HOME AT LAST
On reaching Lakewood the travelers drove to the beautiful hotel
Laurel-in-the-Pines, which, as they entered, seemed to Betty to be all
made of glass and gaslight. She was given a room adjoining Mrs. Van
Court’s, and she immediately began to make her toilet for dinner.
But Mrs. Van Court declared she could not go down to the dining-room
that evening, she was so tired and exhausted from the long journey, and
so she said she would have her dinner sent to her room, while Betty
could go down to dinner with Richard.
“But,” said Mrs. Van Court, “don’t attempt to look up your Irvings
to-night. Wait until to-morrow, and we will set about it properly.”
“Yes, ’m,” said Betty; and then she proceeded to put on her prettiest
frock, a flowery organdie with rose-colored ribbons.
She presented herself to Mrs. Van Court, who said, “You look very sweet,
my dear”; and then Mr. Richard came and with his charge went down the
wide staircase and through the long gallery of great palms, and on
through the marble hall to the dining-room. After dinner they sauntered
around the rooms until they came to the music-room, at the entrance of
which a small notice was posted up.
Mr. Van Court read it, and then turned to Betty with an exclamation:
“Popinjay, we’ve found her!”
“Who?” said Betty, bewildered by his mysterious tone.
“Read that notice! But no—you don’t understand French, do you? Well, it
tells of a concert to be given here to-night, at which a lady will sing
who is called L’Alouette. Now, L’Alouette is French for ‘the lark,’ and
I have no doubt it is the lady whom Mr. Ross called Lallowet.”
“Of course it is!” cried Betty, clasping her hands together to keep from
clapping them, “and she is my aunt, William Irving’s daughter!”
“Perhaps she is, but don’t get so excited. You’ll be doing the
‘grasshopper act’ next. Now listen. If you’ll promise to sit quietly,
and not make a scene, we’ll attend the concert; but if not, I’m going to
show you to your room at once and put you in mother’s care.”
“Oh, I will be good! I’ll sit as still as a mouse, and not say a word.
Only let me see her and hear her. Do, please, Mr. Dick!”
Of course Mr. Dick consented; and as the audience chairs were rapidly
filling with people, he led Betty to a seat near the back of the room,
for he did not know what demonstrations the impulsive child might be
guilty of.
The concert was a delightful one, and music-loving Betty enjoyed every
number, and was so happy listening that she almost forgot to be
impatient for L’Alouette’s appearance. But when that lady at last came
on the stage, Betty turned pale with excitement, and her hands grew
cold. She said nothing, but her eyes shone like stars as she looked
fixedly at the beautiful singer.
L’Alouette was well named. Her clear, bird-like notes rang out like the
song of a lark, and though her voice had not great volume, it was full
of sweetness and sympathy.
Mr. Van Court was almost as much agitated as Betty, for he could
see—what the child could not—that there was a wonderful resemblance
between the face of L’Alouette and that of the little Irish girl. It was
not so much in feature as in expression, and the young man felt
convinced that it was really a family likeness, and that Betty had at
last found a relative. But though it would never have occurred to Betty
that she could resemble that beautiful lady, yet she was equally certain
that she was looking at her own aunt; for Betty saw—what Mr. Dick did
not—that L’Alouette’s white silk gown was very like the one Mlle.
François had made, only of a more modern fashion. And, aside from any
circumstantial evidence, Betty felt in her own heart a kinship with the
lovely lady as unexplainable as it was certain.
After L’Alouette had finished her song, and had sung an encore, Betty
said:
“Mr. Dick, that’s my own aunt, and I know it. I like the concert, but I
don’t want to hear any more to-night, and I think, if you please, I’ll
go to my room now.”
Mr. Van Court was surprised at her calmness, but felt so relieved that
she was willing to wait before making herself known to her new-found
relative that he only said:
“Very well, my child. Do you know where your room is?”
“Oh, yes; I have the key with me. I brought it that I might not disturb
Mrs. Van Court if she should be asleep when I return.”
So Mr. Dick took her to the stairs and consigned her to the care of a
passing maid, who showed her to her room.
Betty unlocked the door noiselessly, and then as carefully closed the
door between her room and Mrs. Van Court’s. Then she sat down and
thought a long while.
She had no intention of waiting until morning to claim her own aunt—not
she! And besides, the way was clear to speak to the lady that night
without making any scene such as Mrs. Van Court dreaded.
As soon as L’Alouette appeared on the stage in the music-room, Betty had
recognized her as the lady whom she had met coming out of a door just
across the hall from her own. She had noticed the gown particularly, and
she knew she was not mistaken. “And now,” she thought, “I will just go
to that room across the hall, and see if it is really hers; and if it
is, I will wait for her there until she comes up-stairs.”
It seemed a rash act, and Betty’s heart beat fast at the thought of it;
but something impelled her to do it, and she felt that she just
_couldn’t_ wait until morning.
So she opened her own door softly, and seeing no one in the hall, she
stepped across to the opposite door, and knocked.
A sleepy-looking maid opened the door and regarded Betty with some
surprise.
“Is this L’Alouette’s room?” said the little girl, timidly.
“Yes, miss,” answered the maid; “did she send you for anything?”
“No,” said Betty, with a dignity born of excitement; “I am a friend of
hers, and I wish to wait here until she returns.”
“Yes, miss,” said the maid, pleasantly enough; and she offered Betty an
easy-chair and a footstool.
Then Betty sat down and waited.
She did not mind waiting; she had made the plunge, and now she must
accept the consequences, whatever they might be.
Her mind was full of fancies and anticipations; she planned a dozen
different phrases with which to greet her aunt; and finally—she dropped
asleep and continued her castle-building in her dreams.
An hour or so later, L’Alouette came in. She looked at the sleeping
child and then turned to her maid for an explanation.
“Who is this, Lisette?” said she.
“A little girl, madame, who tapped at the door this evening, and said
she was a friend of madame’s and would wait for her.”
L’Alouette gazed earnestly at the stranger, and then caught her breath
quickly, while a great wonder filled her eyes.
Then she said quietly: “You may go, Lisette; I will wait on myself
to-night.”
“Yes, madame,” said the maid, and she went away.
Then L’Alouette came and knelt beside Betty, and looked at her a long
time. Then she gently wakened her by kissing her on the cheek.
Betty opened her eyes, and was awake and alert in an instant.
“Who are you?” she cried. “Are you my aunt, my dear mother’s sister? Oh,
say you are!”
“I am L’Alouette,” said the lady, smiling; “and now, who are you?”
“I am Betty McGuire,” said Betty, speaking very fast; “and my mother was
an Irving of Boston, and my grandfather was William Irving. But my
mother was killed in a railroad accident when I was a baby, and oh—I
_hope_ you are her sister.”
L’Alouette gave a little cry, her eyes closed, and Betty thought she was
going to faint. But she did not; she recovered herself, and with a
quick, tense gesture she grasped Betty’s hands, and looking into the
little girl’s eyes, while her own fairly blazed, she said:
“And who was your father?”
[Illustration: “L’ALOUETTE CLASPED HER IN HER ARMS.”]
“Martin McGuire,” answered Betty; “he too was killed when I was a
baby—”
But she got no further, for L’Alouette clasped her in her arms, and
showered kisses all over the wondering little face, as she said:
“Betty—my baby Betty, I am not your aunt; I am your mother!”
“My mother?” said Betty, almost solemnly. “Then do you _love_ me?”
“Yes,” said L’Alouette, the beautiful light that had come into her eyes
growing deeper and deeper; “I love you with all my hungry mother-heart,
with a love that tells me you are really my own baby, though I was
forced to believe that you had died years ago.”
“And I believed you were dead,” said Betty, clinging to L’Alouette as if
afraid she might even yet disappear. “Weren’t you killed in the railroad
accident?”
“No, darling; I was injured, and taken to a hospital in Chicago, where I
lay ill for months. And after that I tried every possible way to search
for my husband and child, only to be convinced at last that they must
have perished.”
“My father was killed,” said Betty; “I know that—because I was taken to
an orphan asylum, and they told me so afterward. And I know it, too,
from my Grandfather McGuire’s papers. And you _are_ the one Mr. Ross
called Lallowet—and I have worn one of your white dresses!”
“And do you know Mr. Ross? How much we have to tell each other! But who
is here at Lakewood with you? and with whom do you live, and where?”
And then, still clasped in her mother’s embrace, Betty told the whole
story of her eventful little life; and then L’Alouette told of her own
sad years since last she had held her little girl in her arms.
After vainly using every effort to find her husband and child, either
dead or alive, she had given up the quest and resigned herself to a life
of loneliness and sorrow. Music was her only consolation; and as her
voice developed under training, she was urged to sing on the stage; but
this she refused to do, though she finally consented to sing at an
occasional concert.
Her teacher had often called her L’Alouette, and as this name appeared
to advantage on a program, she had used it.
They talked far into the night; and then—for L’Alouette could not give
her up—Betty remained and slept beside her mother. But Betty’s mother
could not sleep, and all night she watched over her new-found child as
if afraid the whole meeting might be only a repetition of an old and
dear dream.
Next morning Betty awoke to find a happy face smiling at her. She flung
herself into her mother’s arms, crying: “It’s true this morning, isn’t
it? I wasn’t quite sure of it last night.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. McGuire, “it _is_ true; and now you must go at once to
Mrs. Van Court, for I fear she will miss you and be worried.”
“Oh, she never wakes up early,” said Betty, confidently; “but I’ll go
back to my own room and dress for breakfast, and as soon as I can see
her I’ll tell her all about it.”
Mrs. Van Court was so surprised and delighted at Betty’s wonderful news
that she didn’t reprimand her for “making a scene”; and, indeed, she
felt now that Betty was no longer under her charge, and that her
responsibility had ceased. Mr. Dick was sincerely glad of Betty’s new
happiness, and the Irvings and the Van Courts soon became fast friends.
Mr. and Mrs. Irving proved to be ideal grandparents, and their affection
for Betty was only second to that of Mrs. McGuire herself.
Betty wanted them to come and live at Denniston; but the old people were
too fond of their own home for that. So they all decided to remain a few
days at Lakewood, and then Betty was to take her mother home and install
her as mistress of Denniston Hall.
Mrs. McGuire expressed herself as perfectly willing to adopt Betty’s
whole family as her own; indeed, she would have agreed to anything that
insured her continued nearness to her idolized child.
“You’ll like Grandma Jean,” said Betty to her mother, “she’s so kind and
obliging; and you’ll like Jack, I know; and you’ll just adore baby
Polly.”
“Yes,” said her mother, “I’m sure I shall; and I’m already fond of Ellen
and Pete, because they were so good to my little Betty when she was poor
and motherless.”
When at last they went home to Denniston, Mrs. McGuire was warmly
welcomed because she was Betty’s mother; but it was not long before she
was loved by the whole family because of her own goodness and
gentleness.
Grandma Jean was in no way made to feel that she was meant to assume an
inferior position. She was expected to be the same responsible
housekeeper she had been before; and being a sensible old lady, she felt
no jealousy of the charming young mistress who had usurped Betty’s place
rather than hers. Jack was shy at first, but his timidity soon melted
away before the tact and kindness of the new-comer; and Polly fell in
love with her at first sight.
As for Betty—she was happy now, truly happy; and she realized that all
her life she had been starving for true human affection. This was the
longing that had kept her hungry heart unsatisfied, and now that it had
been fulfilled, her beautiful Denniston was perfect. At last mother-love
had made for Betty a home.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
[The end of _The Story of Betty_ by Carolyn Wells]