Chapter 3 Betty Vivian by L. T. Meade
GOING SOUTH
It was a rough stone house, quite bare, only one story high, and without a tree growing anywhere near it. It stood on the edge of a vast Scotch moor, and looked over acres and acres of purple heather--acres so extensive that the whole country seemed at that time of year to be covered with a sort of mantle of pinky, pearly gold, something between the violet and the saffron tones of a summer sunset.
Three girls were seated on a little stone bench outside the lonely, neglected-looking house. They were roughly and plainly dressed. They wore frocks of the coarsest Scotch tweed; and Scotch tweed, when it is black, can look very coarse, indeed. They clung close together--a desolate-looking group--Betty, the eldest, in the middle; Sylvia pressing up to her at one side; Hetty, with her small, cold hand locked in her sister's, on the other.
"I wonder when Uncle John will come," was Hetty's remark after a pause. "Jean says we are on no account to travel alone; so, if he doesn't come to-night, we mayn't ever reach that fine school after all."
"I am not going to tell him about the packet. I have quite made up my mind on that point," said Betty, dropping her voice.
"Oh, Bet!" The other two looked up at their elder sister.
She turned and fixed her dark-gray eyes first on one face, then on the other. "Yes," she said, nodding emphatically; "the packet is sure to hold money, and it will be a safe-guard. If we find the school intolerable we'll have the wherewithal to run away."
"I've read in books that school life is very jolly sometimes," remarked Sylvia.
"Not _that_ school," was Betty's rejoinder.
"But why not that school, Betty?"
Betty shrugged her shoulders. "Haven't you heard that miserable creature, Fanny Crawford, talk of it? I shouldn't greatly mind going anywhere else, for if there's a human being whom I cordially detest, it is my cousin, Fanny Crawford."
"I hear the sound of wheels!" cried Sylvia, springing to her feet.
"Ah, and there's Donald coming back," said Betty; "and there is Uncle John! No chance of escape, girls! We have got to go through it. Poor old David!"--here she alluded to the horse who was tugging a roughly made dogcart up the very steep hill--"he'll miss us, perhaps; and so will Fritz and Andrew, the sheep-dogs. Heigh-ho! there's no good being too sorrowful. That money is a rare comfort!"
By this time the old white horse, and Donald, who was driving, and the gentleman who sat at the opposite side of the dogcart, drew up at the top of the great plateau. The gentleman alighted and walked swiftly towards the three girls. They rose simultaneously to meet him.
In London, and in any other part of the south of England, the weather was warm at this time of the year; but up on Craigie Muir it was cold, and the children looked desolate as they turned in their coarse clothes to meet their guardian.
Sir John came up to them with a smile. "Now, my dears, here I am--Betty, how do you do? Kiss your uncle, child."
Betty raised her pretty lips and gave the weather-beaten cheek of Sir John Crawford an unwilling kiss. Sylvia and Hetty clasped each other's hands, clung a little more closely together, and remained mute.
"Come, come," said Sir John; "we mustn't be miserable, you know! I hope that good Jean has got you something for supper, for the air up here would make any one hungry. Shall we go into the house? We all have to start at cockcrow in the morning. Donald knows, and has arranged, he tells me, for a cart to hold your luggage. Let's come in, children. I really should be glad to get out of this bitter blast."
"It is just lovely!" said Betty. "I am drinking it in all I can, for I sha'n't have any more for many a long day."
Sir John, who had the kindest face in the world, accompanied by the kindest heart, looked anxiously at the handsome girl. Then he thought what a splendid chance he was giving his young cousins; for, although he allowed them to call him uncle, the relationship between them was not quite so close.
They all entered the sparsely furnished and bare-looking house. Six deal boxes, firmly corded with great strands of rope, were piled one on top of the other in the narrow hall.
"Here's our luggage," said Betty.
"My dear children--those deal boxes! What possessed you to put your things into trunks of that sort?"
"They are the only trunks we have," replied Betty. "And I think supper is ready," she continued; "I smell the grouse. I told Jean to have plenty ready for supper."
"Good girl, good girl!" said Sir John. "Now I will go upstairs and wash my hands; and I presume you will do the same, little women. Then we'll all enjoy a good meal."
A few minutes later Sir John Crawford and the three Misses Vivian were seated round a rough table, on which was spread a very snowy but coarse cloth. The grouse were done to a turn. There was excellent coffee, the best scones in the world, and piles of fresh butter. In addition, there was a small bottle of very choice Scotch whiskey placed on the sideboard, with lemons and other preparations for a comforting drink by and by for Sir John.
The girls were somewhat silent during the meal. Even Betty, who could be a chatterbox when she pleased, vouchsafed but few remarks.
But when the supper-things had been cleared away Sir John said emphatically, turning to the three girls, "You got my telegram, with its splendid news?"
"We got your telegram, Uncle John," said Hetty.
"With its splendid news?" repeated Sir John.
Hetty pursed up her firm lips; Sylvia looked at him and smiled; Betty crossed the room and put a little black kettle on the peat fire to boil.
"You would like some whisky-punch?" Betty said. "I know how to make it."
"Thank you, my dear; I should very much. And do you three lassies object to a pipe?"
"Object!" said Betty. "No; Donald smokes every night; and since--since----" Her voice faltered; her face grew pale. After a minute's silence she said in an abrupt tone, "We go into the kitchen most nights to talk to Donald while he smokes."
"Then to-night you must talk to me. I can tell you, my dears, you are the luckiest young girls in the whole of Great Britain to have got admitted to Haddo Court; and my child Fan will look after you. You understand, dears, that everything you want you apply to me for. I am your guardian, appointed to that position by your dear aunt. You can write to me yourselves, or ask Fan to do so. By the way, I have been looking through some papers in a desk which belonged to your dear aunt, and cannot find a little sealed packet which she left there. Do you know anything about it, any of you?"
"No, uncle, nothing," said Betty, raising her dark-gray eyes and fixing them full on his face.
"Well, I suppose it doesn't matter," said Sir John; "but in a special letter to me she mentioned the packet. I suppose, however, it will turn up. Now, my dears, you are in luck. When you get over your very natural grief----"
"Oh, don't!" said Betty. "Get over it? We'll never get over it!"
"My dear, dear child, time softens all troubles. If it did not we couldn't live. I admire you, Betty, for showing love for one so worthy----"
"If you don't look out, Uncle John," suddenly exclaimed Hetty, "you'll have Betty howling; and when she begins that sort of thing we can't stop her for hours."
Sir John raised his brows and looked in a puzzled way from one girl to the other. "You will be very happy at Haddo Court," he said; "and you are in luck to get there. Now, off to bed, all three of you, for we have to make an early start in the morning." Sir John held out his hand as he spoke. "Kiss me, Betty," he said to the eldest girl.
"Are you my uncle?" she inquired.
"No; your father and I were first cousins. But, my poor child, I stand in the place of father and guardian to you now."
"I'd rather not kiss you, if you don't mind," said Betty.
"You must please yourself. Now go to bed, all of you."
The girls left the little sitting-room. It was their fashion to hold each other's hands, and in a chain of three they now entered the kitchen.
"Jean," said Betty, "_he_ says we are to go to bed. I want to ask you and Donald a question, and I want to ask it quickly."
"And what is the question, my puir bit lassie?" asked Jean Macfarlane.
"It is this," said Betty--"you and Donald can answer it quickly--if we want to come back here you will take us in, won't you?"
"Take you in, my bonny dears! Need you ask? There's a shelter always for the bit lassies under this roof," said Donald Macfarlane.
"Thanks, Donald," said Betty. "And thank you, Jean," she added. "Come, girls, let's go to bed."
The girls went up to the small room in the roof which they occupied. They slept in three tiny beds side by side. The beds were under the sloping roof, and the air of the room was cold. But Betty, Sylvia, and Hetty were accustomed to cold, and did not mind it. The three little beds touched each other, and the three girls quickly undressed and got between the coarse sheets. Betty, as the privileged one, was in the middle. And now a cold little hand was stretched out from the left bed towards her, and a cold little hand from the right bed did ditto.
"Betty," said Sylvia in a choking voice, "you will keep us up? You are the brave one."
"Except when I cry," said Betty.
"Oh, but, Betty," said Hetty, "you will promise not to! It's awful when you do! You will promise, won't you?"
"I will try my best," said Betty.
"How long do you think, Betty, that you and Hetty and I will be able to endure that awful school?" said Sylvia.
"It all depends," said Betty. "But we've got the money to get away with when we like. It was left for our use. Now, look, here, girls. I am going to tell you a tremendous secret."
"Oh, yes! oh, yes!" exclaimed the other two. "Betty, you're a perfect darling; you are the most heroic creature in the world!"
"Listen; and don't talk, girls. I told a lie to-night about that packet; but no one else will know about it. There was one day--now don't interrupt me, either of you, or I'll begin howling, and then I can't stop--there was one day when Auntie Frances was very ill. She sent for me, and I went to her; and she said, 'I am able to leave you so very little, my children; but there is a nest-egg in a little packet in the right-hand drawer of my bureau. You must always keep it--always until you really want it.' I felt so bursting all round my heart, and so choky in my throat, that I thought I'd scream there and then; but I kept all my feelings in, and went away, and pretended to dearest auntie that I didn't feel it a bit. Then, you know, she, she--died."
"She was very cold," said Sylvia. "I saw her--I seem to see her still. Her face made me shiver."
"Don't!" said Betty in a fierce voice. "Do you want me to howl all night long?"
"I won't! I won't!" said Sylvia. "Go on, Betty darling--heroine that you are!"
"Well, I went to her bureau straight away, and I took the packet. As a matter of fact, I already knew quite well that it was there; for I had often opened auntie's bureau and looked at her treasures, so I could lay my hands on it at once. I never mean to part with the packet. It's heavy, so it's sure to be full of gold--plenty of gold for us to live on if we don't like that beastly school. When Sir John--or Uncle John, as he wants us to call him----"
"He's no uncle of mine," said Hetty.
"I like him, for my part," said Sylvia.
"Don't interrupt me," said Betty. "When Uncle John asked me about the packet I said 'No,' of course; and I mean to say 'No' again, and again, and again, and again, if ever I'm questioned about it. For didn't auntie say it was for us? And what right has he to interfere?"
"It does sound awfully interesting!" exclaimed Sylvia. "I do hope you've put it in a very, very safe place, Betty?"
Betty laughed softly. "Do you remember the little, old-fashioned pockets auntie always wore inside her dress--little, flat pockets made of very strong calico? Well, it's in one of those; and I mean to secure a safer hiding-place for it when I get to that abominable Court. Now perhaps we'd better go to sleep."
"Yes; I am dead-sleepy," responded Sylvia.
By and by her gentle breathing showed that she was in the land of slumber. Hetty quickly followed her twin-sister's example. But Betty lay wide awake. She was lying flat on her back, and looking out into the sort of twilight which still seemed to pervade the great moors. Her eyes were wide open, and wore a startled, fixed expression, like the eyes of a girl who was seeing far beyond what she appeared to be looking at.
"Yes, I have done right," she said to herself. "There must always be an open door, and this is my open door; and I hope God, and auntie up in heaven, will forgive me for having told that lie. And I hope God, and auntie up in heaven, will forgive me if I tell it again; for I mean to go on telling it, and telling it, and telling it, until I have spent all that money."
While Betty lay thinking her wild thoughts, Sir John Crawford, downstairs, made a shrewd and careful examination of the different articles of furniture which had been left in the little stone house by his old friend, Miss Frances Vivian. Everything was in perfect order. She was a lady who abhorred disorder, who could not endure it for a single moment. All her letters and her neatly receipted bills were tied up with blue silk, and laid, according to date, one on top of the other. Her several little trinkets, which eventually would belong to the girls, were in their places. Her last will and testament was also in the drawer where she had told Sir John he would find it. Everything was in order--everything, exactly as the poor lady had left it, with the exception of the little sealed packet. Where was it? Sir John felt puzzled and distressed. He had not an idea what it contained; for Miss Vivian, in her letter to him, had simply asked him to take care of it for her nieces, and had not made any comment with regard to its contents. Sir John certainly could not accuse the girls of purloining it. After some pain and deliberate thought, he decided to go out and speak to the old servants, who were still up, in the kitchen. They received him respectfully, and yet with a sort of sour expression which was natural to their homely Scotch faces.
Donald rose silently, and asked the gentleman if he would seat himself.
"No, Donald," replied Sir John in his hearty, pleasant voice; "I cannot stay. I am going to bed, being somewhat tired."
"The bit chamber is no' too comfortable for your lordship," said Jean, dropping a profound curtsey.
"The chamber will do all right. I have slept in it before," said Sir John.
"Eh, dear, now," said Jean, "and you be easy to please."
"I want you, Jean Macfarlane, to call the young ladies and myself not later than five o'clock to-morrow morning, and to have breakfast ready at half-past five; and, Donald, we shall require the dogcart to drive to the station at six o'clock. Have you given orders about the young ladies' luggage? It ought to start not later than four to-morrow morning to be in time to catch the train."
"Eh, to be sure," said Donald. "It's myself has seen to all that. Don't you fash yourself, laird. Things'll be in time. All me and my wife wants is that the bit lassies should have every comfort."
"I will see to that," said Sir John.
"We'll miss them, puir wee things!" exclaimed Jean; and there came a glint of something like tears into her hard and yet bright blue eyes.
"I am sure you will. You have, both of you, been valued servants both to my cousin and her nieces. I wish to make you a little present each." Here Sir John fumbled in his pocket, and took out a couple of sovereigns.
But the old pair drew back in some indignation. "Na, na!" they exclaimed; "it isn't our love for them or for her as can be purchased for gowd."
"Well, as you please, my good people. I respect you all the more for refusing. But now, may I ask you a question?"
"And whatever may that be?" exclaimed Jean.
"I have looked through your late mistress's effects----"
"And whatever may 'effects' be?" inquired Donald.
"What she has left behind her."
"Ay, the laird uses grand words," remarked Donald, turning to his wife.
"Maybe," said Jean; "but its the flavor of the Scotch in the speech that softens my heart the most."
"Well," said Sir John quickly, "there's one little packet I cannot find. Miss Vivian wrote to me about it in a letter which I received after her death. I haven't an idea what it contained; but she seemed to set some store by it, and it was eventually to be the property of the young ladies."
"Puir lambs! Puir lambs!" said Jean.
"I have questioned them about it, but they know nothing."
"And how should they, babes as they be?" said Jean.
"You'll not be offended, Jean Macfarlane and Donald Macfarlane, if I ask you the same question?"
Jean flushed an angry red for a moment; but Donald's shrewd face puckered up in a smile.
"You may ask, and hearty welcome," he said; "but I know no more aboot the bit packet than the lassies do, and that's naucht at all."
"Nor me no more than he," echoed Jean.
"Do you think, by any possibility, any one from outside got into the house and stole the little packet?"
"Do I think!" exclaimed Jean. "Let me tell you, laird, that a man or woman as got in here unbeknownst to Donald and me would go out again pretty quick with a flea in the ear."
Sir John smiled. "I believe you," he said. He went upstairs, feeling puzzled. But when he laid his head on his pillow he was so tired that he fell sound asleep. The sleep seemed to last but for a minute or two when Jean's harsh voice was heard telling him to rise, for it was five o'clock in the morning. Then there came a time of bustle and confusion. The girls, with their faces white as sheets, came down to breakfast in their usual fashion--hand linked within hand. Sir John thought, as he glanced at them, that he had never seen a more desolate-looking little trio. They hardly ate any of the excellent food which Jean had provided. The good baronet guessed that their hearts were full, and did not worry them with questions.
The pile of deal boxes had disappeared from the narrow hall and was already on its way to Dunstan Station, where they were to meet a local train which would presently enable them to join the express for London. There was a bewildered moment of great anguish when Jean caught the lassies to her breast, when the dogs clustered round to be embraced and hugged and patted. Then Donald, leading the horse (for there was no room for him to ride in the crowded dogcart), started briskly on the road to Dunstan, and Craigie Muir was left far behind.
By and by they all reached the railway station. The luggage was piled up on the platform. Sir John took first-class tickets to London, and the curious deal boxes found their place in the luggage van. Donald's grizzly head and rugged face were seen for one minute as the train steamed out of the station. Betty clutched at the side of her dress where Aunt Frances' old flat pocket which contained the packet was secured. The other two girls looked at her with a curious mingling of awe and admiration, and then they were off.
Sir John guessed at the young people's feelings, and did not trouble them with conversation. By and by they left the small train and got into a compartment reserved for them in the London express. Sir John did everything he could to enliven the journey for his young cousins. But they were taciturn and irresponsive. Betty's wonderful gray eyes looked out of the window at the passing landscape, which Sir John was quite sure she did not see; Sylvia and Hester were absorbed in watching their sister. Sir John had a queer kind of feeling that there was something wrong with the girls' dress; that very coarse black serge, made with no attempt at style; the coarse, home-made stockings; the rough, hobnailed boots; the small tam-o'-shanter caps, pushed far back from the little faces; the uncouth worsted gloves; and then the deal boxes! He had a kind of notion that things were very wrong, and that the girls did not look a bit at his own darling Fanny looked, nor in the least like the other girls he had seen at Haddo Court. But Sir John Crawford had been a widower for years, and during that time had seen little of women. He had not the least idea how to remedy what looked a little out of place even at Craigie Muir, but now that they were flying south looked much worse. Could he possibly spare the time to spend a day in a London hotel, and buy the girls proper toilets, and have their clothes put into regulation trunks? But no, in the first place, he had not the time; in the second, he would not have the slightest idea what to order.
They all arrived in London late in the evening. Sylvia and Hetty had been asleep during the latter part of the journey, but Betty still sat bolt upright and wide awake. It was dusk now, and the lamp in the carriage was lit. It seemed to throw a shadow on the girl's miserable face. She was very young--only the same age as Sir John's dear Fanny; and yet how different, how pale, how full of inexpressible sadness was that little face! Those gray eyes of hers seemed to haunt him! He was the kindest man on earth, and would have given worlds to comfort her; but he did not know what to do.