“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those
who nobly and unflinchingly——”
“That will do!” said Miss Whittier, smiling in spite of her anxiety. “Get
out of that sailor suit, Betty, just as quick as you can, and get into
Constance’s things.”
“Yes’m,” said Betty, her voice thrilling with intense excitement, “yes,
Miss Whittier. I’ve been in them before, and I know just how they go.”
Several deft pairs of hands gave assistance; Miss Whittier herself
gathered up Betty’s loose curls into a classic knot, and so well did she
arrange it that, when the gilt crown was in place, the whole effect was
harmonious, and Betty’s sparkling eyes lit up a face that any goddess
might be pleased to own.
Mindful of Constance’s injunctions about tearing the delicate fabric,
Betty gathered up her train and followed Miss Whittier to the stage.
As she passed, Dorothy took opportunity to whisper, “Oh, I am so glad”;
and Jeanette gave her a loving pat as she went by.
The stage was draped entirely with white cheese-cloth, thickly sprinkled
with gilt paper stars. A large pedestal stood ready for the Goddess, and
on either side were two lower pedestals, occupied by her allegorical
attendants, who, already in place, were wondering what had happened to
the Goddess they were to serve.
Betty needed no instructions. She knew every pose Constance had been
taught to take, as well as the lines themselves. Poising herself
gracefully, she lifted her outstretched arm, with the long, slender
trumpet, and placed the mouthpiece to her lips.
“Beautiful!” whispered Miss Whittier, delighted at Betty’s artistic, yet
natural, pose.
“Don’t worry, Miss Whittier,” Betty whispered back; “I’ll do it all
right!”
“You dear child! You’ve saved the day for us all. I know you’ll do it
with credit to us all.”
Then Miss Whittier went in front of the curtain, and in a few words told
of Constance’s accident, and explained that her part would be taken by
Miss Elizabeth McGuire, for whom she begged indulgence if not perfect in
her part.
Betty, behind the curtain, heard the applause, and thinking how surprised
Jack and her mother would be, she stood motionless as the curtain rose.
Another storm of applause broke forth at the beautiful picture, and when
it subsided, Betty, with just the least tremor of excitement in her
voice, began:
“The Goddess of Honor I! To those who seek me I am hard to win. To those
who nobly and unflinchingly do their bravest and best, I come
unsummoned!”
The speech was not of great literary value; those in amateur
entertainments rarely are; but Betty was a good elocutionist and full of
dramatic instinct. Moreover, her sudden change from an inconspicuous
figure to the chief one of all put her on her mettle, and she fairly
outdid herself in rendering the opening speech.
The play went on beautifully. Not once did Betty falter, or forget a
line. The others, too, all did their parts well, and when, at last, the
Goddess of Honor placed the chaplet on the bowed head of Isabella of
Spain, the picture was a beautiful one, and the house fairly rose in
applause.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t feel sorry for Constance,” said Betty, to her
mother, as they drove home. “I did, and I do, feel _truly_ sorry. But
when she couldn’t be there, and Miss Whittier _had_ to have somebody, I
was so glad I knew the part and could take it.”
“You needn’t tell me, dear,” said her mother; “I know too well my Betty’s
generous heart to think for a moment that you rejoiced at Constance’s
accident. But I, too, am glad that, since poor Constance couldn’t be
there, my little girl could be of such help to Miss Whittier, and could,
all unexpectedly, succeed so well in what was really a difficult part.”
“You are a trump, Betty,” said Jack, “and I’m glad you had the chance.
I’m downright sorry for Connie, but I’m jolly glad for you!”
IX
AN INDEPENDENCE DAY RECEPTION
Toward the latter part of June the McGuire family migrated to Denniston
for the summer. The beautiful country place, on the outskirts of the
little town of Greenborough, was looking its prettiest as they arrived
one lovely afternoon and took possession.
“In some ways I’m glad to be back here,” said Betty, as they sat on the
veranda after supper, “and in some ways I’m not.”
“That’s the way with ’most everything,” commented Jack, philosophically;
“there are always some good sides and some bad sides to whatever we do. I
love Denniston, but there’s more to do in Boston.”
“And more people,” said Betty.
“Yes,” agreed Jack; “I’ve always noticed there _are_ more people in a
large city than in a small village.”
Betty threw a hammock pillow at him, and went on: “I mean more people
that I like to be with. I shall miss Dorothy and Jeanette awfully down
here.”
“You might invite them to visit you,” suggested her mother.
“I would; but it’s rather dull here. There’s nothing special for them to
do, you see; they usually go to watering-places in the summer, and I
doubt if they’d want to come here.”
“Oh, pshaw, Betty!” said Jack. “They’d like to come, just to see you. And
Denniston Hall is a lovely place. A flock of girls ought to be able to
make fun for themselves here.”
“That’s so,” said Betty; “anyhow, I’ll ask them, and if they don’t want
to come, they can decline. I’ll ask Constance too, and perhaps Lena—that
is, if you are willing, Mother.”
“Do,” said her mother. “Make it a little house-party. With picnics and
drives you can make it pleasant for them, I’m sure.”
Just then Agnes Graham and her brother Stub came strolling up the
driveway, and heartily welcomed the Denniston people back to their summer
home.
“You’re just in time,” said Agnes, as the young people grouped themselves
in the wicker chairs on the veranda or in the swinging settee; “have you
heard about the Library Benefit?”
“No,” said Betty; “what is it?”
“Oh, somebody’s going to give a whole lot of money for a town library, if
the town will raise another whole lot of money itself. And so everybody
in Greenborough is planning to do something to help. And we thought, that
is, we hoped, you’d join with the Dorcas Club, and help us.”
“I’d like to,” said Betty, “but tell me more about it.”
“Well, the truth is, Betty, the girls of the Dorcas Club haven’t really
made any definite plans, and they want you to suggest something—only
they’re afraid to ask you.”
“Afraid to ask me!” exclaimed Betty. “Why?”
“Oh, they think you’re so haughty and stuck-up since you’ve lived in
Boston that they’re afraid you won’t want to work with us.”
“Agnes Graham, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Have you ever known
me to act a bit haughty?”
“No, I haven’t. But the other girls don’t know you as well as I do, and
they say that.”
“Pooh! May Fordham and Tilly Fenn know me quite as well as you do; do
they say I’m haughty?”
“No, May and Tilly don’t—at least, I’ve never heard them.”
“Well, who does, then? You may as well tell me.”
“Oh, let’s drop the subject!” said Stub, who hated a fuss. “What do you
girls want to gossip for?”
“Betty’s right,” put in Jack; “if people say she’s haughty, when she
_isn’t_, she ought to know who says it.”
“Oh, it’s nobody in particular,” said Agnes, alarmed at the excitement
she had caused. “If you’re nice to them, Betty, they’ll stop saying it.”
“If she’s nice to them!” exclaimed Jack, indignantly. “Betty’s always
nice to everybody, Agnes Graham!”
“I can stand up for myself,” said Betty, laughing at Jack’s emphatic
speech. “Go on, Agnes, and tell me what they want me to do.”
“Well, what they want is for you to let them have a sort of a
garden-party here at Denniston, and charge admission, you know, and let
all the club take part.”
Betty considered.
“I had thought of having a garden-party myself,” she said; “a sort of
home-coming to Denniston, you know. I don’t see why we couldn’t combine
the two, and so make some money for your Library Fund.”
“Oh, that would be fine!” said Agnes. “That’s what they want,—to have the
affair here, you know,—but they thought you wouldn’t be willing.”
“And I won’t be willing unless you tell me who it is that says things
about me.”
“No, I won’t do that, Betty; it isn’t fair.”
“Well, perhaps it isn’t. Never mind; I shall soon find it out for myself.
Now let’s plan the garden-party. When shall we have it?”
“Let’s have it on Fourth of July,” suggested Jack. “Then we can combine
patriotism and charity and fun and everything.”
Mrs. McGuire approved the plan, and agreed to help in any way she could.
So the very next day Betty went to a meeting of the Dorcas Club, and was
made a member of it. The girls all seemed glad to welcome Betty, and were
delighted at the prospect of a garden-party at Denniston on the Fourth of
July. The club was a good-sized one, numbering about thirty girls in all,
and they at once began to appoint committees, and so divide the work to
be done.
“We’ll have everything red, white, and blue,” said May Fordham, “and
flags everywhere. Oh, it will be beautiful!”
Susie Hale was president of the club, and it was only a short time before
Betty discovered that it was Susie who was not entirely in sympathy with
the plan proposed. Betty was amused rather than annoyed at Susie’s
attitude, for of course Susie had no real reason to dislike Betty, or to
consider her proud or haughty.
It was really a sort of envy or jealousy that Susie felt, and this seemed
to manifest itself in sly innuendoes or mean little acts, for which there
is always opportunity in a girls’ club.
At the second meeting Betty was made chairman of the general committee,
and as this was practically giving her entire charge of the whole affair,
it made Susie’s position as president of the club a secondary office.
However, as the Fête was to be held at Betty’s home, it was only right
that she should be the principal in the management of it, and most of the
girls were quite content to have it so.
Betty had invited four girls from Boston, and Dorothy, Jeanette,
Constance, and Lena arrived a few days before the Fourth, quite ready to
take part in the festivities.
The Van Courts, too, who were one of the principal families of
Greenborough, had agreed to lend all the assistance they could, and so
the garden-party bade fair to be a great success. It was called an
“Independence Day Reception,” and the tickets were prettily printed in
red and blue on white cards, and had tiny flags in the corner. They read
thus:
COLUMBIA AND UNCLE SAM
AT HOME
AT DENNISTON HALL
JULY FOURTH
AT THREE O’CLOCK
Remembering Constance’s disappointment in not being able to take her part
at the school commencement, Betty resolved to make it up to her on this
occasion.
So, though the club girls insisted that Betty herself should take the
part of Columbia, she positively refused to do so, and proposed that
Constance Harper should personate the Goddess of Liberty.
This arrangement suited Susie Hale, who didn’t want Betty to have the
admiration and applause that would, of course, be given to Columbia as
hostess of the entertainment.
Mr. Richard Van Court consented to take the part of Uncle Sam, and thus
the principal figures were arranged.
The girls of the club were to wear whatever costumes they chose.
A grand march was to be made first, in which different countries were to
be represented.
Betty chose Ireland, and had a lovely green costume made for the
occasion. The boys of Greenborough were invited to participate also, and
the characters of John Bull, a French marquis, a Spanish troubadour, a
Swiss peasant, an Italian, a Chinaman, and other nationalities were
chosen by some of the boys and girls. Others were to be in attendance at
the various booths, or to act as waiters in the refreshment tent.
When the Fourth of July arrived, all of the Denniston household were
astir at daybreak, for there was much to be done that could not be done
until the day of the fair.
By midday, however, the place was nearly ready. Pat had worked steadily,
and so had all the other servants, as well as the family and the guests.
The beautiful grounds of Denniston were gay with decorations.
Flags waved everywhere; bunting was draped, and Japanese lanterns swung
from every available point. Big white transparencies, which would be
illuminated in the evening, bore the national dates, or announced the
goods for sale at the various booths.
The house, too, was decked with flags and lanterns, and the spacious
veranda was filled with chairs, where guests might linger to listen to
the music.
The band-stand was near by, and a fine orchestra had been engaged to play
patriotic airs.
Booths were all about the grounds.
The largest was the main refreshment tent, where dainty little tables
were set forth, with Japanese paper table-cloths and napkins all bearing
our own national emblems.
The waitresses here were thirteen girls who represented the thirteen
original States. They wore white dresses and tricolor sashes and caps,
with the name of their States in gilt letters. Another booth held all
sorts of small articles for sale—fancy-work, from sofa-pillows to
needle-books, all made of red, white, and blue silks; photograph frames
made of silk flags; dolls dressed in red, white, and blue; scrap-books
made of linen of the same colors, and filled with patriotic pictures and
verses. Even such prosaic things as dusters and sweeping-caps were of the
three colors and found a ready sale.
Another booth had flags, fire-works, and Fourth of July badges for sale.
The lemonade, in accordance with time-honored tradition, was served by
“Rebecca at the Well.” The well had been prettily built by a carpenter in
imitation of “The Old Oaken Bucket,” and as Rebecca wore the American
colors, the dramatic unities were somewhat lost, but nobody minded, as
the lemonade was ice-cold and very good. An Indian wigwam was a gay
feature. Jack had this in charge, and had superintended the building of
it himself.
A tribe of ferocious-looking Indian braves, much befeathered and painted,
sold Indian curios, baskets, and beads.
The tennis-courts, bowling-alleys, and croquet-grounds were in order, and
patrons could indulge in these games by payment of a small fee.
Inside the house, too, entertainment was provided.
Various indoor games were offered, and there was also a reading-room,
with magazines and books for all. In another room was shown an “Historic
Loan Collection.” Many of the residents of Greenborough had relics of
Revolutionary days, which they loaned for this occasion. As there were
many really interesting and valuable specimens, the visitors were quite
willing to pay the extra fee required to see them, and the room was
well-filled with patrons much of the time. Opposite this room, in another
room, was a “Burlesque Loan Collection,” and this attracted quite as much
attention.
Stub Graham had this in charge, and he deserved credit for the clever and
humorous jokes he devised.
Catalogues had been prepared, and as an inducement to buy them, a large
placard outside the door announced that each purchaser of a catalogue
would receive, free of charge, a steel-engraving of George Washington.
When these premiums proved to be two-cent postage-stamps, and canceled
ones at that, much merriment ensued.
Among the so-called Revolutionary relics were such jests as these:
“Early Home of George Washington,” represented by an old-fashioned
cradle.
“Vision of Washington’s Old Age:” a pair of spectacles.
“Washington’s Reflections” was a small portrait of Washington arranged so
that it was reflected in a triplicate mirror.
“The Most Brilliant Lights of the Washington Era” were a few lighted
candles. “The Lone Picket” was a single fence-picket. “The Tax on Tea”
showed a few carpet-tacks on some tea.
“A Little Indian” was a small portion of Indian meal.
“An Old-Time Fancy Ball” was a child’s gay-colored worsted ball, much
torn.
“Washington at One Hundred Years of Age” was a bird’s-eye map of the city
of Washington.
“Away down on the Suwanee River” was a map of Georgia showing plainly the
Suwanee River, on which was pasted a tiny bit of down.
“The Last of the Army” was simply the letter Y.
“A Member of Washington’s Cabinet” was an old brass handle from a
mahogany cabinet.
These and many other such quips made up an exhibition that amused people
quite as much as the display of real relics edified them.
The preparation of all these features meant a great deal of hard work,
but it was the sort of work made light by many hands, and so it was
enjoyed by all who engaged in it.
And so, by midday on the Fourth of July, everything was in readiness, and
the willing workers went to their homes, to return later, ready to reap
the results of their labors.
The grand march was to take place at three o’clock, and Columbia and
Uncle Sam were to review it from their stand on the veranda. This was to
be followed by the singing of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” accompanied by
the orchestra.
It had been arranged that Betty should sing the verses as a solo, and
that all the others, and indeed all the audience, should join in the
chorus. Betty had not cared specially about singing, but had
good-naturedly agreed to do so when the music committee asked her to.
Her voice had improved by reason of her singing lessons in Boston, and
after practising the national anthem with her mother, she felt that she
could manage its high notes successfully.
It seemed a little incongruous for a girl in a green costume and carrying
the harp of Erin to sing the American song, but Betty was of New England
parentage as well as Irish, and she was glad to show her double
patriotism. Constance was greatly pleased at her rôle of Columbia, and
her costume was beautiful. Very becoming, as well, was the striped red
and white skirt, and the blue bodice spangled with stars. A liberty-cap,
and a large well-made shield on which to lean, added to the picturesque
effect.
Mr. Dick Van Court was a humorous figure in his “Uncle Sam” suit. He
looked just as the Uncle Sam of the cartoons always looks, and as he was
a tall, thin young man, the character suited him well. A white beaver hat
and the long, sparse locks of hair and white goatee were all in evidence,
so that Mr. Dick’s costume was pronounced a success by all the visitors.
About two o’clock Betty went to her room to dress. She had been busy
every minute of the day, had scarcely taken time to eat her luncheon, but
now everything was in readiness, and she had only to dress and take her
place in the grand march at three o’clock.
Slipping on a kimono, she threw herself down on a couch for a moment’s
rest before dressing. It was perhaps half an hour later when Constance
presented herself at the door of Betty’s room, ready for inspection of
her pretty costume.
“May I come in?” she called, as she tapped at Betty’s closed door.
Getting no reply, she tapped again, but after two or three unanswered
calls she concluded Betty had gone down-stairs, and so she went down
herself.
She didn’t see Betty, but Mr. Van Court was there, in the full glory of
his “regimentals,” and the two, as it was not quite time to take their
position, strolled about the veranda, looking out upon the grounds.
“It’s just like fairy-land,” said Constance, “and to-night, when the
lanterns are lighted, it will be still more so. Oh, here comes the band.”
The orchestra, in resplendent uniforms, took their places on the
band-stand, and began their preliminary tuning of instruments.
Then the girls and boys began to arrive, and each costume was greeted
with admiring applause.
“Where’s Betty?” said Dorothy, as she came down, dressed as a dear little
Swiss peasant.
“I don’t know,” answered Constance; “she must be out in the grounds
somewhere. She wasn’t in her room when I came down.”
“Well, it’s time she appeared,” said Dorothy. “It’s ten minutes of three
now.”
“Where’s Betty?” said Jack, as, wrapped in his Indian blanket, he came
suddenly up to the girls, looking somewhat worried.
“I don’t know,” they replied at the same time. “She must be around
somewhere.”
“Maybe she is,” said Jack, “but she isn’t dressed for the grand march
yet. I’ve just been to her room, and her green dress is all spread out on
the bed, and she’s nowhere to be found. Mother doesn’t know where she
is.”
“Why, how strange!” said Constance. “Betty’s never late, and it was about
two when we both went up-stairs to dress. Where can she be?”
There didn’t seem any real reason for alarm, but it was certainly strange
that Betty should disappear so mysteriously. As Constance said, Betty was
never late. She was always ready at the appointed time, and it seemed as
if something must have happened to her.
“I can’t find Betty anywhere,” said Mrs. McGuire, as she joined the
disturbed-looking group. “It’s so strange, for I know she had nothing
more to attend to. She stopped at my door about two o’clock, and said
everything was ready and she was going to dress.”
It was beginning to look serious now, and Dorothy went back to Betty’s
room to make search.
As Jack had said, her pretty green dress was spread out in readiness. The
little green slippers stood near by, and the green cap and gilt harp lay
on the couch. Surely Betty had not begun to dress. She must have been
called away by some one suddenly. Her kimono was flung across a chair as
if hurriedly thrown there, and Dorothy looked in the dress-cupboard to
see what Betty might be wearing. But there were many suits and dresses
hanging there, and Dorothy couldn’t tell which, if any, pretty summer
costume was missing. It was very mysterious, and she went slowly
down-stairs again, wondering what they should do.
“She’s been kidnapped,” Mrs. McGuire was saying; “I’ve always feared it!”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Van Court, an elderly lady, who was Mr. Dick’s
mother. “Of course she hasn’t been kidnapped. I think she has fallen in
the pond.”
Jack laughed at this.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Van Court,” he said; “Betty is too big a girl to tumble
into the water. I think some one on some committee wanted her to look
after some booth or something, and she’s about the place somewhere.”
“That’s all very well,” said Dick Van Court, “but if I know Betty, she’d
attend to the matter and be back in time for the march at three o’clock.”
“It’s after three now,” said Dorothy. “Whatever can we do?”
Nobody knew just what to do. It didn’t seem possible that anything
unfortunate had occurred, and yet what else could be keeping Betty away,
wherever she was?
Meanwhile what had become of Betty?
Well, it was just this:
While she was in her own room, just about to dress in her green suit, a
note was brought to her by one of the servants.
The note read thus:
“Deer Bety: Susie isent going to the Forth a July Party atall. She’s
mad at you.
“Jennie Hale.”
Jennie Hale was Susie’s younger sister, and Betty saw at once that she
had written this note without Susie’s knowledge.
But for Susie, the president of the club, to stay away from the
garden-party would be a catastrophe indeed! Betty would be censured for
making trouble, and Susie’s friends would say all sorts of things. It was
hard on Betty. She had truly tried to make friends with Susie, and
thought she had overcome the girl’s silly jealousy. What especial thing
Susie was “mad at” now, Betty didn’t know. But she must find out, and
make peace, if possible, before time for the garden-party to begin.
She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past two. If she went right
over to Susie’s she might fix it up, and get back in time to dress.
She flung off her kimono, and quickly donned a linen suit, selecting the
one she could get into most easily.
Then she ran down-stairs, and, without a hat or gloves, jumped into the
pony-cart, to which Dixie had been harnessed all day, in case of errands,
and drove rapidly down the road toward Susie’s.
It happened that no one noticed her going, but Betty did not think of
this, so engrossed was she in the matter in hand.
She dashed up to Susie’s door and rang the bell. Mrs. Hale herself opened
the door, and from the cold, hard expression on her face, Betty felt that
she was unwelcome.
“I’ve come to see Susie, Mrs. Hale,” she said pleasantly. “Isn’t she
ready for the party?”
“No, she isn’t!” snapped Mrs. Hale. “She isn’t going to your old party,
so you can sing the solos yourself.”
Then Betty understood. Susie had wanted to sing the solos! Betty
remembered now that Susie was the soprano of the village choir, and she
probably resented Betty’s being asked to sing the solos instead of
herself.
“Oh, my gracious!” exclaimed Betty, annoyed at this foolishness, and yet
relieved that it could still be set right, “she can sing the solos, of
course! I’d much rather she would! Tell her so, won’t you, and ask her to
hurry and come.”
Mrs. Hale looked mollified, but she said:
“She can’t come now. She’s gone to her grandma’s to spend the afternoon.”
“Oh, dear! what a goose she is! Why couldn’t she tell me sooner what she
wanted? Where is her grandmother’s?”
Betty was looking at her watch and getting back into the cart, and
gathering up the lines, preparatory to going after the truant.
“It’s pretty late,” said Mrs. Hale, glancing at the clock. “She’ll have
to come back here to dress, you know.”
“Never mind that!” said Betty, a little impatiently, for she was upset
over it all. “Where is her grandmother’s?”
“Oh, out on the Pine Hill road. The third house after you pass the mill.”
Betty groaned, for the place designated was a good two miles away, and
Dixie was somewhat tired. But she touched him gently with the whip, and
said:
“Dear old Dixie, you’ll help me out, won’t you?” And then they went
spinning away toward the Pine Hill road.
Susie, from the window, saw Betty coming, and went out to meet her.
She didn’t look very pleasant, but Betty had no time to waste in coaxing
just then.
“Susie Hale,” she said, “get right in this cart. Never mind your hat;
just get in this very minute!”
Susie was fairly frightened at Betty’s tones, and though she was
unwilling, she couldn’t help doing as she was told.
Silent and a little bewildered, she climbed in beside Betty, and turning
quickly, they were soon flying back over the road Betty had come.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Betty began, for she was of no
mind to spare Susie’s feelings now. “You, the president of the club, to
cut up such a childish caper! You can sing the solos, of course; I don’t
care a mite! But you should have told me you wanted to sing them, in the
first place.”
“Who told you I wanted to?” said Susie, weakly, now thoroughly ashamed of
herself.
“Your mother did, and I’m glad she did, for I never should have guessed
what foolish thing was the matter with you. I don’t think anybody that
would act like you have is fit to be president of a club!”
Betty’s righteous indignation seemed to show Susie the despicableness of
her own conduct, and she began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” she said; “truly I am. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I can,” said Betty, “if you’ll do just as I tell you. First, stop
crying. Second, jump out of this cart when we get to your house, and get
into your costume like lightning! Third, come over to Denniston and take
your place in the march and sing the solos, and act pleasantly and nicely
about it. I’ll drive home after I leave you, and I’ll send the cart back
for you. And you must be ready! Do you hear? You _must_ be _ready_!”
Betty spoke almost savagely, and Susie still looked scared, as she said:
“I don’t want to sing your solos now.”
“But you will sing them,” said Betty. “You must sing them, and do your
very best, too. You sing as well as I do, and to do as I tell you is the
only way you can make up for the trouble you’ve stirred up. Now, here you
are at home. Fly and dress. Don’t waste a minute. The cart will be back
for you in a quarter of an hour!”
Susie sprang out of the cart and ran into the house, and Betty drove
rapidly away to Denniston. As she tore up the driveway among the
decorated booths and lantern-hung trees, the funny side of it struck her,
and smiling broadly, she reached the veranda, where a bewildered group
awaited her.
“Where _have_ you been?” cried Constance. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been on an errand of mercy,” said Betty, smiling still; “and
nothing’s the matter. The grand march must be delayed a little, but I’ll
be ready in a jiffy. Come on, Dorothy, and help me dress. Pat, please
take Dixie and go over to Mrs. Hale’s and bring Miss Susie back with
you.”
And so the grand march was delayed only about half an hour. Susie arrived
duly, and sang the solos very prettily. Afterward, when the whole story
came out, much indignation was expressed that Betty should have been so
bothered, but Betty herself didn’t mind, for it had the result of making
Susie her staunch friend forever after.
X
BETTY CRUSOE
It happened most conveniently that when Betty was invited to spend a day
and a night at Lena Carey’s, her mother was also just about to go for a
short visit to a friend who lived only a few stations beyond, on the same
railroad.
“So we can start together,” said Betty, gleefully, “and then I can get
off at Pleasant Hill, and you can go on to Mapleton.”
“You’re sure they’ll meet you at the station?” said Mrs. McGuire.
“Oh, yes, indeed. Lena wrote that they would meet me in their new
motor-car. I shall take only a suitcase,—that will hold enough clothes
for such a short stay,—then I won’t have to bother with a trunk.”
So Betty packed a pretty organdie afternoon dress, a dainty chiffon
evening frock, and her night things, and the two travelers started on an
early morning train.
The Careys were in their summer home at Pleasant Hill, and, after
spending the night there, Betty was to go on next day and join her mother
at Mapleton.
The arrangement was satisfactory, as Betty would have to travel alone
only the few miles that separated the two places.
It was a lovely day, and in her neat blue traveling-suit and straw hat
Betty was a very pretty and contented-looking little tourist. She
chattered to her mother all the way, and when the train stopped at
Pleasant Hill, she kissed Mrs. McGuire good-by, and followed the porter,
who carried her suitcase from the car.
Betty watched the cars round the curve, and then turned to look for the
Carey motor. She didn’t see it at first, but, as the railroad station was
set rather high, and there were steps near by, she assumed the street was
below the street-level and she must go down the stairs.
But it did seem as if Lena might have come down to welcome her, for a
strange railroad station is always a bit confusing to a new-comer.
Not seeing a porter, or indeed any one, about, Betty picked up her
suitcase and started down the stairs.
At the bottom she saw a pleasant shaded road, but very few signs of
civilization. However, Lena had told her that Pleasant Hill was merely a
“jumping-off place,” but that their own cottage there was delightful.
Betty didn’t mind the lack of people or buildings in general, but she did
mind the absence of the Careys. She couldn’t understand it, for she knew
she was expected; but she concluded they must have been delayed for some
reason, and she had nothing to do but wait.
Just at that moment, she saw a man driving by in an old farm-wagon.
“Wait a minute!” she called, for he was nearly past.
“Hey! what do you want?” the man called back, but he stopped his team,
and waited as Betty came down the steps.
“Excuse me,” she said politely, “but have you seen a motor-car around the
station?”
The man ruminated.
“Wal, no, miss, I hevn’t. Leastwise, not to-day.”
“But I mean to-day—just now. I’m expecting the Careys to meet me. I just
came on the train.”
“Ye did, hey? Well, that ’ere train was a good half-hour late. So, if so
be’s them Careys was here, like as not they got tired o’ waitin’ an’ went
away again.”
“Where is the Carey place, do you know?”
“Wal, yes’m, I do know. It’s a matter o’ three miles along the hill road.
I’ll take you out thar myself if ye like. It’ll cost you a quarter,
though—and I’m not very busy.”
So she climbed up on the wagon-seat, and the old farmer turned his horse
and off they went.
It was mostly uphill, and therefore slow going, but at last they came in
sight of a white house nestling in a tangle of green shrubbery and bright
flowers.
“How pretty!” exclaimed Betty; “is that the Carey place?”
“It be,” vouchsafed the taciturn one, and Betty asked no further
questions.
They drove in at the green, arched entrance, and up a winding road to the
house. It was a truly summery dwelling, with large windows, wide
verandas, screens and awnings.
The farmer climbed slowly down from his seat, slowly took Betty’s
suitcase and set it on the porch.
Leaving her suitcase on the steps, she went up on the porch and rang the
door-bell.
While awaiting an answer she let her gaze stray over the surrounding
landscape.
It was wonderfully beautiful, and, as Betty had a passion for pure color,
the clear cobalt sky, the various bright and deep greens of the trees,
the smooth gray of a little lake, and the purple of the distant hills
thrilled her color-loving soul.
“They couldn’t have found a lovelier spot,” thought Betty, “and,” she
added to herself, “if ever I find them, I’ll tell them so.”
Her ring at the bell had not been answered, and she turned back to the
front door to find it as tightly closed as ever.
“Well, I like the Careys’ notions of hospitality,” she said grimly, as
she rang the bell again, this time somewhat more forcibly.
Still the door did not open, and Betty felt decidedly puzzled.
Again she rang the bell, and could hear for herself its long, buzzing
ring. But nobody answered it, and though she felt sure everything would
soon be all right, yet she began to feel a little queer.
“I know it’s the right house,” she thought, “for here’s Lena’s fan in the
hammock. That’s the fan I gave her, so she must have left the house
lately.”
Greatly puzzled, Betty went around to the back part of the house.
She knocked and banged on the kitchen door, but received no response of
any sort. She tried the door, but it was evidently locked and would not
open.
She peered in at a window, but all she could see was some dishes piled on
the kitchen table.
“Well, I do declare!” she said aloud, “if this isn’t a lovely way to
receive an invited guest!”
Though unwilling to admit it, even to herself, Betty was feeling
decidedly disturbed. There was a mistake somewhere, that was quite
evident. She knew the mistake was not hers, for Lena had written careful
directions about her journey, and had said the motor would meet the
train.
Resolving to ring the bell again, Betty went slowly back to the front
door.
The landscape did not appear quite so attractive as it had at first, and
Betty was conscious of a queer depression about her heart.
“I’m not scared!” she assured herself; “I won’t be scared! They _must_ be
in the house. Perhaps they’re—perhaps they’re cleaning the attic!” Though
not very probable, this seemed a possibility, and Betty pushed the bell
with force enough to summon even people busily absorbed in work. But
nobody came, and in despair Betty gave up the attic theory.
Half involuntarily, for she had no thought of its being unlocked, she
turned the knob of the front door. To her surprise, it opened readily,
and she stepped inside.
“Well, for goodness’ sake!” she exclaimed. “Now, they must be at home, or
they would have locked the front door.”
Then she called: “Lena! Lena, where are you?”
But no one answered, and her voice reverberated in what was unmistakably
an empty house.
Betty gave a little shiver. There is something uncanny in being the only
occupant of a strange house.
An undefined sense of fear took possession of her, and she stood
hesitating in the hall, almost determined to go no farther.
Had it been a dull, cloudy day, or nearing dusk, she would have scurried
out, but in the bright, cheerful sunlight it seemed absurd to feel
afraid.
Still, it was with a loudly beating heart that she stepped into a large
room opening off the hall.
It was evidently the family living-room, and the familiar things about
reassured her somewhat.
Several books which she looked into bore Lena’s name on the fly-leaf, and
a light shawl, which she recognized as Mrs. Carey’s, was flung carelessly
over a chair-back. Somehow these homelike touches comforted Betty, and
she ventured further explorations.
The dining-room was in order, and Betty could not tell whether any one
had eaten recently or not. But in the kitchen pantry she noted remnants
of breakfasts, which were fresh enough to denote having been placed there
that morning. The ice-box showed fresh milk and various cold viands, and
when Betty discovered that the kitchen clock was ticking, she concluded
that all was well.
“For it’s one of those little tin clocks,” she observed, “that have to be
wound every day. So the Careys have just stepped out since breakfast, but
why they took all the servants with them, I don’t know. Family picnic, I
suppose, with no thought of their arriving guest!”
Wandering back to the front rooms, Betty started to go up-stairs, and
then stopped. Suppose something awful had happened!
She paused with her foot on the lowest stair.
“Lena!” she called again, “Lena!”
But there was no answer, and, with a sudden impulse of bravery, Betty ran
up-stairs and peeped into the first bedroom she came to. It was, without
doubt, Lena’s own room.
She recognised her kimono flung on the bed, and her little Japanese
slippers, which had evidently been kicked off across the room. Surely
Lena had dressed in a hurry.
Cheered by these visible signs of her friend’s recent presence here,
Betty went on through the other rooms.
She found nothing unusual, merely the sleeping-rooms of the Carey family,
fairly tidy, but by no means in spick-and-span order.
In fact, they looked as if the whole family had gone away in haste.
“To meet me at the station, I suppose,” cogitated Betty. “Well, I’m here,
and I can’t help it, so I may as well make myself at home. I think I’ll
bring my suitcase up, and select a room, and put on a cooler dress.”
She went down-stairs more blithely than she had come up. It was all very
mysterious, to be sure, but there had been no tragedy, and the Careys
must come back soon, wherever they might have gone.
She paused again in the living-room, and sitting down at the open piano,
she sang a few lively little songs.
Then, feeling quite merry over her strange experience, she went out to
the front porch for her suitcase.
It was just where she had left it. Nobody was in sight. She gazed again
over the lovely, serene landscape, and, taking the suitcase, she went,
singing, up-stairs.
The guest-room was easily recognized and Betty felt at liberty to
appropriate it for her own use. She was an invited guest, and if no
hostess or servant was present to conduct her to her room, she must look
after her own rights.
“I’m just like Robinson Crusoe,” she chuckled to herself. “I’m stranded
on a desert island, with not a human being near. But, luckily, there’s
food in the pantry, for really, with all these exciting experiences, I’m
getting hungry.”
She opened her suitcase and shook out her pretty dresses. Then she
changed her traveling-frock for the light organdie, and having bathed,
and brushed her hair, she felt rather better.
“Well, it’s nearly noon,” she said, looking at her watch, “and, as I’ve
no one to consult but myself, I may as well have an early luncheon. If
the Careys come in while I’m eating, I’ll invite them to lunch with me.”
So down-stairs Betty went, smiling to think of herself as Betty Crusoe.
But as she passed the door of the living-room and glanced inside, her
smile faded.
Her eyes grew big with amazement, her cheeks turned pale, and a shiver of
fear shook her.
On the table lay a man’s hat!
“It _couldn’t_ have been there when I was in here before,” she thought,
“for I looked into those books, and now the hat’s on top of them!”
It was a forlorn old hat, of light-gray felt, but soiled and torn, and
Betty’s frightened heart told her that it was the hat of some marauder,
and not of any member of the Carey family.
With a sudden scream, which she could not repress, she ran and hid behind
a large Japanese screen in the corner of the room.
“Who’s there?” called a man’s voice from the hall. It was a loud, gruff
voice, and poor Betty shook and shivered as she crouched behind the
screen.
“Who’s there?” repeated the voice, and Betty heard heavy footsteps coming
in at the living-room door.
Then there was silence. The man was apparently awaiting Betty’s next
move. Then he said again: “Who screamed just now? Where are you?” and
somehow this time his voice did not sound quite so ferocious. But Betty
had no intention of answering, and she squeezed into her corner, hoping
that he would go away.
Then suddenly the whimsical idea came to her that, as she was personating
Robinson Crusoe, this was probably the Man Friday who had arrived. This
amused her so much that she giggled in spite of her fear. The man heard
the smothered sound, and going straight to the screen, he pulled it
suddenly away.
Betty, who was sitting on the floor, looked up to see a stalwart young
man of a college type staring down at her. His costume of summer outing
clothes was informal, but at once betokened he was no marauder. Also, his
handsome, sunburnt face and frank blue eyes showed a kindly though
surprised expression.
Betty was reassured at once, and, truly glad to see a human being of her
own walk in life, her face broke into smiles and merry dimples, as she
said:
“Hello, Man Friday!”
“Who are you?” was his bewildered response, and then remembering himself,
he added: “I beg your pardon; may I assist you to rise?”
He took Betty’s hand, and in a moment she had jumped up from her
crouching position, and stood facing him.
“I’m Betty Crusoe,” she said; “I’m stranded on a desert island, and if
you’re Man Friday, I hope you’ll protect me from cannibals or bears or
whatever wild beasts abound here.”
“Oh, I know you,” said the young man, smiling. “You’re Miss Betty
McGuire.”
“I am. I’m a guest of the Careys—only—the Careys don’t seem to be here!”
“No, they’re not. I’m Hal Pennington, at your service. I’m called Pen or
Penny for short,—sometimes Bad Penny.”
“I’m sure that’s a libel,” said Betty, smiling at his kind, honest face.
“It is, I assure you, for I’m good as gold. Well, I, too, am a guest of
the Careys, and, as you so cleverly observe, they don’t seem to be here!”
“Where are they?”
“Well, you see it was this way. All the servants took it into their
foolish heads to leave at once. They decamped last night. So this morning
the Careys started off in the motor-car to bring home a lot of new ones.”
“But why didn’t they come to the station for me, as they arranged?”
“Oh, they telegraphed you last night not to come till next week.”
“And I didn’t get the telegram!”
“Thus that explains all! How did you get here?”
“In a rumbly old wagon of a kind farmer. The front door wasn’t locked, so
I walked in and made myself at home. Are you staying here?”
“Yes, for a week. I’m sketching some bits of woodland, and I stayed at
home to-day rather than go with them to stalk servants. Now, let me
see,—this is rather a complicated situation. Shall I, by virtue of prior
residence, be host and welcome you as my visitor, or would you rather
appropriate the house as your own, and let me be your guest?”
His jolly, boyish face seemed to show that he thought the whole affair a
great joke, and Betty fell into the spirit of it.
“When do the Careys return?” she asked.
“Mrs. Carey said they’d surely be home by three o’clock, and I could
forage in the pantry to keep myself from starving.”
“All right,” said Betty; “I’ll be hostess, then, until she comes. You’ve
heard Lena speak of me?”
“Gracious, yes! I’ve heard you so highly lauded that I doubt if you can
live up to the angelic reputation she gives you!”
“Oh, yes, I can,” said Betty, laughing. “Now I’ll be Betty Crusoe, and
this house is my desert island. You’re Man Friday, and you must do
exactly as I say.”
“I live but to obey your decrees,” said young Pennington, with a deep
bow.
“Good! Now, first of all, I’m starving. Are you?”
“I even starve at your command. I am famished.”
“I believe you are, really. Let’s see what we can find.”
Together they went to the pantry, and found cold chicken and peach-pie, a
bowl of custard, and various odds and ends of tempting-looking dishes.
“Let’s set the table first,” cried Betty, gleefully. “Do you know where
the dishes are?”
“I’ve never really set the table,” Pennington said, “but I’m quite sure
the dishes are in the sideboard or the glass cupboard.”
“How clever you are!” said Betty, laughingly; “I do believe you’re
right!”
They easily found linen, silver, and glass, and Betty set the table
daintily for two.
“Now,” she said, “I’ll get the luncheon. A man’s only a bother in the
kitchen. You go and do your sketching until I call you.”
But Hal Pennington was not so easily disposed of.
“No,” he said; “I’ll gather some flowers, and then I’ll arrange them as a
decoration for our feast.”
“Do,” said Betty, “that will be lovely!”
Hal went out to the garden, and returned with gay blossoms, which he
arranged deftly and with good taste on the table.
“What are you doing?” he said a little later, as he drifted into the
kitchen, where Betty, with her sleeves rolled back, was whisking away at
something in a bowl.
“Making a salad; don’t you like it?”
“Love it! Let me help.”
“You can’t help, I tell you. Go away, Man Friday, until I call you.”
“No, please let me help,” coaxed Hal. “I just love to cook. Pooh, maybe
you think I don’t know how! See here, I’ll make an omelet!”
Before Betty knew what he was about he had broken several eggs into a
bowl.
“Oh, don’t!” she cried, laughing at his misdirected energy. “We don’t
want an omelet! We’ve bushels of things to eat already!”
“Then I’ll make coffee,” said Hal, quite unabashed. “These eggs will do
for coffee just as well.”
“Not six of them, goose!” cried Betty.
“Why, yes, you always put eggs in coffee.”
“Oh, just one, or part of one, to clear it!”
“Well, if one’s good, more’s better; anyway, I’m going to make coffee.”
Taking a white apron from a nail, Hal tied it round himself, and
proceeded to make what turned out to be really good coffee, though he
used only a small portion of the eggs in it.
“You are a good cook,” said Betty, as she watched his experienced
movements.
“Sure! I learned how in camp. All our fellows know how to cook.”
The luncheon was daintily served. Betty had garnished the salad with
nasturtium leaves and red blossoms, and edged the platter of cold chicken
with a wreath of parsley.
They had taken out the Careys’ best china and cut glass, and the table
looked lovely indeed.
“My! What a spread!” said Hal, looking admiringly at it. “I didn’t
suppose you could do things like that.”
“Why not?” said Betty, turning wondering eyes on him. “What made you
think I couldn’t?”
Hal reddened a little, but said honestly:
“’Cause Lena said you’re such a fearfully rich girl, and I sort of
thought you’d be—oh, you know—above fussing in the kitchen.”
Betty laughed merrily.
“I love fussing in the kitchen,” she said, “and I think every girl ought
to know how to cook. At least she ought to have sense enough to get
together a cold luncheon like this when everything’s provided.”
“Yes, I know; but you’ve made everything look so pretty. I want to eat
dishes and all!”
Betty dimpled with pleasure at his praise, and they sat down to the
pretty feast, to which they did full justice.
“I wonder when the Careys will come,” Betty remarked, as they lingered
over the coffee.
“I wish they’d never come,” said Hal. “I think it would be fine if we
were really castaways, and nobody ever came to rescue us. Just like
Robinson Crusoe and his Man Friday.”
“But we haven’t any goat,” said Betty, laughing. “The goat was one of the
principal characters, you know.”
“Well, likely a goat would wander in some day. I say, can you sing?”
“Yes,” said Betty, smiling as she thought of how she had sung when she
first entered the house; “I sing some songs pretty well.”
“I wager you do. Let’s go in by the piano and sing duets.”
“Didn’t you hear me singing this morning? I sat down at the piano when I
first arrived.”
“No; I was out sketching. I only came in the house a few minutes before I
found you.”
“Let me see your pictures, won’t you?”
“Sometime, yes. Let’s go and sing now.”
“No, we must clear the table first. It’s so untidy to leave it. But you
needn’t do it; I hate to see a boy doing girl’s work.”
“Oh, pshaw, it isn’t girl’s work exactly, if you play you’re camping or
picnicking or something like that. I’m going to help, and you can’t stop
me!”
Hal had begun already to take out the dishes, and Betty gave him a mock
sigh, as she said:
“I don’t think my Man Friday obeys me as well as he promised to.”
“’Cause I only obey when I want to,” he responded, and in a short time
the table was cleared and the food put away.
“We won’t wash the dishes,” said Betty, as she piled them neatly on the
kitchen table. “If Mrs. Carey’s going to bring a lot of servants at three
o’clock, they’ll want something to do.”
So they went to the piano, and soon discovered that they knew a number of
the same songs.
Hal had a good voice, and they sang away with all their youthful
enthusiasm, making such a volume of sound that it could be heard above
the chug-chugging of the approaching motor-car.
“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Lena, as they whizzed up to the house.
“That’s surely Betty McGuire’s voice! No one else sings like that.”
“And that’s Hal singing with her,” said Mrs. Carey, as a masculine voice
blended with Betty’s soprano.
Then Lena sprang from the car, and rushed to greet Betty, and all sorts
of apologies and explanations followed.
“I’m not a bit sorry!” said Hal, as Mrs. Carey reiterated her regret at
the misunderstanding; “I’ve had a jolly time, and now Lena’s come I don’t
suppose I’ll be able to get a word in edgewise with Betty Crusoe, all the
evening!”
“You will, if I have anything to say about it,” said Betty, flashing one
of her brightest smiles at her Man Friday.
XI
A LABOR DAY LUNCHEON
Labor Day was, of course, on Monday, and the Saturday before Betty
received this letter:
Boston, Friday.
Dearest Betty: The loveliest thing has happened! Aunt Evelyn has asked
me to make her a little visit in New York (she lives at the Waldorf,
you know), and she says I may ask you to go with us on a Labor Day
excursion on Monday. So don’t fail me; I’m crazy to see you! I’m so
excited over it all, I can scarcely write. But this is the plan. I’m
going to New York to-morrow. You’re to come on Monday morning, and
we’ll meet you at the ferry—on the New York side, you know. And then,
the boat—oh, I forgot to tell you, we’re going to West Point—sails from
somewhere near there. But never mind that; we’ll meet you and show you
the way. We’re going to carry our luncheon, for Aunt Evelyn says you
can’t get anything fit to eat on an excursion-boat. So you can bring a
contribution to the feast, or not, according to your convenience. But
be sure to come. I’ve never been up the Hudson River, and we’ll have
loads of fun. Take that early train from Greenborough, and wait for us
“under the clock.”
Lovingly,
Dorothy.
“Isn’t it fine, Mother?” said Betty, as she read the letter aloud. “I’ve
never been up the Hudson either, and it will be such fun to go with
Dorothy.”
“Yes, it will, deary. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely trip. You’ll have to
scurry out early, though, if you’re to take that seven-thirty train.
You’ll want to take some luncheon, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes; I think I ought to. Ellen will cook some of her lovely fried
chicken for me. And I might take some stuffed eggs or some jelly tarts.
I’ll talk it over with Ellen.”
Now, Ellen was by nature what is called “a good provider.” And so it
happened that when Betty came down-stairs at half-past six on Monday
morning Ellen was already packing into a big box the good things which
she had risen before daylight to prepare.
“For mercy’s sake, Ellen!” cried Betty, “do you think I’m going to feed
the whole excursion?”
“Arrah, Miss Betty,” returned Ellen, placidly, “it’s a fine appetite
ye’ll get on the water, and yer city folks’ll be glad to eat yer country
fixin’s.”
Ellen was wrapping delicious-looking bits of golden-brown fried chicken
daintily in oiled paper, and tucking them into place in the big box.
Then in one corner she placed a smaller box of stuffed eggs, which, in
their individual frills of fringed white paper, formed a pretty picture.
Another partition held jelly tarts, with flaky crusts and quivering red
centers, and somehow Ellen found room for a few sandwiches, through whose
thin bread showed the yellow of mayonnaise.
Everything was carefully protected with white paper napkins, and the
whole box was a most appetizing display of skilled culinary art.
“But it’s so big, Ellen,” repeated Betty, laughing. “I simply can’t carry
so much stuff.”
“Niver you mind, Miss Betty,” said the imperturbable cook, going on with
her work of wrapping the big box in neat brown paper and tying it with
stout twine. “You’ve not to walk at all, at all, and ye can get a porther
to lift it off the thrain. An’ sure Pat’ll put it on safely fer ye.”
So Betty submitted to the inevitable, realizing that she wouldn’t have to
carry the box at all, and proceeded to eat her breakfast.
“It is an awfully big box,” said Mrs. McGuire, as the carriage came to
the door; “but if your party can’t eat all the things, you can give them
to some children on the boat.”
“Oh, it’ll be all right,” said Betty, and kissing her mother good-by, she
jumped into the carriage, and Pat drove her to the train.
There were few passengers at that early hour, and so there was ample room
for the box on the seat beside her. Though Betty went often to New York,
she rarely went alone, but as Dorothy and her aunt’s family were to meet
her, she felt no responsibility as to traveling.
In Jersey City the conductor lifted the box out for her, and a convenient
porter carried it to the ferry-boat.
“Hold it level,” Betty admonished him, and he touched his red cap and
said “Yes’m,” and then carried the box with greatest care. Betty went by
the Twenty-third Street Ferry, and in the ferry-house on the New York
side she was to meet Dorothy, “under the clock.”
This tryst was a well-known one, for it made a definite place to meet in
the crowded room.
Betty always enjoyed the long ferry, and she sat outside, with her
precious box reposing on the seat beside her.
The morning was delightful, but it was growing warm and bade fair to be a
very warm day.
Betty watched with interest the great steamer piers, and the traffic on
the river, rejoicing to think that soon she would be sailing farther up
the stream, where the banks were green and wooded, and the expanse of
water unmarred by freight-boats and such unpicturesque craft.
The ferry-boat bumped into its dock at Twenty-third, Street, and Betty
picked up her box and started off with it. A porter met her at the
gangplank, and she gave it to him with an injunction to hold it quite
level. For it would be a pity to tumble the neat arrangement of Ellen’s
goodies into an unappetizing mass.
Down-stairs they went, and into the waiting-room, where Betty paused
“under the clock.”
Dorothy hadn’t arrived, but Betty remembered, with a smile, that she was
nearly always late, so, remunerating the porter, she sat down to wait,
with her box beside her.
She had on a suit of embroidered blue linen, and a broad-brimmed straw
hat trimmed with brown roses.
The big hat suited Betty’s round face and curly hair, and, all
unconsciously, she made a pretty picture as she sat there waiting. Before
she had time to feel anxious about Dorothy’s non-appearance, a
messenger-boy in uniform came toward her.
“Is this Miss McGuire?” he said, touching his cap respectfully.
“Yes,” said Betty, wondering how he knew her.
“Then this is for you. The lady told me how you looked, and said I’d find
you right here. No answer.”
The boy turned away, and in a moment was lost in the crowd, leaving Betty
in possession of a note addressed in Dorothy’s handwriting.
She tore it open and read:
Waldorf-Astoria.
Dear Betty: What do you think! Aunt Evelyn has a _fearful_ sick
headache, and can’t raise her head from the pillow. So, of course, we
can’t go up the Hudson to-day, and she says for you to come right up
here, and have luncheon here, and afterward Uncle Roger will take us to
a matinée. She said this was the surest way to reach you, and for you
not to be afraid, but just take a taxicab and come straight here. I
told her I knew you wouldn’t be afraid, but she said for you to
telephone us as soon as you get this note, so she’ll know it’s all
right. She’s sort of nervous about you. So call us up right away, and
I’ll answer you.
In haste,
Dorothy.
P. S. I told the messenger he’d know you because you were very pretty,
except for your turn-up nose.
Betty smiled at Dorothy’s postscript, and then she read the note over
again. On the whole, she didn’t much care that the plans were changed,
for a luncheon at a fine hotel and a matinée afterward seemed quite as
attractive on a hot day as a sail on a crowded excursion-boat.
Also, she was not at all afraid! She laughed at the idea. She would
telephone Dorothy, and then she would really enjoy taking a taxicab and
driving up to the hotel all alone. It made her feel decidedly grown-up.
So she went to the telephone booth and called up Dorothy.
“Indeed, I don’t mind the change of plans a bit,” she said, in answer to
her friend’s query. “I’m awfully sorry for your aunt, but I think we’ll
have a better time on land than on the water to-day. It’s getting very
warm.”
“Is it?” said Dorothy. “It seems cool here.”
“Well, it’s hot out in the sun all right. I’ll take a taxi, and I’ll be
with you in less than half an hour.”
“Yes, come right here, and we’ll be waiting for you. My cousins Fred and
Tom want to see you, and Aunt Evelyn says perhaps we can go for a drive
in the Park before luncheon.”
“Oh, that reminds me, Dorothy. I’ve a big box of luncheon with me. What
shall I do with it? I can’t walk into the Waldorf with that!”
“Gracious, Betty, I should say not! But it’s a shame to throw it away.
Just give it to some poor person, can’t you?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea; I will. Well, good-by, till I see you.”
“Good-by. Hurry up here,” said Dorothy, and Betty hung up the receiver.
As she picked up her box to start toward the taxicab rank, the thought
occurred to her that it might be well to dispose of the box before she
took the cab. Acting on this idea, she stepped out of the ferry-house and
looked about her.
It was rapidly growing much warmer, and the glare on the hot
paving-stones was unpleasant, but Betty determined to bestow the
wholesome food on some grateful poor person before she started up-town.
“I want to find some one really worthy,” she said to herself; “it would
be too bad to waste all these good things on an ungrateful wretch.”
She looked at the newsboys who were crying their papers, but it seemed
impracticable to expect them to carry a large, heavy box in addition to
their burden of papers. She wandered along the street until she saw a
poor-looking old woman in a news-booth.
The papers and magazines were piled up tidily and the old news-vender
herself sat comfortably knitting, now and then looking out over her
spectacles for a possible customer.
She was certainly thrifty, Betty thought, and would be greatly pleased
with a present of good food.
“I’d like to give you this,” said Betty, resting the box on a pile of
morning papers; “it’s some food—nice bits of cold chicken and eggs.”
The old woman glared at her.
“Bits of food, is it?” she exclaimed. “Broken bits ye’re offerin’ to me!
Well, ye may be takin’ ’em back! Nobody need dole out food to Bridget
Molloy! I takes nobody’s charity! I earns me honest livin’! More shame to
them as doesn’t!”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you,” cried Betty, greatly distressed at
having hurt the old woman’s feelings. “It’s a very nice luncheon that I
brought for myself and some friends.”
But Mrs. Molloy would not listen.
“Take it away,” she said; “take yer cold victuals to some one as is too
lazy to work for a honest livin’! I asks no charity fer me or mine!”
Greatly chagrined and a little angry, Betty picked up her box and walked
away.
It had been an unfortunate occurrence, but surely it would be easy enough
to find some one more reasonable than the old newswoman. Before she had
gone a block Betty saw a ragged urchin who was, she decided, a worthy
case. He was not selling papers; indeed, he was doing nothing, but
leaning against a high board fence, digging his bare toes into the dust.
“Poor little thing,” thought Betty; “I’ve no doubt he’s hungry.” Then she
said:
“Good morning, little boy. Are you one of a large family?”
The boy looked suspiciously at Betty, then, in a whining voice, replied:
“Ten brudders an’ ten sisters ma’am; an’ me fadder is sick, an’ me mudder
is out o’ work.”
“Oh, you poor child!” exclaimed Betty, and as he held out a grimy little
paw, as if for coin, she offered him the box.
“You’re just the boy I’m looking for. Here is a quantity of nice food for
you and your brothers and sisters.”
Quickly the grimy little paw was withdrawn, and with both hands behind
him, the boy winked rudely at Betty and said:
“Aw, g’wan! Quit yer kiddin’.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Betty, who couldn’t help laughing at
the impudent little fellow. “I’m offering you some good food.”
“Good food nothin’!” said the strange child. “Take yer box away, lady; I
wouldn’t swap yer me college pin fer it!”
Betty had to laugh at this, but since the boy was so indifferent, she
didn’t care to give him the lunch anyhow; so she went on to find some one
else.
“It does seem queer,” she thought, “that there’s nobody about who is just
the right one to give this to. There are men working at the road, but I
don’t like to offer it to them, they look so—so untidy.”
But at last she spied a little girl. Though somewhat gaudily dressed, the
child was evidently poor, for her frock was faded and torn. She wore a
string of bright beads round her neck, and a big bow on her black hair,
and she walked with a mincing step.
But she was thin and looked ill nourished, so Betty thought that at last
she had found just the right beneficiary.
“Where do you live?” she said, by way of opening the conversation, as she
paused in front of the little girl.
“You ain’t a settlement teacher,” said the child. “Comes a settlement
teacher, and I tell my name. But you ain’t one.”
“No,” said Betty, smiling kindly, “I’m not a settlement teacher, but I
want to give you something—something very nice.”
“What is it nice you wants fer to give me?”
The child did not look receptively inclined, but Betty held out the big
box toward her and said:
“It’s this box of lovely luncheon, fried chicken and little pies! Take it
home to your mama.”
The girl turned on Betty like a little fury. Her black eyes snapped, and
her whole little body shook with indignation as she cried:
“Think shame how you says! My mama wouldn’t let me to take whole bunches
of lunch from a lady! It ain’t for ladies to give lunches off on the
street!” With a flirt of her shabby little skirts, the child turned her
back on Betty and walked haughtily away.
It was Betty’s first experience with that peculiar type of dignity and
self-respect, and she was bewildered at the sudden fury of the indignant
child.
But the box was still to be disposed of, and Betty looked around for
another opportunity. She was tempted to throw it away, but the thought of
Ellen’s dainty morsels being wasted was so disappointing that she
resolved to try once more anyhow.
“I didn’t think it was so hard to give food away in town,” she reflected,
smiling grimly at her predicament. “Oh, I do believe it’s going to rain!”
The sky had suddenly clouded over, and there were portents of a coming
shower. Betty looked at the clouds, and resolved to make one more attempt
to bestow her charity, and if that failed she concluded she must throw
away the box. As Dorothy had said, she couldn’t very well walk into a
large hotel carrying a box of luncheon. It would look ridiculous. And
even if she did have to throw it away, she had the satisfaction of
knowing she had tried to utilize it. The drops began to fall, but they
were large and scattered, so Betty thought she had time for one more
attempt at her good work before she ran for shelter.
A poor-looking man came toward her, and Betty stopped him. She had become
timid about the box by this time, so, unconsciously, she spoke as if
asking a favor.
“Wouldn’t you like a box of nice food to take home?” she said, as she
hesitatingly held the box out to him.
“Do you mean to give it to me?” he asked, in such a threatening tone that
Betty recoiled a little. She thought quickly. Here was another who would
take offense at being looked upon as an object of charity. It flashed
through her mind that if she asked him to pay a small price he would keep
his self-respect and get far more than the value of his money.
“No,” she stammered; “I mean to sell it to you—for ten cents.”
It seemed awful to ask money for it, but surely he could pay that much,
and Betty felt instinctively that he would refuse it as a gift.
The man looked at her with a strange glance.
“Have you got a license to sell things in the street?” he asked.
“N-no!” gasped Betty, frightened now by his intent gaze at her.
“Well, you quit your foolishness, lady. You move on, you and your
precious bundle, or I’ll call a policeman and have you arrested!”
She almost _ran_ back to the ferry-house, concluding, as she went, to
throw away the luncheon and take a cab up to Dorothy’s as quickly as she
could.
Where to throw it away was the next question. Betty looked in vain for a
refuse receptacle or ash-can. She knew it was not allowed to throw things
in the street, and the cleanly swept pavement near the ferries showed no
resting-place for the objectionable-box.
There were poor-looking people about, but Betty did not care to risk
another impertinent refusal. Just as she was about to turn into the
little office to engage a taxicab, she had a brilliant idea.
“I’ll go back on the ferry-boat,” she thought; “I’ll get a ferry ticket
and go through the slip and on to the boat. Then I can throw the old box
into the water, and come off the boat again before it starts.”
This seemed a really good plan, and with rising spirit Betty paid her
pennies and went on the boat. She had ample time, as the boat had just
arrived and would not go out again for several minutes. On the upper deck
Betty walked to the extreme end, and stood looking over into the water.
It seemed an awful pity to waste that lovely luncheon, but it was getting
late, and it was raining quite steadily, so there was really nothing else
to do.
“Good-by, then, pretty little tarts and jolly good chicken!” said Betty,
and she pushed the box over the rail.
Then she hurried back, and started again for the cab-stand.
“Yes, a taxicab, please,” said Betty to the kind-faced official in
charge, and then, “To the Waldorf,” she said, as she got into the
vehicle. She felt very capable and grown-up, as she settled herself in
the broad seat, and noticed with satisfaction that the shower was almost
over.
But, just as the driver was about to start, a voice called, “Hi! hold on
there!” and running toward the cab came a deck-hand from the ferry-boat,
carrying that box!
“I seen you!” he cried to Betty, in jubilant tones; “I seen you get on
the boat, and then I seen you drop this box. I wuz on the lower deck, an’
I jest caught it! It dropped out of my hand, and the corners is smashed
some, but I saved it from goin’ in the water, all the same! Here it is,
ma’am!”
He looked so delighted at his feat that Betty couldn’t help smiling back
at him, though deeply exasperated to have the box on her hands again.
The young fellow clearly thought he had done Betty a great favor in
restoring her property, and he stood smiling, and shifting from one foot
to another, while the cab driver obligingly waited.
“Oh,” thought Betty, “he expects a reward! Imagine paying a reward for
getting that box back!”
But she realized that the deck-hand thought it was valuable property he
had restored, so she took out her purse and gave him a coin that sent him
away grinning with pleasure.
Then the cab started, and Betty sat looking at the horrid box which had
grown such a burden to her. It was beginning to look disreputable, too.
The paper was soiled and torn, for the rain-drops had wet it, and the jar
as the box fell on the ferry-boat deck had broken the pasteboard. Also,
to Betty’s horror, she could see tiny drops of jelly and something yellow
oozing out at the edges. The stuffed eggs must be upset, and the warm
weather had softened the jelly tarts! It was simply impossible to carry
the box into the hotel, and it would be also impossible to leave it in
the cab.
Betty was at her wits’ end, and the street corners were flying by with
annoying rapidity. Soon she would be at the Waldorf, and she _must_
dispose of that box first.
Fortunately no drop from its edges had soiled her pretty dress, and if
she could only rid of it, she could enter the hotel in serene
forgetfulness of all her trouble. She was tempted simply to pitch it out
of the window, but if she did, it would break apart and scatter its
contents all over the street, and—she _might_ be arrested.
Betty didn’t know much about the law, but she was almost certain it was
against it, to scatter stuffed eggs and fruit tarts along the middle of
Fifth Avenue! And yet something _must_ be done!
She made a desperate resolve.
“Stop at a news-stand, please,” she called to the driver. The man did so,
and Betty bought four newspapers. “Go on slowly,” she said; and the
driver obeyed. Then Betty untied the string from the damaged box, wrapped
it all in many thicknesses of newspaper, and tied it with the string,
making a secure if very cumbersome bundle. Surveying it with
satisfaction, she called to the driver, “Go as fast as you can!” and as
he accelerated his speed, she pitched the bundle out of the window. Too
frightened to look back, she huddled in a corner of the cab, scarcely
daring to think she was free at last from that hated presence.
“It won’t spill in the street,” she thought, “unless something runs over
it, and if it does, my! how the eggs will spatter!”
It all appealed to Betty’s sense of humor, and, though she was still a
little scared, she couldn’t help laughing at her ridiculous experiences
of the morning.
She sat up very straight, and when the cab stopped at the hotel, she
gravely alighted, paid the driver, and marched with a dignified air up
the steps and in at the door.
Once inside, the first face she saw was Dorothy’s.
“Where _have_ you been?” she cried. “We’ve waited and waited! I couldn’t
telephone, ’cause I didn’t know where to find you. Aunt Evelyn is _so_
anxious about you. Oh, let me present my cousins, Tom and Fred Bates.”
Two good-looking, merry-faced young men looked admiringly at pretty Betty
and made polite bows. Still full of merriment at the remembrance of her
funny morning, Betty’s bright eyes were twinkling, and her cheeks rosy
beneath her flower-trimmed hat.
“How do you do?” she said, smiling prettily at the boys, then turning to
Dorothy, she said: “Yes, I was detained a little; I’ll tell you about it
some other time. But I came just now, from the ferry, in a taxicab.”
“Yes, I saw you drive up,” said Dorothy; “I was looking out of the
window. But I’ve been there flattening my nose against the pane for half
an hour. Where were you, Betty?”
“Seeking my fortune,” said Betty, teasingly; “or, rather, seeking to
bestow fortune.”
But her speech was not heard, because of a commotion behind her.
“That’s the one!” said a childish voice, and, to Betty’s horror, an
employee of the hotel ushered a ragged small boy straight toward her. The
boy held in his arms a large muddy, newspaper-covered bundle!
“I seen you drop it out o’ yer cab, ma’am, an’ I brung it to yer!”
His dirty little face gleamed with delight, and he held the awful-looking
package out toward Betty.
She drew back, feeling that she could not take that box in charge again,
and Fred Bates said sternly:
“What does this mean? Why are you annoying Miss McGuire?”
“This chap says it’s the lady’s property,” explained the clerk who was
looking after the boy. “Say the word, sir, and we’ll put him out.”
He laid a hand on the urchin’s shoulder, but the boy spoke up
insistently:
“It _is_ hers, sir! I seen her lose it outen the cab winder, an’ I picked
it up, an’ ran to catch ’er, an’ I seen her jest as she came in the
whirligig door, an’ I got here as soon as they’d let me!”
“That awful-looking bundle, Betty’s!” cried Dorothy, in disgust. “Of
course it isn’t! What nonsense!”
At this the clerk made as if to eject the boy who had brought the bundle,
and then Betty’s sense of justice was aroused. It was awful to claim
ownership of that disreputable piece of property, but it was worse, in
her estimation, to have an innocent boy reprimanded for doing what he had
believed to be right.
“It _is_ mine,” she said bravely, though her cheeks grew scarlet at the
surprised glances cast upon her, not only by her friends, but by
strangers who happened to be passing.
“It _is_ mine,” she repeated, turning to the boy, “and you did right to
bring back to me what you thought I had lost. But I want to lose it, as
it is of no use to me. So if you will please take it away and dispose of
it properly, I will be much obliged to you, and I will give you this.”
Betty took a two-dollar bill from her purse, and offered it to the boy,
who still held the bundle.
“Sure, lady,” he said, flashing a grateful glance at her. “You’re a white
one, you are! Thank you, lady!”
The clerk smiled and bowed, and ushered the small boy away. The urchin
turned to give Betty one more admiring look, and she smiled pleasantly at
him, and said:
“You’d better look in that box before you throw it away.”
“Sure!” he replied, grinning, and then he disappeared.
“Now, Dorothy,” said Betty, restored to equanimity, now that the box was
finally disposed of, “let us go and sit down quietly somewhere, and I’ll
tell you all about it.”
“Do!” cried Fred Bates. “You’re the most mysterious person I ever heard
of, Miss McGuire! Come right up to our family sitting-room and relate to
us the story of the Beautiful Young Lady and her Strange Piece of
Luggage!”
“Very well,” said Betty, dimpling and smiling. “Come on, and the whole of
the dramatic tale I will unfold!”
Which she did, to a most enthusiastic and hilarious audience.
XII
A LUCKY PENNY
“There’s no doubt about it,” said Jeanette, “Betty is the most popular
girl in school.”
“Not only in school,” amended Dorothy; “she’s the most popular girl in
our whole set. The boys all adore her, too.”
“Yes, they do,” agreed Lena Carey. “My brother Bob thinks she’s just
about all right.”
The three, on their way to school, had paused in front of Betty’s house,
and she came out and joined them.
It was late in October. The McGuires had been back in their city home for
several weeks, and both Betty and Jack were in school again.
“Do your ears burn, Betty?” asked Dorothy; as they two fell behind the
other couple; “for we’ve been throwing the biggest sort of bouquets at
you!”
“They didn’t hit my ears,” said Betty, laughing. “What sort were they?”
“Oh, we just said you’re a disagreeable old thing, and nobody loves you!”
“Nothing of the sort!” cried honest Jeanette, turning her head. “We all
agreed that you’re a general favorite and the boys like you better than
they do any of the rest of us.”
“Spare me blushes!” cried Betty. “Which of the boys confided this
startling news to you?”
“Of course we can see it,” said Lena, “but, to make sure, I asked Brother
Bob. I said, says I, ‘Which girl do you like best of all our set?’ and he
said, ‘Why, Betty, of course,—doesn’t everybody?’ and I said, ‘Yes.’”
“Oh, Lena, you goose!” said Betty, but she was unable to repress a
pleased smile at her friends’ talk.
It was really true, Betty had become a prodigious favorite among the
circle of Boston young people with whom she associated. She was so
whole-souled and good-hearted, so ready to help everybody, so merry and
full of fun, and withal so unostentatious and simple-mannered, that
nobody could help liking her.
And though only a little over sixteen years old, an innate spirit of
coquetry had begun to show itself, and her dark, roguish eyes and
dimpling smile often captivated the boys who belonged to what the
school-girls called “our set.”
Not that Betty was really romantic. Her coquetry was more mischievous
than sentimental, and, though she loved to tease, her warm, generous
nature never allowed the teasing to hurt the feelings of another. It was
an open secret that both Harry Harper and Ralph Burnett were especial
admirers of Betty, and, in an amicable, good-natured way, were rivals for
her favor.
But Betty was impartial, and at dancing-school or at the little
“neighborhood parties” would accept attentions equally from both.
However, Betty’s popularity was only a matter of degree, and gay,
laughing Dorothy, lovely, quiet Jeanette, and pretty Lena Carey were also
favorites in school and out. As the quartet walked along, Lena said:
“I’ve a lovely secret to tell you, but as we’re almost at school now, I
think I’ll leave it until recess.”
“No, tell us now!” clamored the others.
“My! but you’re curious!” teased Lena. “No, I won’t tell you now, but
I’ll tell you part of it. Just enough to stir up your curiosity a little
more. I’m going to have a party!”
This was indeed interesting, but not another word would Lena tell, and so
all the morning the three eager girls could only wonder what sort of a
party it was to be, and how big, and when, and a thousand other important
questions.
But at recess the four gathered in a corner of the school-yard, and Lena
expounded.
“It’s a Hallowe’en party,” she said, and then had to wait for their
delighted exclamations to pause before she could proceed.
“Hallowe’en is a week from Friday,” she went on, “and Mother said last
night that I could have a party if I liked. So Bob and I talked it over,
and we decided that a ghost party would be fun.”
“What is a ghost party?” “How do you mean?” “Oh, just a phantom party!”
exclaimed the three listeners all at once.
“Well, I haven’t planned it much,” said Lena, “because I thought it would
be more fun for us to plan it together.”
“What a duck you are!” cried Betty. “I love to plan parties! Can we wear
fancy costumes?”
“Oh, let’s be witches,” said Dorothy. “We ought to on Hallowe’en, you
know.”
“Witches or ghosts, either, would be all right,” put in Jeanette. “I
suppose you’ll have all the old Hallowe’en tricks, Lena?”
“Well, Bob and I said we didn’t want to have those foolish old games,
like bobbing for apples and melting lead. They’re so tiresome. But I
thought we could make up some new fun.”
“I think so, too,” declared Betty. “Anything ghosty or witchy, or any
sort of fortune-telling, you mean, I suppose.”
“Yes. Do you know any new tricks of that sort?”
“I’m not sure that I do, but we can make some up.”
They all knew Betty’s cleverness in making up games, so they felt sure
something could be done.
“There’s the school-bell,” said Lena. “You all come to my house this
afternoon, and we’ll plan it all out.”
The girls agreed to this, and then they returned to the school-room,
where, I am sorry to say, their rebellious pencils persisted in drawing
witches or broomsticks, instead of copying the plaster cast of a classic
leaf form which was their task for the day.
Not only that afternoon but several others were spent in arranging the
details of the Hallowe’en party.
Jeanette, who was inclined to the serious rather than the grotesque,
favored the idea of the guests appearing as Druids, who, she said, were
really the originators of Allhallowe’en.
But Dorothy declared that Druids were poky old things and that witches
were lots more fun.
So, as Betty and Lena insisted on ghosts, the invitations were finally
compiled to read like this:
DRUIDS, WITCHES, AND GHOSTS
ARE INVITED TO ASSEMBLE AT THE HOME OF
MISS LENA CAREY
AND
MR. ROBERT CAREY
ON ALL HALLOWE’EN OCTOBER THIRTY-FIRST
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK
This gave the guests ample choice of costume, and if they chose they
could come simply draped in sheets and pillow-cases, as at the old-time
phantom parties.
Betty, after much deliberation, decided to wear a witch’s costume.
And very becoming it proved. The skirt of scarlet silk was sprinkled with
strange hieroglyphics and mystic signs which had been cut from black silk
and pasted on. The pointed scarlet bodice was laced up over a soft white
neckerchief, and over all was a long black cloak lined with red. Then she
had a high, peaked hat, made after the most approved style for witches,
and on her shoulder was perched a toy cat. This furry animal was of most
lifelike effect, and his green eyeballs blared by reason of tiny electric
lights concealed in his head. Betty carried a broomstick wound with red
ribbons, and, with high-heeled red shoes, she made a complete picture of
the traditional witch.
Jack was a ghost. But he disdained the idea of a ghost in white.
“No,” he said, “I want a real ghost’s robe. It must be made of thin,
almost transparent, fluttery stuff—yards and yards of it—and of a sort of
brownish smoke color.”
Mrs. McGuire caught his idea, and herself fashioned a voluminous robe of
smoke-colored chiffon. It was made something like a college gown, but
there were several of them, and after donning a sort of ulster-shaped
garment of dull brown muslin, Jack put on one after another of the floppy
gauze robes. The effect was fine. The least breath of air sent the
shimmering material into billowy waves, and the “ghost” almost seemed to
disappear at times. A deep cowl-like hood nearly concealed his face, and
made his features dim and indistinguishable, and when Jack stalked about
with theatrical stride, and gave voice to fearful, hollow groans, he
seemed as fine a ghost as one could wish.
Jeanette and Constance had chosen to wear Druid’s costume, and, as
several others had like taste, quite a number of shapes in flowing
classic raiment lent their dignified effect to the party. There were many
white ghosts, some weird and terrible ones, several witches and wizards,
and many nondescript costumes.
The guests assembled on time, as all were anxious not to miss any of the
fun.
When Betty and Jack arrived at the Carey house and rang the door-bell,
the door swung slowly open, and though no one was in sight, a sepulchral
groan greeted them. Then a strange-looking, cloaked figure, with a
lighted Jack-o’-lantern for a head, ushered them into the drawing-room.
Betty herself had helped to arrange this room, but when the party began,
it looked even more effective than when they had decorated it.
The room was very dimly lighted, and the walls had been hung with black
muslin on which were painted grinning skulls and cross-bones in gleaming
white. The big wood fire at one end of the room shone through a screen of
red transparent stuff, which gave a crimson glow to the room.
Jack-o’-lanterns were all about, and the candles inside them lit up the
grotesque faces of the pumpkins.
Bob Carey, who announced that he was the ghost of Hamlet’s father,
introduced the other ghosts to each other.
“This,” he would say, indicating a sheeted figure, “is the ghost of
Banquo. We used to play together as boys. And here is the ghost of a man
who died a-laughing. You will observe his laughter when I tickle him.”
The ghost, when tickled, would give howls of demoniac laughter, in which
the other guests involuntarily joined.
When all the weird-looking figures had assembled, the fun began.
Another room had been prepared as a fortune-telling room, and into this
each guest was invited to go, alone, to learn his or her fate.
Just who was the fortune-teller was a great secret. No one outside of the
Carey family knew who it was who greeted the seekers for knowledge as
they entered one by one.
But apparently the strange being knew his clients, for many jokes and
secrets were exposed, and often the victim came out giggling, but looking
a trifle sheepish.
Jack was really very fond of Dorothy. Indeed, she was his favorite of all
the girls—after Betty, of course.
So, when Dorothy went into the Room of the Fates to learn what future
fortune might befall her, and came out holding a card in her hand, the
others clamored to know what had been told her.
Dorothy looked mysterious and refused to tell, but when the boys and
girls insisted on seeing what talisman had been given her, and she showed
the card, a roar of laughter went up from all. It was a playing-card, the
jack of hearts, and ghostly Jack himself seemed quite satisfied with the
episode.
Every one who went into the Room of the Fates returned with a talisman
indicative of their future career.
It might be a doctor’s diploma or a fireman’s badge. It might be a
thimble, indicating spinsterhood, or a spray of orange-blossom,
indicating matrimony. But in every case the souvenir bore sufficient
meaning to prove that the fate-dispenser was some one who knew the
individual traits of his auditors.
When it was Betty’s turn, she entered the Fate Room, determined to guess,
if possible, who the wizard was. All of the young people of their set
were in evidence as guests, so the mysterious fortune-teller must be some
older person or a stranger.
As Betty entered, she was met by three draped figures, representing the
three Fates.
These, she knew, were Harry Harper, Ralph Burnett, and Elmer Ellis, for
she and Lena had invited these boys to act these parts.
They were robed in brown, flowing draperies, which they did not manage in
classic fashion, but kicked about in derision. One carried a distaff, one
a ball of cord, and one a pair of shears, in imitation of the traditional
three. The room was draped with white sheets, and at the far end was a
sort of throne on which sat the Master of the Fates. He was gorgeously
robed in a scarlet satin suit and a purple velvet cape edged with ermine.
A flowing white wig, bushy white beard and eyebrows, completely disguised
his features, while a high, peaked hat added to his wizardy effect.
Grouped about him were a globe, a map of the stars, a divining-wand, a
great Book of Fate, and all sorts of mysterious-looking instruments and
paraphernalia.
Bats, cut out of paper, swung by invisible threads from the ceiling, and
were set fluttering by sly puffs from bellows by the three Fates, who
scampered about, on mischief bent.
In the white room were several black cats also. These added greatly to
the weird effect, and, as they were good-natured old tabbies that Lena
had borrowed from neighbors, they just stalked about and lay dozing in
the white-draped chairs.
The three Fates ushered Betty with great pomp and ceremony to the chair
facing the wizard, and begged her to be seated.
“What do you most want to know?” droned out the magician, as he gravely
wagged his head at her.
“Who you are!” said Betty, so suddenly that he fairly jumped.
At this the three Fates doubled up in gleeful antics, but the wizard
recovered himself, and continued in slow, deep tones:
“That you may know sometime, but not now. I will now foretell your fate.”
“Do,” said Betty, wondering where she had heard that full, deep voice
before.
“You have strange adventures awaiting you. You will travel by land and
sea, and great good fortune shall be ever yours. In the years to come,
you will meet your destiny. The stars ordain that a fitting mate shall
claim you, but it will be neither of the two Fates who are now dogging
your footsteps.”
At this Harry and Ralph gave forth despairing groans and pretended to
pommel one another. Betty giggled, but the wizard remained grave.
“That you may know your fate,” he went on, “I give you this talisman.”
Now, Betty had no mind to be teased as Dorothy had been, and receiving
the talisman from the wizard, she slipped it into her pocket.
Then, as the wizard dismissed her, she rose to take leave.
“Thou mayst not depart until thou shalt exhibit thy talisman,” said Harry
Harper, striking a dramatic attitude before the door.
“Oh, yes, I mayst,” said Betty. “Avaunt thee, Fate, and let me pass, or I
cast o’er thee my magic spell!”
“Already hast thou done that,” said Harry, his tone exaggeratedly
sentimental.
“Let the witch pass!” interrupted Elmer Ellis, and, amid the chuckling
exclamations of the three, Betty departed.
“What did you get?” “What’s your talisman?” cried those who awaited her.
“Let’s see your fate!”
But Betty laughingly showed her empty hands, and could not be persuaded
to admit that she had received anything. But as soon as she could get a
moment unobserved, she took out her talisman to examine it.
It was a bright new cent, dated the present year.
“Oh,” said Betty to herself, “a penny! Hal Pennington! I _thought_ I had
heard that voice before! What a little witch Lena is, to keep it so
secret! I never dreamed of his coming.”
Betty was glad he had come, for though they had met only a few times,
they were good friends, and it was a compliment indeed that he had given
her himself as a fate! Of course it was just for that evening, and Betty
thought it was very jolly.
With shining eyes and rosy cheeks, she rejoined the others.
“Let’s play a joke on Betty,” said Dorothy to Jeanette, as it neared
supper-time.
“How do you mean?”
“This way. Lena says we girls each have to select our partner for supper.
She says she won’t have the old-fashioned way of pairing off by matched
nuts or flowers or things. Each girl has to ask a boy herself. Now, of
course, nobody will ask the boy she really likes best. I wouldn’t
myself!”
“Well,” asked Jeanette, “what’s the joke on Betty, then? She won’t ask
either Harry or Ralph, and we know she likes them best.”
“That’s just it! Of course Lena will make her choice last, as she’s
hostess. Let’s fix it so Betty will be next to last, and let’s leave
those two boys till the last. Then Betty will _have_ to choose one or the
other of them, and that will be a good joke on her.”
“Yes, it will! And it isn’t a mean joke, either. If there are only those
two, she’ll have to select one.”
“But how can we be sure nobody else chooses either Harry or Ralph?”
“Oh, nobody will. They’ll know enough to leave them for Betty. But I’ll
whisper to Constance and a few of the girls to make sure.”
The scheme worked well. Lena, in burlesque authority, ordered each fair
damsel to choose the knight she most admired, to escort her to supper.
This made great fun, as each girl deliberately ignored the boy she liked
best, and chose a brother or a comparative stranger. Betty had made up
her mind to choose Jack, and thus evade an embarrassing decision between
her two admirers.
But, as one girl after another was called, Betty began to surmise there
was some joke in progress.
But Lena said to her, casually, “You and I will go last, Betty,” and so
she really suspected little.
But at last no boys were left but Ralph and Harry, and, as Lena announced
with twinkling eyes that Betty must make her choice, she saw at once that
the girls had pre-arranged this.
It was a difficult situation. Betty had no wish to offend either boy by
choosing the other, and she was decidedly in a quandary. She stood
looking at them and smiling.
“It’s so hard to choose between you,” she said, provokingly, but really
to gain time. Suddenly she bethought herself of the penny in her pocket!
Ah, here was a way to circumvent those mischievous girls!
“I’m sorry,” she said, with a little sigh, “that I can’t choose either of
you very gentlemanly appearing boys. But my Fate was foretold me, and the
talisman that I have here bids me await the coming of the knight
appointed for me by Destiny.”
Betty held up her bright penny with a roguish look.
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Lena, who knew nothing of what Hal had said
to Betty in the Room of the Fates.
“Ah, here he comes! Here’s the Bad Penny, who always turns up when he’s
wanted!”
Hal was just entering the room, his first appearance except in his
disguise as “Fate.” He had removed the uncomfortable wig and whiskers,
but still wore the gorgeous costume.
The smile with which Betty greeted him quite took away the sting of being
called a Bad Penny, and he said gaily:
“A Lucky Penny, rather, to be chosen by such a merry witch!”
So the girls were foiled in their little plot, and Lena, accepting her
defeat good-naturedly, declared she had to choose both the remaining
knights, and taking an arm of each, she followed the procession to the
dining-room.
The feast was abundant and the guests very merry. More fortune-testing
was provided in the mottoes and snapdragon, and at last the
“fortune-cake” was cut.
This great confection was almost like a bride-cake, save that its
frosting was red and chocolate instead of white.
It was decorated with tiny witches and black cats, which were, of course,
confectionery, and candles were burning all round it.
In it had been baked a thimble, signifying spinsterhood; a gold ring,
betokening matrimony; a penny, meaning wealth; a gold pen for literary
fame; a button for a bachelor; and many other tiny emblems of fortune,
which were arranged only one to a slice.
By dint of clever manœuvering Lena arranged that Betty should get the
slice with the penny in it, and this caused a shout of laughter at
Betty’s expense.
But she didn’t mind, and only glanced merrily at Hal, as she said:
“We seem to be irrevocably fated, don’t we?”
“I’m satisfied to have it so,” he replied gallantly, making a gesture
like a real stage suitor; and Betty returned saucily:
“So am I—during supper-time!”
After supper they assembled in the “black room” for a fagot party.
The screen was removed from the blazing wood fire, and all sat on the
floor, or on cushions or ottomans clustered round the big fireplace.
Each was given a “fagot,” a bundle of tiny sticks tied together with red
and black ribbons, and each, in turn, threw the fagot into the fire.
While the fagot burned, the thrower was to tell a ghost story, which must
stop as soon as the sticks were entirely consumed.
This was a most exasperating performance, for in nearly every instance,
just as the thrilling climax of the story was nearly reached, the sticks
burned out, and the narrator was not allowed to proceed.
Hal Pennington’s was one of the most interesting.
“Mine is a fearful tale,” he said, as he threw his fagot on the fire,
“and I will tell it rapidly that you may all hear the marvelous and
almost incredible _dénouement_.”
The others crowded closer to hear, for Hal spoke in low, mysterious
tones.
“It was a house up on Cape Cod,” he began, “an old-fashioned, rambling
sort of house, that was said to be haunted. It had long borne this
reputation, and one room in particular, a small room at the end of a long
ball-room, was said to be the room where the ghost appeared. The people
who told about it always shuddered, and refused to tell what horrible
shapes the ghost assumed when it made itself visible.”
Harry Harper gave a scared sort of gasping groan, and then the other boys
groaned dismally, while the girls shivered and giggled both at once.
“A lot of us fellows,” went on Hal, “didn’t believe in this ghost, and we
decided to spend a night in the old house and test it.”
“Did no one live in the house?” asked Betty.
“Oh, no; it hadn’t been occupied for years, because of the ghost. Well,
eight of us went there one evening, and one, Phil Hardy, said he would go
into the haunted room and lock himself in, and we others must keep watch
in the ball-room.”
“Why did he lock himself in?” asked Lena.
“Because he thought the ghost was some person playing a trick on us. He
wasn’t afraid of a ghost, but he was of a real marauder. So we other boys
stayed in the big, dark, empty ball-room. That is, it was nearly
empty—only a few chairs and sofas ranged against the wall. We hid behind
these, having previously locked all the doors. You see, we were willing
to receive the ghost, but we didn’t care to have burglars coming in. The
story was that the ghost came from the hall into the ball-room, traversed
the full length of that, and then entered the little anteroom where Phil
was keeping watch.
“For a long time we crouched silently behind our chairs, and then—then we
heard the latch of the door click! We knew it was securely locked, but
our hair rose on our heads as we heard it open and close again. Then
footsteps——”
“Hollow footsteps!” interrupted Harry.
“Yes, hollow footsteps——”
“And clanking chains,” put in Harry, again.
“Look here, who’s telling this?” demanded Hal. “Well, hollow footsteps
and clanking chains resounded on our ears, as we heard the ghost glide
the full length of that long room!
“Half scared to death, we peeped out from behind our chairs, but could
see nothing, though we all heard the footsteps.
“Then, though it didn’t move, we heard the door open into the room where
Phil was, and close again.
“We trembled and turned cold with a mysterious horror, when suddenly an
awful shriek broke the silence!”
There was a breathless pause, and then Betty exclaimed: “Oh, what was
it?”
“I can’t tell you,” said Hal; “my fagot has burned out!”
“Oh, you fraud!” cried Lena; “you timed it so on purpose!”
“Perhaps I did,” said Hal, smiling; “anyhow, there isn’t a word of truth
in my yarn, and I confess I didn’t know quite how to end it up myself!”
“Pooh! that’s no sort of a ghost story!” said Lena, but the others all
agreed that it was the best one, and Hal must have the prize.
Then the party broke up, and the ghosts and witches went for their more
prosaic hats and wraps.
“Thank you, no; Jack will take care of me,” said Betty, as Hal Pennington
asked to escort her home.
“Then mayn’t I go to see you to-morrow?” he said. “Remember, you chose me
to-night in preference to your two devoted swains.”
“That was to disguise my real preference,” said Betty, roguishly; “and,
besides, I had to choose you, because it was so decreed by Fate!”
“There’s many a true word spoken in jest,” declared Hal, theatrically,
and taking a couple of stagy strides across the hall with eyes rolled up
to the ceiling; and then, after a chorus of general good nights, Betty
and Jack went home.