  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.” HE STOPPED HIS TEAM AND WAITED AS BETTY CAME DOWN THE STEPS HE STOPPED HIS TEAM AND WAITED AS BETTY CAME DOWN THE STEPS 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. BETTY, WITH HER SLEEVES ROLLED BACK, WAS WHISKING AWAY AT SOMETHING IN A BOWL “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. |
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