Part 4

The hour in the drawing-room that followed was worse still. Had Betty only known it, her experience was not so very different from that of any new pupil at a strange school; for of course those who have known each other in previous terms naturally get together to talk over their vacation, and new-comers are left to be taken into favor later, if they qualify for it.

But Betty didn’t know this, and she felt it a personal slight that nobody talked to her and nobody seemed responsive if she opened a conversation.

Madeleine stayed by her side, but the more Betty talked with her, the more she was convinced she didn’t like her. “And it’s most ungrateful of me,” thought poor Betty to herself, “for she’s the only one who has shown me decent friendliness, so she is.”

At last it was bedtime, and the girls filed out of the room, saying good night to Miss Frelinghuysen as they passed.

“Hold your hand a little higher,” she said to Betty, “and your head just a trifle to one side,—so.”

Betty imitated the model, alas, only too well! So anxious was she to do as she was told, that her attitude was an exaggeration of the principal’s; indeed, it seemed a mockery, though nothing was farther from Betty’s intention.

The girls behind her giggled outright, which didn’t speak very well for their innate good breeding.

Miss Frelinghuysen turned scarlet, and said: “Report to me in my study to-morrow morning at ten, Miss McGuire. Good night.”

“Good night,” said Betty, all unaware of what she had done wrong.

“Oh, Elizabeth, you were killing!” declared Madeleine, when they reached their room. “But how dared you do it?”

She went off in peals of subdued laughter, only pausing at Betty’s amazed, “What _do_ you mean?”

“Why, the way you mimicked the principal! It was great! You looked _so_ ridiculous, and that made her seem silly. Oh, it was too good!”

“Why, I didn’t mean to do any such thing!” said Betty, ready to cry at the idea of having added a misdemeanor to her other troubles.

“Well, you did! And she’ll never believe you didn’t mean to. I couldn’t believe it myself if you didn’t look so scared to death. Oh, you’ll catch it to-morrow!”

Miserable indeed now, Betty began to prepare for bed. She could scarcely find room for her things, for Madeleine had appropriated far more than half of the cupboards and pegs; and the table and two chairs were strewn with her not very orderly wardrobe.

“Say, Elizabeth,” she said, suddenly coming toward Betty as they were almost ready to put out the light, “I want to ask you something. I’m sure you won’t mind, for of course it’s nothing to you, but will you lend me a little money? Just till my allowance comes, you know.”

“Why, yes,” said Betty, who, never having heard such a request before, supposed it was polite to grant it. “How much do you want?”

Encouraged by such prompt compliance, Madeleine doubled the amount she had meant to ask for.

“Could you—could you make it twenty dollars?” she said.

“Certainly; but what is there to spend money for here? I didn’t bring so very much with me.”

“Oh, I want to join a society to-morrow; I’m ’most sure I can get in, but you have to pay dues in advance.”

Betty gave Madeleine the money without further remark, and the two girls went to bed.

But Betty could not sleep. She lay there in the dark, wondering how she could live in this awful school. Madeleine’s mention of a society alarmed her. She would be glad to join a society if the girls would be nice to her; but to join one and have the members cool and unpleasant toward her would be awful.

And already she disliked Madeleine. Not because she had borrowed money, though somehow Betty felt that was not a right thing for a young girl to do, but because she was so careless with her things and so pushing and forward in her intimacy with Betty. Betty laughed to herself at this thought! Madeleine was _too_ friendly, and the other girls were not friendly enough. Well, that was true. And Betty had looked at their faces carefully that evening. Not one had given her a glance of simple, kindly, girlish friendship. They had looked at her curiously, inquisitively, and even enviously, but for some reason she knew they didn’t like her.

Poor little Betty knew nothing of class distinction, and little dreamed that her warm-hearted, generous nature could easily conquer these difficulties in a short time. She fell at last into a troubled sleep, only to awaken long before dawn, with a heavy heart and a feeling of despair.

She lay in her narrow bed, thinking over the experiences of the day before, and looking forward to the interview with the principal to which she was summoned at ten o’clock.

And as she thought of that, her spirit revolted. She had not mimicked the lady’s manner. She had simply tried to do as she was told, and she would not be punished for it!

A great resolve came to her, so great that she could scarcely formulate it to herself.

But, prompted by her indomitable Irish will-power, and urged on by her outraged sense of justice, she rose slowly from her bed, and, moving softly about the room, began to dress herself. The first touches of dawn gave her just light enough to distinguish the larger objects in the room, and by the time she was fully dressed she could see almost clearly. She had put on the traveling-suit she had worn from Boston, and carried her small satchel, leaving her trunk partly unpacked.

She could send for her clothes afterward, or she did not care if she never saw them again. What was the use of a fortune if it didn’t enable one to run away from a terrible place without worrying about one’s clothes?

She glanced at sleeping Madeleine, and then, on an impulse, she wrote a hurried note, which she pinned to her own pillow:

Dear Madeleine: I did not mimic the lady, and I do not wish to be punished for what I didn’t do. Also, I do not like the school, and I am going home.

Elizabeth McGuire.

P. S. You may keep my bangle to remember me by.

It was the sight of the bangle still on Madeleine’s wrist that prompted this postscript, and then, taking her satchel, Betty softly opened the door and closed it behind her.

The hall was almost dark, and Betty had no notion how she was to get out of the house, but at least she meant to try in every possible way.

The large front door was so firmly fastened with chains and heavy bolts that she didn’t even attempt to open that, but she remembered the great window in the drawing-room. She easily unfastened one of those long French windows opening on the veranda, and in a moment was walking rapidly down the drive. It was a long walk to the railroad station, but the way was unmistakable, and Betty trudged on, her heart growing lighter at every step.

The sun was shining brightly when she reached the station, and the ticket-agent told her a train for Boston would stop there at a quarter before eight. It was nearly that then, and Betty bought her ticket, and hoped fervently she could get away before any one from the school should follow her. Not that she intended to return with them if they did. She had no thought of running away; she knew only that she could not live at Hillside Manor, so she had left it.

The ticket-agent scanned her curiously, but Betty looked perfectly unconcerned, and he saw no occasion to question her.

About eleven o’clock she reached Boston. On the journey she had been thinking over the situation, and, though she had no fear of her mother’s displeasure at her return, she knew her Grandmother Irving would be extremely annoyed.

Not so, though, her grandfather.

And, with true Irish ingenuity, Betty concluded to go straight to him.

She took a cab at the Boston station, and her calm dignity seemed to forbid any surprise on the part of the cabman, and she gave the address of Mr. Irving’s business office.

Paying the cabman and dismissing him, she went straight to her grandfather’s private room and walked in.

“Well, I’ve come home, Grandfather,” she announced cheerfully.

“Bless my soul! Betty, is that you? What are _you_ doing here? Are you ill?”

“No, indeed,” and Betty’s spirits rose at the sight of the dear, familiar face. She threw her arms around his neck, and said:

“Oh, Grandfather, _you’ll_ help me out, won’t you? I _couldn’t_ stay there! Their manners are _awful_! And they thought I mocked at the lady, but I didn’t. And I know Grandmother won’t like my coming home, but I just _had_ to! So you fix it up with her, won’t you? And what do you think? I haven’t had a scrap of breakfast, and I just couldn’t eat my dinner last night, so I’m fearfully hungry.”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Irving again. “Why, you poor child! Wouldn’t they give you any breakfast?”

“Oh, you don’t understand! I came away before anybody was up. I took the 7.45 from Hillside station, and, you see, coming off suddenly as I did, I—I couldn’t stop for breakfast. Why, Grandfather, I—I _ran away_!”

“You little rascal! I haven’t the heart to blame you. But, as you suspect, your grandmother won’t be glad! Betty, you’re a caution! Did you have any money with you?”

“Yes, but a girl borrowed twenty dollars last night, so I didn’t have much to spare!”

Mr. Irving shook with laughter.

“Oh, Betty, to think of a young lady at a finishing-school borrowing from a little unfledged pigeon like you! Well, that ought to trouble your grandmother! But come on, you blessed baby; let’s go and get some breakfast at the nearest restaurant, and then go home to break the news to your relatives! Yes, Betty, your old grandfather’ll stand by you for a plucky little martyr.”

“I thought you would,” said Betty, tucking her little hand in his arm, as they started out together.

IV AN ACCEPTABLE VALENTINE

The McGuires had lived for more than a month in their pleasant home on Commonwealth Avenue, and Betty had begun to feel at home there.

The house was only rented for the winter, and Denniston Hall was temporarily closed until the summer-time, when they expected to go back there. The whole arrangement had been made in order that Betty might attend school in Boston, and she was a day-pupil in Miss Whittier’s school for girls, which was quite near her home.

The school was very much to Betty’s liking. She had started in under very pleasant auspices, as she had become acquainted with two or three of the girls before she went. She soon made friends with the others, and, as school hours lasted only from nine o’clock till one, she had the advantage of being most of the time in her own home.

The house, completely furnished, had been rented from some friends of Mrs. McGuire’s who were traveling abroad, but Betty had had some of her favorite belongings sent up from Denniston.

Good-natured Pete had taken Betty’s list and had carefully packed and forwarded every item on it, and then, after securely locking up the house, had followed the family to Boston, and was installed there as general utility-man, and a very valuable one at that.

Grandma Jean and little Polly were also there, and Jack, who had entered the Institute of Technology, was delighted with his new opportunities for progress in his studies.

Mrs. McGuire had wisely concluded not to make very desperate efforts to improve Betty’s “manners,” but to trust to the general influences of a well-ordered school and well-bred companions.

And so Betty was happy in her new school life, and was rapidly making firm friends among the pupils there.

Indeed, given a fair start, she could not fail to be a general favorite, for her warm-hearted unselfishness and her cheerful good nature were unfailing, and she was always ready to do a favor or to enter into a plan with enthusiasm.

Though friendly with the others, Betty liked Jeanette Porter and Dorothy Bates best of all the girls, and this trio were often together, both in and out of school hours.

Jeanette was a slender, rather delicate, girl, with a sweet countenance and large, serious eyes. Dorothy was a gay, roly-poly sort of a being, who was always smiling, and irrepressibly inclined to mischief. But they both loved Betty, and she was fond of them, and never a cross word marred the happiness of their intimacy. Sometimes, if Jeanette seemed too sober-faced, the other two would tease her a bit or play a merry joke on her, but always in a spirit of harmless fun, and when their victim could no longer keep from smiling at their foolery, they declared themselves satisfied.

But one day, as they walked home from school together, Jeanette was really troubled about something, and though she tried to conceal it, she was on the very verge of tears.

“What’s the matter, Jeanie?” said Betty, tucking her arm through her friend’s, while Dorothy walked on her other side.

“Nothing, Betty,” said Jeanette, not crossly, but decidedly. “Please don’t ask me about it.”

“Indeed we will ask you about it!” declared Dorothy. “You just must tell us what’s up, because we’re your trusties and trues—aren’t we, Betty?”

“Of course we are! What’s up, Jeanette? Anybody been scolding you?”

“No, it isn’t that. Oh, girls, I don’t want to tell you!”

“Well, I like that!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Now, you just out with it, Miss Secret-Keeper, and pretty quick, too!”

“Oh, well, it’s nothing, anyhow,” said Jeanette, with a heightened color; “it’s only that I can’t go to the reception.”

“Not go to the reception!” cried Betty and Dorothy together. “Why not?”

“Well, because—because I can’t have a new dress.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Betty. “Why, I’ll give you a new dress.”

To Betty’s amazement, Jeanette turned to her with a look she never forgot.

“How _dare_ you say such a thing, Betty McGuire? If you weren’t one of my best friends, I’d never forgive you!”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” stammered Betty, quite crushed by Jeanette’s offended look.

“Of course she didn’t,” chimed in Dorothy; “in fact, she didn’t mean it at all.”

Betty was about to speak, but Dorothy pinched her arm to be silent, and went on herself.

“You don’t need a new dress, Jeanette. Your white muslin with the lace yoke is a very pretty dress?”

“It was; but it’s just been done up, and it went all to pieces. It’s so old, you know. Mother said she didn’t believe it would stand washing again. So I can’t go, and I told Miss Whittier to-day that I wouldn’t select a piece.”

“Oh, what a shame!” cried Betty; “and you recite so well, too. Can’t you wear some other dress?”

“No, I have nothing fit for an evening affair, and Mother says I can’t have a new one. So I’m not going.”

At Miss Whittier’s school a reception was given each winter, and always a very important event. The parents and friends of the pupils were invited, and elaborate preparations were made for the occasion. The girls wore their prettiest frocks, and a program of entertainment was given in which the pupils who excelled in singing or declamation took part.

Usually this reception was held on the date of some poet’s birthday, and this year the 27th of February, Longfellow’s birthday, had been chosen.

It was now the 10th, but the intervening time was none too long in which to prepare for the great event.

Betty, Jeanette, and Dorothy were all among the ones chosen to recite from the poet’s works, and a prize would be rewarded to the one who best deserved it.

Each contestant was allowed to make her own selection, and already Betty was practising on “The Wreck of the _Hesperus_,” while Dorothy had chosen “The Skeleton in Armor.”

These decisions were profound secrets among the school-girls, only Miss Whittier being supposed to know what each girl was to recite. But of course our three little friends told each other in the strictest confidence, and when Jeanette announced her intention of staying away from the reception, both Betty and Dorothy were astounded.

But argumenting and coaxing were in vain, and when Jeanette turned in at her own gate, the other two said good-by and went on toward their homes.

“Whatever made Jeanette so angry when I offered to give her a dress?” exclaimed Betty as soon as she and Dorothy were alone.

“Why, you goose, of course she wouldn’t accept a dress from anybody! You ought to have known that the mere mention of such a thing would offend her!”

“But I don’t see why. I’d love to give it to her.”

“It would hurt her pride too much. Don’t you see, the Porters are not at all well off,—I don’t mean quite poor, but I mean they have to scrimp to get along,—but they’re fearfully proud. Jeanette would be quite willing to say she couldn’t afford a new frock, but she’d die before she’d let any one give her one.”

“Well, I think that’s silly. Just because I happen to have more money than she has, is the very reason I ought to give her a dress.”

“It does seem so,” admitted Dorothy, “but it isn’t so, and don’t you ever propose it to her again, for it won’t be a bit of good, and it only makes her angry.”

“Well, I won’t, then, but won’t it be horrid not to have Jeanette at the reception? It takes all the fun out of it for us, I think.”

“Yes, I think so, too; and look here, Betty, don’t you tell anybody the reason why Jeanette’s not coming. She told us, of course, but she knew we wouldn’t tell.”

“Didn’t she tell Miss Whittier?”

“Of course not, silly. Though most likely Miss Whittier guessed.”

“But you said Jeanette would just as lief tell it.”

“Well, she might tell it to us, not to any one else. I declare, Betty, you don’t seem to have any gumption about some things!”

“No,” said Betty, rather meekly, for she was often bothered by her lack of “gumption” about matters which were new to her experience.

On reaching her own home, she went straight to her mother with the story.

Mrs. McGuire sat reading in the pleasant library, and looked up with a loving smile as Betty entered rather abruptly.

“And will you tell me, Mother,” she concluded, after she had poured out her indignation, “why Jeanette should get so angry at what I said?”

“You can’t understand, deary,” said her mother, smoothing Betty’s tangled dark curls, “that peculiar pride which revolts at accepting anything of money value from anybody outside one’s own family. It is, perhaps, especially a New England trait, and your own Irish heart is so big it leaves no room for the Puritan instincts which are also yours by inheritance. But Dorothy is right, dear, and you must not repeat your offer to Jeanette, though I, too, am sorry that it is not possible.”

“But, Mother, if I could think of some way to give her a dress without letting her know where it came from, wouldn’t that do?”

“Hardly, dear. She would know at once that you had sent it, and would, of course, be offended.”

“Oh, dear! I think people are just silly.”

“That may be, but you can’t make the world different in a moment. Come to luncheon now, and tell me all about your own plans for the reception.”

“All right; but, Mother, I’m going to find some way for Jeanette to go to it, too. I don’t know how yet, but you see if I can’t fix it somehow!”

“Very well, Betty; but don’t do anything without consulting me.”

“No, I won’t, and I haven’t thought of anything yet, but I’m sure I shall.”

All the rest of that day, Betty thought hard, but it was not until after she had gone to bed at night that an idea flashed upon her. Such a beautiful idea! She wondered that she hadn’t thought of it sooner!

She felt she must discuss it with her mother at once, for if it wouldn’t do, she wanted to think up something else. But surely it would do! Such a grand idea _must_ be all right!

She jumped up and put on her blue kimono, and poking her bare feet into little bedroom slippers of blue quilted satin, she ran out into the hall and called over the banister:

“Mother, are you alone? May I come down?”

In response to the “Yes, Betty dear; what is it?” she ran down-stairs, and, flinging a sofa-cushion on the floor, nestled against her mother’s knee.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “I’ve thought of the beautifullest plan to give Jeanette a dress and not offend her! Oh, do approve of it, Mother, please do! It’s such a good plan!”

“Tell me about it, Betty, so that I can enjoy it, too.”

“Well, you see, Mother, to-day’s the tenth. So next Saturday’s the fourteenth—Valentine’s Day, you know. Now, I want to get a lovely dress for Jeanette, and make it into a valentine, and send it to her! Don’t you see, nobody could get angry at a valentine, and you can’t put your name to it, and so she’d have to keep it!”

Betty looked so radiant over her plan that Mrs. McGuire hadn’t the heart to disapprove of it, though she felt a little dubious about its wisdom.

“Let me think it over,” she said quietly.

“But remember, Mother, I mean to make it like a real valentine. Put it in a box, you know, and lace paper around it, and sort of hearts and darts and things, and a verse, a lovely, loving verse. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Yes; that effect would greatly help it, for valentines nowadays often contain a lace handkerchief or bonbons or something by way of a gift. Your plan seems to grow on me, Betty.”

“Oh, Mother, how lovely you are!” Betty jumped up from her low seat to give her mother a most enthusiastic squeeze, and then, big girl though she was, stayed cuddled in her arms while they continued the conversation.

“How can you get a dress to fit her, my child?”

“I thought about that. But if we just buy one all ready-made, you know, about my size, I’m sure it will be about right for her. And Mrs. Porter can take it in or let it out, or whatever it needs. A soft, white kind of a one, I mean.”

“Chiffon?”

“Yes, with lace here and there, and cunning little ribbon bows, and knots of velvet, or something fancy-like for evening.”

“Well, we’ll go together to select it.”

“To-morrow afternoon, after school?”

“Yes, or next day. Of course you won’t send it until Saturday?”

“No; but we have to fix it up valentine-y, you know, so we’d better go to-morrow. Then we must write the verse. Mother, won’t you make up the verse? I don’t want a ‘Roses red, violets blue’ sort of a one.”

“Very well; skip back to bed, and I’ll see what I can do in the poetry line.”

“Oh, you dear Mother! You _are_ so sweet!” And with a final, rather smothering embrace, Betty said good night, and ran back to her bed to dream of valentines and Longfellow and Jeanette, all in a grand jumble.

It was hard next day to say nothing of her plan to Dorothy, but Mrs. McGuire had decided if it were to be successful it must be kept absolutely secret. So not even Jack was told about it, and, after luncheon, Mrs. McGuire and Betty started off to buy the frock. Mrs. McGuire had slight misgivings about it all, but she determined to try the experiment, for it was the only way that the thing could possibly be accomplished, and she felt very sorry for Jeanette. After looking at several pretty, girlish dresses, they decided upon a lovely one of cream-white chiffon, made over white silk. It had a soft lace bertha, bordered with a wreath of tiny pink rosebuds. It was a simple, dainty little gown, but very effective, and Betty agreed that it would suit Jeanette perfectly.

The saleswoman was asked to provide an especially nice box, and Betty examined it herself, to be sure that the corners were unbroken.

Then, with explicit directions about careful packing and wrapping and speedy sending of it home, they went away.

“Of course, Mother, I must send Jeanette another valentine, too; a real one, you know, so she won’t suspect about the dress. And, anyway, I want to buy at least twenty other valentines to send. Will you go with me?”

So they went to another shop, and Betty bought valentines for a few school-girls and other friends she had made in Boston; for Jack and Polly and Grandma Jean, and for some of her Greenborough friends.

Nor were Pete and Ellen forgotten, for Betty well knew how they would prize valentines from her. And so engrossing was the selection of all these that the afternoon slipped away, and when they reached home, to their great joy the new dress had already arrived.