce this effect. There was now only one light in the room, and that streamed over Betty as she sat cross-legged on the floor, her customary attitude when she was thoroughly at home and excited. There was not a scrap of self-consciousness about Betty at these moments. She had been working herself up all day for the time when she might pour out her heart. At home she used to do so for the benefit of Donald and Jean Macfarlane and of her little sisters. But, up to the present, no one at school had heard of Betty's wild stories. At last, however, an opportunity had come. She forgot all her pain in the exercise of her strong faculty for narrative.

"I see something," she began. She had rather a thrilling voice—not high, but very clear, and with a sweet ring in it. "I see," she continued, looking straight before her as she spoke, "a great, great, a very great plain. And it is night, or nearly so—I mean it is dusk; for there is never actual night in my Scotland in the middle of summer. I see the great plain, and a girl sitting in the middle of it, and the heather is beginning to come out. It has been asleep all the winter; but it is coming out now, and the air is full of music. For, of course, you all understand," she continued—bending forward so that her eyes shone, growing very large, and at the same moment black and bright—"you all know that the great heather-plants are the last homes left in England for the fairies. The fairies live in the heather-bells; and during the winter, when the heather is dead, the poor fairies are cold, being turned out of their homes."

"Where do they go, then, I wonder?" asked a muffled voice in the darkened circle of listeners.

"Back to the fairies' palace, of course, underground," said Betty. "But they like the world best, they're such sociable little darlings; and when the heather-bells are coming out they all return, and each fairy takes possession of a bell and lives there. She makes it her home. And the brownies—they live under the leaves of the heather, and attend to the fairies, and dance with them at night just over the vast heather commons. Then, by a magical kind of movement, each little fairy sets her own heather-bell ringing, and you can't by any possibility imagine what the music is like. It is so sweet—oh, it is so sweet that no music one has ever heard, made by man, can compare to it! You can imagine for yourselves what it is like—millions upon millions of bells of heather, and millions upon millions of fairies, and each little bell ringing its own sweet chime, but all in the most perfect harmony. Well, that is what the fairies do."

"Have you ever seen them?" asked the much-excited voice of Susie Rushworth.

"I see them now," said Betty. She shut her eyes as she spoke.

"Oh, do tell us what they are like?" asked a girl in the background.

Betty opened her eyes wide. "I couldn't," she answered. "No one can describe a fairy. You've got to see it to know what it is like."

"Tell us more, please, Betty?" asked an eager voice.

"Give me a minute," said Betty. She shut her eyes. Her face was deadly white. Presently she opened her eyes again. "I see the same great, vast moor, and it is winter-time, and the moor from one end to the other is covered—yes, covered—with snow. And there's a gray house built of great blocks of stone—a very strong house, but small; and there's a kitchen in that house, and an old man with grizzled hair sits by the fire, and a dear old woman sits near him, and there are two dogs lying by the hearth. I won't tell you their names, for their names are—well, sacred. The old man and woman talk together, and presently girls come in and join them and talk to them for a little bit. Then one of the girls goes out all alone, for she wants air and freedom, and she is never afraid on the vast white moor. She walks and walks and walks. Presently she loses sight of the gray house; but she is not afraid, for fear never enters her breast. She walks so fast that her blood gets very warm and tingles within her, and she feels her spirits rising higher and higher; and she thinks that the moor covered with snow is even more lovely and glorious than the moor was in summer, when the fairy bells were ringing and the fairies were dancing all over the place.

"I see her," continued Betty; "she is tired, and yet not tired. She has walked a very long way, and has not met one soul. She is very glad of that; she loves great solitudes, and she passionately loves nature and cold cannot hurt her when her heart is so warm and so happy. But by-and-by she thinks of the old couple by the fireside and of the girls she has left behind. She turns to go back. I see her when she turns." Betty paused a minute. "The sky is very still," she continued. "The sky has millions of stars blazing in its blue, and there isn't a cloud anywhere; and she clasps her hands with ecstasy, and thanks God for having made such a beautiful world. Then she starts to go home; but——"

Up to this point Betty's voice was glad and triumphant. Now its tone altered. "I see her. She is warm still, and her heart glows with happiness; and she does not want anything else in all the world except the gray house and the girls she left behind, and the dogs by the fireside, and the old couple in the kitchen. But presently she discovers that, try as she will, and walk as hard as she may, she cannot find the gray stone house. She is not frightened—that isn't a bit her way; but she knows at once what has happened, for she has heard of such things happening to others.

"It is midnight—a bitterly cold midnight—and she is lost in the snow! She knows it. She does not hesitate for a single minute what to do, for the old man in the gray house has told her so many stories about other people who have been lost in the snow. He has told her how they fell asleep and died, and she knows quite well that she must not fall asleep. When the morning dawns she will find her way back right enough; but there are long, long hours between now and the morning. She finds a place where the snow is soft, and she digs and digs in it, and then lies down in it and covers herself up. The snow is so dry that even with the heat of her body it hardly melts at all, and the great weight of snow over her keeps her warm. So now she knows she is all right, provided always she does not go to sleep.

"She is the sort of girls who will never, by any possibility, give in while there is the most remote chance of her saving the situation. She has covered every scrap of herself except her face, and she is—oh, quite warm and comfortable! And she knows that if she keeps her thoughts very busy she may not sleep. There is no clock anywhere near, there is no sound whatever to break the deep stillness. The only way she can keep herself awake is by thinking. So she thinks very hard. That girl has often had a hard think—a very hard think—in the course of her life; but never, never one like this before, when she buries herself in the snow and forces her brain to keep her body awake.

"She tries first of all to count the minutes as they pass; but that is sleepy work, more particularly as she is tired, and really sometimes almost forgets herself for a minute. So she works away at some stiff, long sums in arithmetic, doing mental arithmetic as rapidly as ever she can. And so one hour passes, perhaps two. At the end of the second hour something very strange happens. All of a sudden she feels that arithmetic is pure nonsense—that it never leads anywhere nor does any one any good; and she feels also that never in the whole course of her life has she lain in a snugger bed than her snow-bed. And she remembers the fairies and their music in the middle of the summer night; and—hark! hark!—she hears them again! Why have they left their palace underground to come and see her? It is sweet of them, it is beautiful! They sit on her chest, they press close to her face, they kiss her with their wee lips, they bring comforting thoughts into her heart, they whisper lovely things into her ears. She has not felt alone from the very first; but now that the fairies have come she never, never could be happier than she is now. And then, away from the fairies (who stay close to her all the time), she lifts her eyes and looks at the stars; and oh, the stars are so bright! And, somehow, she remembers that God is up there; and she thinks about white-clad angels who came down once, straight from the stars, by means of a ladder, to help a good man in a Bible story; and she really sees the ladder again, and the angels going up and coming down—going up and coming down—and she gives a cry and says, 'Oh, take me too! Oh, take me too!' One angel more beautiful than she could possibly describe comes towards her, and the fairies give a little cry—for, sweet as they are, they have nothing to do with angels—and disappear. The angel has his strong arms round her, and he says, 'Your bed of snow is not so beautiful as where you shall lie in the land where no trouble can come.' Then she remembers no more."

At this point in her narrative Betty made a dramatic pause. Then she continued abruptly and in an ordinary tone, "It is the dogs who find her, and they dig her out of the snow, and the dear old shepherd and his wife and some other people come with them; and so she is brought back to the gray house, and never reaches the open doors where the angels ladder would have led her through. She is sorry—for days she is terribly sorry; for she is ill, and suffers a good bit of pain. But she is all right again now; only, somehow, she can never forget that experience. I think I have told you all I can tell you to-night."

Instantly, at a touch, the lights were turned on again, and the room was full of brilliancy. Betty jumped up from her posture on the floor. The girls flocked round her.

"But, oh Betty! Betty! say, please say, was it you?"

"I am going to reveal no secrets," said Betty. "I said I saw the girl. Well, I did see her."

"Then she must have been you! She must have been you!" echoed voice after voice. "And were you really nearly killed in the snow? And did you fall asleep in your snow-bed? And did—oh, did the fairies come, and afterwards the angels? Oh Betty, do tell!"

But Betty's lips were mute.



CHAPTER XIII

A SPOKE IN HER WHEEL

If Betty Vivian really wished to keep her miserable secret, she had done wisely in removing the little packet from its shelter in the trunk of the old oak-tree; for of course Sibyl remembered it in the night, although Betty's wonderful story had carried her thoughts far away from such trivial matters for the time being. Nevertheless, when she awoke in the night, and thought of the fairies in the heather, and of the girl lying in the snow-bed, she thought also of Betty standing by the stump of a tree and removing something from within, looking at it, and putting it back again.

Sibyl, therefore, took the earliest opportunity of telling her special friends that there was a treasure hidden in the stump of the old tree. In short, she repeated Betty's exact action, doing so in the presence of Martha West.

Martha was a girl who invariably kept in touch with the younger girls. There are girls who in being removed from a lower to an upper school cannot stand their elevation, and are apt to be a little queer and giddy; they have not quite got their balance. Such girls could not fall into more excellent hands than those of Martha. She heard Sibyl now chatting to a host of these younger girls, and, catching Betty's name, asked immediately what it was all about. Sibyl repeated the story with much gusto.

"And Betty did look queer!" she added. "I asked her if it was a piece of wood, and she said 'Yes;' but, all the same, she didn't like me to see her. Of course she's a darling—there's no one like her; and she recovered herself in a minute, and walked with me a long way, and then suggested that I should wear the marguerites. Of course I had to go into the flower-garden to find Birchall and coax him to cut enough for me. Then I had to get Sarah Butt to help me to make the wreath, for I never made a wreath before in my life. But Sarah would do anything in the world that Betty suggested, she is so frightfully fond of her."