  It was New Year’s eve, and Betty, with her mother and Jack, was spending a few days at the Irvings’ in Boston. Betty was a great favorite with her grandfather, and the two spent delightful hours together as the old gentleman showed Betty the many places of interest in the city. Mr. Irving was of somewhat eccentric nature, and he declared that he much preferred Betty’s frank and sometimes blunt straightforwardness to what he called the “airs and graces” of more fashionably trained young girls. But Mrs. Irving did not share her husband’s views. She thought Betty decidedly lacking in many details of correct deportment, and she urged Mrs. McGuire to send Betty to a boarding-school for a year or two, that she might be properly trained to take her place in society later, with the demeanor becoming a well-bred young lady and an heiress. “But Betty isn’t a young lady yet,” said Mrs. McGuire, looking troubled when these arguments were laid before her. “Not exactly, perhaps,” returned her mother. “But she will live in a city ere long, and, as our descendant, should be made familiar with the finer points of correct behavior. Jack seems to pick up such things immediately, but Betty, though a dear child, is crude in her manner.” “Small wonder,” said Mrs. McGuire, thinking of the lack of advantages in Betty’s early life. “True enough; and that’s all the more reason why she should be placed in an atmosphere of correct deportment at once. She will learn much more by association with cultured young girls of her own age than by your individual tuition. You spoil her by letting her have her own way entirely too much, and you are blind to her faults. You know perfectly well, my dear, I have only Betty’s good at heart in the matter.” Mrs. McGuire did know this, and yet she could not bear the idea of separation from her daughter, with whom she had been so lately reunited. On New Year’s eve the Irvings had made a party for Betty. They had invited young people from some of the best families they knew, and both Betty and Jack were greatly pleased when they learned of it. It was a very citified party, and quite unlike the merry gatherings of Greenborough children. The hours were from seven to ten, and the first part of the evening the guests sat round the rooms, in small gilt chairs that had been brought in for the occasion, and listened to the songs and stories of a professional entertainer. It was a charming young woman who told the stories and sang the songs, and after each number the children clapped their hands sedately and waited for the next. Secretly Betty thought it rather tame, and would have preferred a rollicking game or a merry dance. But she applauded with the others and tried to appear politely pleased. After the program all marched decorously to the dining-room, where a pleasant little supper was served. Then the guests took leave, each making a correct courtesy to the hostess, and expressing their pleasure as if by rote. “Well, if that wasn’t the stiffest party!” said Betty to her mother, when they were alone later. “Those children were just like wooden images.” Mrs. McGuire looked troubled. “Betty dear,” she said, “you don’t see these things quite rightly. Your grandmother thinks those children act correctly, and that you don’t. But, you see, city life is quite different from that of a small village. How would you like to move to live in a big city, Betty?” “And give up Denniston? My beautiful home! Oh, Mother, I don’t want to do that!” “No, and I don’t want you to. Well, we’ll see what can be done.” The “seeing” resulted in long talks by the elders of the family, and these talks resulted in a decision to send Betty at once to a boarding-school at Hillside Manor, a fine country place about a hundred miles away. As the winter term was just beginning, she was to go directly, without returning to Greenborough. The school was most highly recommended, and Mrs. McGuire was persuaded that it would give Betty the “finish” she needed. But the plan did not please Betty at all. She did not rebel,—that was not her way,—but she expressed her feelings in the matter so clearly that there was no doubt as to her state of mind. “I don’t want to go, Mother,” she said; “I hate to be with a lot of girls—I want my own family and my home. Oh, Mother, must I leave my home when I love it so?” “Yes, Betty darling,” said her mother, though strongly tempted to say “No”; “I see it is for your good to send you away, and I’m sure you ought to go. But I shall miss you dreadfully, and just count the days till your return.” “It’s hard lines, Betty,” said Jack; “but as long as they all think you ought to go, I should think you’d be glad to go and learn the right sort of thing, whatever it is. Old Tutor Nixon is wise and all that, but he can’t fill the bill in other ways. At least that’s what Grandma Irving thinks, and so do I, too.” In fact, there was no one who agreed with Betty’s ideas except her grandfather. “All bosh,” he said. “My granddaughter is a natural, unaffected, unspoiled girl. You send her off to Madam Tippetywitch, or whoever she is, and she’ll come back an artificial young miss, with no thought but for fashions and foolishness.” But the old gentleman was entirely overruled by the determination of his wife, and Betty was sent away. None of the family accompanied Betty to the school, as Mrs. Irving felt sure the child would be less homesick if she started off with a gay party of girls who were going back to their classes. And so good-bys were said at the station in Boston, and Betty made the trip to Hillside in company with half a dozen school-girls, in charge of one of the teachers. It was a strange position in which Betty found herself. An heiress in her own right, she yet felt a sense of inferiority which she herself could not explain. Her Irish ancestry revealed itself in her warm-hearted willingness to be friends with the girls, and her inherited New England nature made her reserved and sensitive to either real or apparent slights from them. The girls, notwithstanding their inborn good breeding and their past seasons at Hillside Manor, looked at Betty with ill-concealed curiosity. They knew she was an heiress, and that very fact made them hold aloof from her, lest they be suspected of a spirit of toadying to wealth. But Betty did not appreciate this point, and assumed that the girls were not very cordial because they considered themselves her superiors. Each one spoke to her, politely enough, but in constrained, perfunctory fashion, and then, feeling their duty done, they resumed their own chatter about matters unknown to Betty. Miss Price, the teacher, was a pleasant-faced lady, but, after a few courteous words, she became absorbed in a book, looking up only now and then to glance at her young charges. After a time Betty’s spirit of independence became aroused. She wondered if she were excluded from the girls’ sociability because she herself was lacking in cordiality. Smiling pleasantly, she said to Ada Porter, who sat next to her: “Are you in my classes?” “I don’t know, really,” said Ada, not unkindly, but entirely uninterested. “What classes are you in?” “I don’t know,” said Betty, smiling at the absurdity of the conversation. But Ada didn’t seem to think it humorous, and merely stared at Betty, as she said, “How queer!” Betty colored. She felt awkward and tongue-tied, and yet, the more she realized her inability to impress these girls pleasantly, the more she determined to do so. Then Betty bethought herself of a box of fine candies in her satchel, and taking it out, she passed it around to the other girls. Murmuring conventional thanks, each accepted one bonbon, but declined a second one, and then Betty found herself with her box in her lap, gazing out of the window, as much alone as if there had been no one in the car. But at last the three hours’ ride was over, and Betty’s hopeful nature looked forward to finding some among the pupils who would be more friendly than her traveling associates. Omnibuses from the school met them at the station, and by chance Betty was put in with a dozen girls none of whom had been with her in the car. But conditions were no better than before. They nodded diffidently to Betty, and then began to chatter to each other with the gay freedom of old acquaintances. One girl, however, who sat opposite Betty, was also a new pupil. She had coal-black hair and bright black eyes, that darted quickly about, seeming to take in everything. “You’re new, too, aren’t you?” she said at last, leaning over to seize Betty’s hand. “Yes,” replied Betty, grateful for the word spoken voluntarily to her. “So am I. I think the other girls are hateful to ignore us so. But don’t you mind; we’ll show them!” Though this was independence of spirit, Betty couldn’t quite approve of the way it was expressed, nor of the belligerent wag of the head with which it was emphasized. But the girl’s attitude was friendly toward her, if rather hostile toward the others, and lonely little Betty yearned for friendliness. “Well, you see, they all know each other,” she said, smiling at the black-eyed one; “that makes such a difference, and they’ve so much to tell.” “All right; let us know each other, then. My name’s Madeleine Gorman; what’s yours?” “Betty McGuire,” said Betty, smiling into the friendly eyes. “Betty! My, you are new! You must call yourself Elizabeth up here. Nicknames don’t go.” “Well, I’d just as lief be called Elizabeth; I don’t mind. But I’m Betty at home.” “Yes; I’m Maddy at home, and Mad, and Mother calls me Lina. But I’m sure Madeleine’s the ticket in a fashionable boarding-school.” “Then you’ve been here before?” “No, not here. But to three other grand schools. Mother’s always changing about when she hears of a more ‘select’ one.” Betty was a bit bewildered. Surely the ambitions of Madeleine’s mother were in line with those of Mrs. Irving, and yet Betty couldn’t imagine her grandmother talking like that! She felt sure the Irvings were “select,” but she felt equally sure they would never proclaim it in words. She gave up the problem as too difficult, but, greatly cheered by Madeleine’s cordiality, she met her friendly advances half-way, and when they reached the school they felt really well acquainted. Together they went to the principal. Miss Frelinghuysen was an imposing-looking lady with sharp features and sharp eyes. She welcomed them with effusion, called each “my dear child,” and expressed hope that each would be happy and contented at the school. “May we room together, Elizabeth and I?” Madeleine asked. Miss Frelinghuysen appeared to hesitate. “Do you wish it, my dear?” she asked of Betty. “Yes,” replied Betty, hastily, concluding that a girl she knew to be friendly was preferable to any utter stranger; “yes, I should like it.” “Very well, then you may, my dear.” “You’re a trump,” said Madeleine, squeezing Betty’s arm as they went away; “I was so afraid you wouldn’t room with me.” “Why not?” “Oh, I don’t know. You might feel too grand. You’ve just come into a lot of money, they tell me.” “But that doesn’t make any difference to young girls,” said Betty, simply. “Ho! doesn’t it?” said Madeleine, at which Betty laughed outright. She felt sure it couldn’t be true. Hillside Manor was a large and rather magnificent house, yet when Betty and Madeleine reached their room, they found it small and cramped. There was only one window, and though the two beds were narrow, they left but little space to move about. There was only one wash-stand, and, accustomed of late to having nice things about her, Betty looked around in dismay. It was not that she so much minded not having elaborate furnishings, but such close quarters to be shared with another made her feel hampered, and she thought longingly of her lovely big room at Denniston, with the dainty fittings all her own. And yet she knew she would not like to room alone at the school. That was an awful loneliness to look forward to. So she began unpacking her things to dress for dinner. Madeleine chattered all the time, seeming not to care whether Betty answered or not. “You may have the top drawer of the dresser, and I’ll take the next,” said Madeleine, good-naturedly; “and we’ll divide the hooks in the wardrobe evenly. Which bed do you want?” “I don’t care,” said Betty; “take your choice first.” “All right; I’ll take this one,” and Madeleine flung two large hats on the bed she selected. But as she immediately afterward piled a lot of her things on the other bed, it seemed to make little difference. “Don’t mind those clothes,” she said apologetically. “Pile your own right on top of ’em. We’ll get ’em put away somehow.” But there was no time then, as they must dress for dinner, and the gong would sound shortly. Madeleine greatly admired Betty’s pretty rose-colored voile trimmed with delicate lace, and she was loud in her praise of Betty’s simple bits of jewelry. “Oh, what a lovely locket!” she cried. “Let me wear it to-night, won’t you? I’d love to!” Betty hesitated; she disliked to refuse her friend’s first request, but she couldn’t let any one else wear her locket, with her mother’s picture in it, too. “I want to wear that myself,” she said frankly; “I always wear it afternoons. But you may wear my bangle instead, if you like.” “Oh, yes, I’d love to,” and Madeleine slipped the pretty gold bangle on her wrist. “Won’t you lend me a hair-ribbon, Elizabeth, too? I see you’ve plenty of them, and mine are so old.” “Certainly,” said Betty, willingly offering her box of new ribbons. Madeleine selected a pair of wide red ones, and gaily tied them on her black curls. As it happened, these were Betty’s favorite ribbons, and she had no other red ones, but she was wearing white ones herself, and she said nothing. Madeleine helped herself to Betty’s cologne-water, and made free with several of her toilet appurtenances, and at last, after saying, “Oh, my dear, please lend me a handkerchief; mine are full of holes!” they went down-stairs. Dinner was an awful ordeal. The girls sat at long tables, each headed by a teacher, and were expected to converse on light topics. Betty rather envied the ease with which most of them uttered trivial commonplaces, but she couldn’t help feeling that their accents and shrill little notes of laughter were artificial. Without even formulating her own thoughts, she felt that the girls were all self-conscious and critical of one another, and she conceived a sudden and violent antipathy to the whole atmosphere of the school that she knew she could never conquer. Entirely unconscious of herself, Betty did not realize that she was not taking any part in the “light” conversation, and it was a shock when Miss Price said, in a somewhat mincing tone: “We want you to join in our chat, Miss McGuire. Suppose you tell us how you spent your Christmas day.” Straightforwardly Betty said: “We spent our Christmas day in New York, at the Plaza Hotel.” No sooner had she said this than she saw, by the expressions on the girls’ faces, she had made a mistake. “How interesting!” said Miss Price; but it suddenly flashed on Betty that they all thought her remark ostentatious, and that it was, in some way, inexcusable to spend Christmas day away from one’s home. She couldn’t help looking distressed, for there was not a trace of ostentation in her whole nature, and her enjoyment of her wealth was merely in the simple pleasures that it brought her, without thought of vanity or pride in the possession of it. Never before had she been accused of this, nor was she now, in words, but there was no doubting the meaning of the looks directed at her. Miss Price tactfully changed the subject, but Betty made no more contributions to the “light” conversation of that dinner. 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:
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. “WHY, GRANDFATHER, I—I RAN AWAY!” “WHY, GRANDFATHER, I—I RAN AWAY!” 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. |
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