ALMA'S SHILLING
By ten o'clock Betty had made another shilling, having caught the
workers of the city as they were going to their day's toil.
And it must be owned it was a mysterious "something" about the child
herself that arrested what attention she drew. Perhaps it lay in the
fresh rosiness of her face, in the clearness of her sweet eyes, in the
brightness of her young hair; for her courage ebbed away so soon as two
or three were gathered around her; her voice sank to a whisper, she
drooped her head, trifled with one wristband or the other, stood first
on one foot and then on the other, and displayed the various signs of
nervousness Mr. Sharman's stern eye provoked her to.
At eleven o'clock, John, who had made threepence by carrying a bag for
a lady, looked Betty up at the appointed corner and proposed lemonade
and currant buns, for which she was quite ready.
Afterwards they stood for a valuable half-hour outside the waxworks and
explored the markets, where Betty sang "Scatter seeds of kindness," in
spite of John's solemnly given advice to keep it for Sunday. Here she
only made a penny halfpenny by her song, but as she said to John--
"Every one must expect some bad hours."
Then, too, there was in her heart a feeling of certainty that a keen
eyed, bent shouldered old gentleman would be passing soon, and carry her
away straight to the very threshold of fame, as Madam S----'s old
gentleman carried _her_.
When they had become thoroughly acquainted with the markets, John
suggested she should again "count up," with a view of deciding what sort
of lodgings she could afford for the night.
Betty had not thought of such a trivial thing, leaving it possibly for
her old gentleman to settle. But she was more than willing to "count
up" again.
So they went into a corner behind a deserted fruit stall, sat down upon
an empty case, and made little stacks of pennies and half-pennies and
small silver coins.
She had two shillings and a penny, she found in all, and John told her
she could afford to go to one of the places he had seen this morning,
where a bed and breakfast were to be had for sixpence.
"I have seen some places where they charge a shilling," said John. "It
seems an awful lot to pay for a bed and a bit of breakfast. But a
sixpenny place will do for you, and as you're only twelve they might
take you for threepence."
"And where will you go?" asked Betty anxiously.
"Oh, I'd be sixpence, you see, because I'm thirteen and a half," said
John. "I can't afford to pay sixpence. It's always harder for a fellow
to get on than for a girl. That's why you hear more about self-made men
than self-made women--they're thought more of. No bed for me, I expect,
for some time to come. I'll have to sleep in the Domain. I heard a
fellow talking this morning, and he said he's been sleeping there for a
week now. And, you know, Peterborough, the artist I told you
about--well, he slept for a week in a _barrel_!"
"How much money have you got?" asked Betty.
"Eightpence!" said John. "No one seems to want an errand boy to-day."
Betty began to feel very doleful at being one step above John in this
the beginning of their career. But she dared not offer to lend to him,
he had been so very insistent upon paying her back her penny, and paying
for his own breakfast and lemonade and buns.
He took her and showed her two houses which bore the words, "Bed and
breakfast, 6_d._!" and then he led the way to the Domain, having been
through it many times with his grandfather, while to stay-at-home Betty
it was no more than a name. Macquarie Street lay asleep as they
travelled through it and past Parliament House and the Hospital and the
Public Library.
It never for a moment occurred to Betty that Dot was domiciled in that
street of big high houses and hushed sounds. She knew Dot's school
address was "Westmead House, Macquarie Street," but she had not the
remotest idea that she and John were travelling down Macquarie Street
past Westmead House.
Just inside the Domain gates they paused to admire Governor Burke's
statue, and to count their money again in its shade.
Then John pointed out to her the tree-shaded path that runs to
Woollomooloo Bay and the great sweeping grass stretch that lay on one
side of it.
Many men were there already, full length upon the grass, their hats over
their eyes, asleep or callous to waking.
Betty at once signified her intention of spending her first night out
here, also, and pointed to a seat under a Norfolk Island pine tree.
"We could be quite cosy there," she said, "and you could lend me your
coat."
"But I'd want it myself," said John.
"John in _Girls and Boys Abroad_ used always to give Virginia his coat,"
said Betty.
It was slightly to the right of Governor Burke's statue that Betty was
inspired to sing "Yield not to temptation," standing with her back to
the iron railing.
And it was just as she was being carried out of herself and singing her
shrillest in the second verse that Miss Arnott, the English governess in
Westmead House, brought her line of pupils for their daily
constitutional down the Domain.
Pretty Dot, and the judge's daughter, Nellie Harden, were at the head of
the line, and were conversing in an affable manner and low voices upon
the newest trimmings for summer hats, when the little couple near the
statue came into view.
Betty's eyes were downcast that she might not be distracted by her
audience, but John, who was clinging to the railing near her, saw the
marching school, saw Dot, and knew that she had seen.
"Each victory will help you
Some other to win,"
sang Betty shrilly.
Dot's face went white, sheet white. She heard the judge's daughter speak
of eau de nil chiffon, and a hat turned up at the side. She was at the
head of thirty fashionable "young ladies," and a fashionable young
governess was close by. She wore her best shoes (the ones with the
toe-caps of Russian leather) and her best dress (white with the gold
silk sash given by Alma Montague).
And there was Betty--dreadful scapegrace Betty, barefooted, dirty faced,
bare-headed (her bonnet was of course under her arm), singing songs for
coppers!
Dot coughed, went white, choked, and walked on. She simply had not the
courage to step out from that line of fashionable demoiselles and claim
her little sister.
But Alma Montague, who carried her purse for the purchase of chocolate
nougats should a favourable opportunity occur, had her tender little
heart touched by Betty's face and song.
"Each victory will help you
Some other to win."
spoke directly to her, and her longing for chocolate nougats. She only
had a shilling in her purse, wonderful to relate, and she and her
conscience had a sharp short battle. Chocolate nougats or--pitiful
hunger! Her face flushed as conscience won the battle.
The next second she had slipped out of line and run across to Betty.
"Here; little girl!" she said, and thrust a shilling into Betty's hand.
The little singer looked up, shy and startled, and her song died on her
lips while her eyes plainly rejoiced over the shilling.
Then the English governess awoke from a happy day-dream and sharply
ordered Alma back to her place.
"You should have asked permission," she said stiffly. "I cannot have
such disorders. I will punish you when we return to school!"
Just as if the lost chocolates were not punishment enough.
The deed and the reprimand travelled along the line, whispered from
mouth to mouth, till it came to Dot.
"That silly Alma Montague," the whisper ran, "has just broken line to
give her money to that little beggar girl. She gave a shilling. She was
going to buy chocolate nougats. Miss Arnott's going to punish her."
Dot's sensitive soul shuddered over the terrible Betty. If she had been
looking up instead of down! If she had rushed forward and claimed her
before the eyes of the wondering school! If Miss Arnott had known! If
Alma Montague had known! If any one of all those thirty girls had even
guessed!
The very possibility was so dreadful that Dot found herself unable to
discuss fashion for all the rest of that constitutional.
But later on in the day, in the evening, when the lamps were alight, she
had crept away by herself to wonder where madcap Betty was. She felt
quite sure she would go home again quite safely, she was always doing
terrible things without any harm coming to her.
The tears that fell from Dot's eyes were not for Betty, but altogether
for herself. She had disowned, by not owning, her sister! She had been
afraid to step forward before those thirty pairs of eyes and say, "This
is my sister!" And she felt as one guilty of a mean and dishonourable
deed.
"I will tell every girl in the school in the morning," she said; and
then, as her repentance increased: "I will tell them to-night."
And to her credit be it spoken, she descended to the schoolroom and
weepingly told her story.
Some of the girls laughed, most of them "longed to know Betty," and all
of the "intimate" friends tried to comfort Dot.
"You're _such_ a darling," said Mona. "You've made us all love you more
than ever."
She was very enthusiastic for she _felt_ that Dot had been afraid and
had conquered fear.