Chapter 9 Betty Vivian by L. T. Meade
STRIVING FOR A DECISION
The week passed without anything very special occurring. The weather was still warm and perfect. September had no idea of giving up her mantle of late summer. But September was drawing to a close, and October, with gusty winds and whirling, withered leaves, and much rain, would soon take her place. October was certainly not nearly such a pleasant month as September. Nevertheless, the young and healthy girls who lived their regular life at Haddo Court were indifferent to the weather. They were always busy. Each minute was planned out and fully occupied. There was time for work, and time for play, and time for happy, confidential talks in that bright and pleasant school. There were all kinds of surprises, too; now an unexpected tea-party with Mrs. Haddo, given to a few select girls; then, again, to another few who unexpectedly found themselves select. There were also delightful cocoa-parties in the big private sitting-room of the upper school, as well as games of every description, outdoor and indoor. Night came all too soon in this happy family, and each girl retired to bed wondering what could have made the day so very short.
But during this week Betty was not quite happy. She had received a copy of the rules, and had studied them very carefully. She was, in her heart of hearts, most anxious to become a Speciality. The higher life appealed to her. It appealed to her strong sense of imagination; to her passionate and really unworldly nature; to that deep love which dwelt in her heart, and which, just at present, she felt inclined to bestow on Margaret Grant. But there was Rule I. The rules had been sent, as Margaret had promised, neatly copied and in a sealed envelope, to Betty's room. She had read them upstairs all alone in the Vivians' attic. She had read them while the queer, uncanny eyes of Dickie looked at her. She certainly was not afraid of Dickie; on the contrary, she admired him. She and her sisters were very proud of his increasing size, and each day it was the turn of one girl or the other to take Dickie out of his cage and give him exercise. He was rather alarming in his movements, going at a tremendous rate, and giving more than one uncanny glance at the Vivian girl who was his jailer for the time.
On this special occasion, when Betty brought the rules to the Vivian attic, she forgot all about Dickie. He was out, running round and round the attic, rushing up the walls, peering at Betty from over the top of the door, creeping as far as the ceiling and then coming down again. He was, as a rule, easily caught, for Sylvia and Hetty always kept his meal of raw meat till after he had had his exercise. But Betty had now forgotten that it was necessary to have a bait to bring Dickie once more into the shelter of his cage. She had consequently fed him first, then let him free, and then stood by the small window of the attic reading the rules of the Specialities. It was Rule I. which troubled her. Rule I. ran as follows: "Each girl gives perfect confidence to her fellow members, keeps no secret to herself which those members ought to know, is ready to consider each member as though she were her own sister, to help her in time of trouble and to rejoice with her in periods of joy."
To be quite frank, Betty did not like this rule. She was willing to give a certain amount of affection to most of the girls who belonged to the Specialities; but as to considering even nice girls like the Bertrams as her own sisters, and Susie Rushworth (who was quite agreeable and gay and kind) in that relationship, and Olive Repton also, as she would Sylvia and Hetty, she did not think she could do it. She could be kind to them--she would love to be kind to them; she would love to help each and all in times of trouble, and to rejoice with them in periods of joy; but to feel that they were her sisters--that certainly _was_ difficult. She believed it possible that she could admit Margaret Grant into a special and close relationship; into a deep friendship which partook neither of sisterhood nor of anything else, but stood apart and alone--the sort of friendship that a young, enthusiastic girl will give to a friend of strong character a little older than herself. But as to Fanny--she could never love Fanny. From the very first moment she had set eyes on her--away, far away, in Scotland--she had disliked her, she had pronounced her at once in her own mind as "niminy-priminy." She had told her sisters frankly what she felt about Fanny. She had said in her bold, independent way, "Fanny is too good for the likes of me. She is the sort of girl who would turn me into a bad un. I don't want to have anything to do with her."
Fanny, however, had taken no notice of Betty's all too evident antagonism. Fanny was, in her heart of hearts, essentially good-natured; but Betty was as impossible for her to understand as it was impossible for the moon to comprehend the brightness of the sun. Fanny had been shocked at what she had witnessed when she saw Betty take the sealed packet from the drawer. She remembered the whole thing with great distress of mind, and had felt a sense of shock when she heard that the Vivian girls were coming to the school. But her feelings were very much worse when her father had informed her that the packet could nowhere be found--that he had specially mentioned it to Betty, who declared that she knew nothing about it. Oh yes, Fanny and Betty were as the poles apart; and Betty knew now that were she to take the vows of the Specialities fifty times over she could never keep them, as far as Fanny Crawford was concerned. Then there was another unpleasant part of the same rule: "Each girl gives perfect confidence to her fellow-members, keeps no secret to herself which those members ought to know." Betty undoubtedly had a secret--a very precious one. She had even told a lie in order to hug that secret to her breast. She had brought it away with her to the school, and now it was safe--only Betty knew where.
What puzzled her was this: was it necessary for the members to know her secret? It had nothing to do with any of them. Nevertheless, she was an honest sort of girl and could not dismiss the feeling from her own mind that Rule I. was practically impossible to her. The Specialities had met on Thursday in Margaret Grant's room. The next meeting was to be held in Susie Rushworth's. Susie's room was in another wing of the building, and was not so large or luxurious as that of Margaret. The next meeting would, however, be quite formal--except for the admission of Betty to the full privileges of the club, and the reading aloud of the rules to Martha West. During the course of the week the Specialities seldom or never spoke of their meeting-day. Nevertheless, Betty from time to time caught Fanny's watchful eyes fixed on her.
On the next Thursday morning she awoke with a slight headache. Miss Symes noticed when she came downstairs that Betty was not quite herself, and at once insisted on her going back to her room to lie down and be coddled. Betty hated being coddled. She was never coddled in the gray stone house; she was never coddled on the Scotch moors. She had occasional headaches, like every one else, and occasional colds; but they had to take care of themselves, and get well as best they could. Betty used to shake herself with anger when she thought of any one making a fuss about her when she was ill, and was consequently rather cross when Miss Symes took her upstairs, made her lie down, and put a wrap over her.
"You must lie down and try to sleep, Betty. I hope you will be quite well by dinner-time. Don't stir till I come for you, dear."
"Oh, but I will!" said Betty, raising her head and fixing her bright, almost feverish eyes on Miss Symes's face.
"What do you mean, dear? I have desired you to stay quiet."
"And I cannot obey," replied Betty. "Please, Miss Symes, don't be angry. If I were a low-down sort of girl, I'd sneak out without telling you; but as I happen to be Betty Vivian, I can't do that. I want to get into the fresh air. Nothing will take away my headache like a walk. I want to get as far as that dreadful piece of common land you have here, and which you imagine is like a moor. I want to walk about there for a time."
"Very well, Betty; you are a good girl to have confided in me. You have exactly two hours. Stay quiet for one hour. If at the end of that time your head is no better, out for an hour; then return to your usual duties."
Betty lay very still for the whole of that hour. Her thoughts were busy. She was haunted by Rule I., and by the passionate temptation to ignore it and yet pretend that she would keep it--in short, to be a member of the Specialities under false colors. One minute she was struggling hard with the trouble which raged within her, the next minute she was making up her mind to decline to be associated with the Specialities.
When the hour had quite expired she sprang to her feet. Oh yes, her head still ached! But what did that matter? She could not be bothered with a trifling thing like a mere headache. She ran upstairs to the Vivian attic. Dickie was in his cage. Betty remembered what terrible trouble she had had to catch him on the day when she received a copy of the rules. She shook her head at him now, and said, "Ah Dickie, you're a bad boy! I am not going to let you out of your cage again in a hurry." Then she went out.
The wind had changed during the night, and heavy clouds were coming up from the north. Betty felt herself much colder than she had ever done in Scotland. She shivered, and walked very fast. She passed the celebrated oak-tree where she and her sisters had hidden during their first day at school. She went on to the place where the three little gardens were marked for their benefit. But up to the present no Vivian had touched the gardens, and there were the black remains of the bonfire where the poor Scotch heather had been burnt almost in the center of Betty's patch of ground.
Oh, the school was horrible--the life was horrible! Oh why had she ever come here? She wanted to be a Speciality; but she could not, it was not in her. She hated--yes, she hated--Fanny Crawford more each minute, and she could never love those other uninteresting girls as though they were her sisters. In analyzing her feelings very carefully, she came to the conclusion that she only wanted to join the Specialities in order to be Margaret's friend. She knew quite well what privileges would be accorded to her were she a member; and she also knew--for she had been told--that it was a rare thing to allow a girl so lately come to the school to take such an important position.
Betty had a natural love of power. With a slight shudder she walked past the little patches of ground and across what she contemptuously called the miserable common. This common marked the boundaries of Mrs. Haddo's school. There were iron railings at least six feet high guarding it from the adjacent land. The sight of these railings was absolute torture to Betty. She said aloud, "Didn't I know the whole place was a prison? But prison-bars sha'n't keep me long in restraint!"
She took out her handkerchief, and, pulling up some weedy grass, put the handkerchief on one spiked bar and the grass on the other, and thus protecting herself, made a light bound over the fence. The exercise and the sense of freedom did her good. She laughed aloud, and continued her walk through unexplored regions. She could not go very fast, however; for she was hindered here by and there by a gateway, and here again by a farmstead, and yet again by a cottage, with little children running about amongst the autumn flowers.
"How can people live in a place like this?" thought Betty.
Then, all of a sudden, two ferocious dogs rushed out upon the girl, clamored round her, and tried to stop her way. Betty laughed softly. There was a delightful sound in her laugh. Probably those dogs had never heard its like before. It was also possible, notwithstanding the fact that Betty was wearing a new dress, that something of that peculiar instinct which is imparted to dogs told these desperate champions that Betty had loved a dog before.
"Down, silly creature!" said Betty, and she patted one on the head and put her arm on the neck of the other. Soon they were fawning about her and jumping on her and licking her hands. She felt thoroughly happy now. Her headache had quite vanished. The dogs, the darlings, were her true friends! There was a little piece of grass quite close to where they had attacked her, and she squatted deliberately down on it and invited the dogs to stretch themselves by her side. They did so without a minute's delay. They were in raptures with her, and one dog only growled when she paid too much attention to the other.
She began to whisper alternately in the shaggy ears of each. "Ah, you must have come from Scotland! You must, anyhow, have met Andrew! Do you think you are as brave as Andrew, for I doubt it?"
Then she continued to the other dog, "And you must have been born in the same litter with Fritz. Did you ever look into the eyes of Fritz and see straight down into his gallant heart? I should be ashamed of you, ashamed of you, if you were not as brave and noble as Fritz."
There was such pathos in Betty's voice that the dogs became quite penitent and abject. They had certainly never been in Scotland, and Andrew and Fritz were animals unknown to them; but for some reason the mysterious being who understood dogs was displeased with them, and they fawned and crouched at her feet.
It was just at that moment that a sturdy-looking farmer came up. He gazed at Betty, then at the two dogs, uttered a light guffaw, and vanished round the corner. In a very few minutes he returned, accompanied by his sturdy wife and his two rough, growing sons.
"Wife," he said, "did you ever see the like in all your life--Dan and Beersheba crouching down at that young girl's feet? Why, they're the fiercest dogs in the whole place!"
"I heard them barking a while back," said Mrs. Miles, the farmer's wife, "and then they stopped sudden-like. If I'd known they were here I'd have come out to keep 'em from doing mischief to anybody; but hearing no more sound I went on with my churning. Little miss," she added, raising her voice, "you seem wonderful took with dogs."
Betty instantly rose to a standing position. "Yes, I am," she said. "Please, are these Scotch, and have they come from Aberdeenshire?"
The farmer laughed. "No, miss," he said; "we bred 'em at home."
Betty was puzzled at this.
The dogs did not take the slightest notice of the farmer, his wife, or his sons, but kept clinging to the girl and pressing their noses against her dress.
"May I come again to see them, please?" asked Betty. "They've got the spirit of the Scotch dogs. They are the first true friends I have met since I left Scotland."
"And may I make bold to ask your name, miss?" inquired the farmer's wife.
"Yes, you may," said Betty. "It isn't much of a name. It's just Betty Vivian, and I live at Haddo Court."
"My word! Be you one of them young ladies?"
"I don't know quite what you mean; but I am Betty Vivian, and I live at Haddo Court."
"But how ever did you get on the high road, miss?" asked the farmer.
Betty laughed. "I went to the edge of what they call the common," she said. "I found a fence, and I vaulted over--that is all. I don't like your country much, farmer; there's no space about it. But the dogs, they are darlings!"
"You're the pluckiest young gel I ever come across," said the man. "How you managed to tame 'em is more than I can say. Why, they are real brutes when any one comes nigh the farm; and over and over I has said to the wife, 'You ought to lock them brutes up, wife.' But she's rare and kindhearted, and is very fond of them, whelps that they be."
"I wonder," said the woman, "if missie would come into the house and have a bite of summat to eat? We makes butter for the Court, miss; and we sends up all our eggs, and many a pair of fat chickens and turkeys and other fowl. We're just setting down to dinner, and can give you some potatoes and pork."
Betty laughed gleefully. "I'd love potatoes and pork more than anything," she said. "May Dan and Beersheba dine with us?"
"Well, miss, I don't expect you'll find it easy to get 'em parted from you."
So Betty entered the farmyard, and walked through, in her direct fashion, without picking her steps; for she loved, as she expressed it, a sense of confusion and the sight of different animals. She had a knack of making herself absolutely at home, and did so on the present occasion. Soon she was seated in the big bright kitchen of the farmhouse, and was served with an excellent meal of the best fresh pork and the most mealy potatoes she had seen since she left Scotland. Mrs. Miles gave her a great big glass of rich milk, but she preferred water. Dan sat at one side of her, Beersheba at the other. They did not ask for food; but they asked imploringly for the pat of a firm, brown little hand, and for the look of love in Betty's eyes.
"I have enjoyed myself," said the girl, jumping up. "I do think you are the nicest people anywhere; and as to your dogs, they are simply glorious. Might not I come here again some day, and--and bring my sisters with me? They are twins, you know. Do you mind twins?"
"Bless your sweet voice!" said Mrs. Miles; "is it a-minding twins we be when we has two sets ourselves?"
"My sisters are very nice, considering that they are twins," said Betty, who was always careful not to overpraise her own people; "and they are just as fond of dogs as I am. Oh, by the way, we have a lovely spider--a huge, glorious creature. His name is Dickie, and he lives in an attic at the Court. He's as big as this." Betty made an apt illustration with her fingers.
"Lor', miss, he must be an awful beast! We're dead nuts agen spiders at the Stoke Farm."
Betty looked sad. "It is strange," she said, "how no one loves Dickie except our three selves. We won't bring him, then; but may _we_ come?"
"It all depends, miss, on whether Mrs. Haddo gives you leave. 'Tain't the custom, sure and certain, for young ladies from the Court to come a-visiting at Stoke Farm; but if so be she says yes, you'll be heartily welcome, and more than welcome. I can't say more, can I, miss?"
"Well, I have had a happy time," said Betty; "and now I must be going back."
"But," said the farmer, "missie, you surely ain't going to get over that big fence the same way as you come here?"
"And what else should I do?" said Betty.
"'Taint to be done, miss. There's a drop at our side which makes the fence ever so much higher, and how you didn't hurt yourself is little less than a miracle to me. I'll have the horse put to the cart and drive you round to the front entrance in a jiffy. Dan and Beersheba can follow, the run'll do them no end of good."
"Yes, missie, you really must let my husband do what he wishes," said Mrs. Miles.
"Thank you," said Betty in a quiet voice. Then she added, looking up into Mrs. Miles's face, "I love Mrs. Haddo very much, and there is one girl at the school whom I love. I think I shall love you too, for I think you have understanding. And when I come to see you next--for of course Mrs. Haddo will give me leave--I will tell you about Scotland, and the heather, and the fairies that live in the heather-bells; and I will tell you about our little gray stone house, and about Donald Macfarlane and Jean Macfarlane. Oh, you will love to hear! You are something like them, except that unfortunately you are English."
"Don't put that agen me," said Mrs. Miles, "for I wouldn't be nothing else if you was to pay me fifty pounds down. There, now, I can't speak squarer than that!"
Just at that moment the farmer's voice was heard announcing that the trap was ready. Betty hugged Mrs. Miles, and was followed out of the farm-kitchen by the excited dogs.
The next minute they were driving in the direction of the Court, and Betty was put down just outside the heavy wrought-iron gates. "Good-bye, Farmer Miles," she said, "and take my best thanks. I am coming again to see those darling dogs. Good-bye, dears, good-bye."
She pressed a kiss on each very rough forehead, passed through the little postern door, heard the dogs whining behind her, did not dare to look back, and ran as fast as she could to the house. She was quite late for the midday dinner; and the first person she met was Miss Symes, who came up to her in a state of great excitement. "Why, Betty!" she said, "where have you been? We have all been terribly anxious about you."
"I went out for a walk," said Betty, "and----"
"Did you go beyond the grounds? We looked everywhere."
"Oh yes," said Betty. "I couldn't be kept in by rails or bars or anything of that sort. I am a free creature, you know, Miss Symes."
"Come, Betty," said Miss Symes, "you have broken a rule; and you have no excuse, for a copy of the rules of the school is in every sitting-room and every classroom. You must see Mrs. Haddo about this."
"I am more than willing," replied Betty.
Betty felt full of courage, and keen and well, after her morning's adventure. Miss Symes took Betty's hand, and led her in the direction of Mrs. Haddo's private sitting-room. That good lady was busy over some work which she generally managed to accomplish at that special hour. She was seated at her desk, putting her signature to several notes and letters which she had dictated early that morning to her secretary. She looked up as Betty and Miss Symes entered.
"Ah, Miss Symes!" said Mrs. Haddo. "How do you do, Betty? Sit down. Will you just wait a minute, please?" she added, looking up into the face of her favorite governess. "I want you to take these letters as you are here, and so save my ringing for a servant. Get Miss Edgeworth to stamp them all, and put them into their envelopes, and send them off without fail by next post."
A pile of letters was placed in Miss Symes's hands. She went away at once; and Mrs. Haddo, in her usual leisurely and gracious manner, turned and looked at Betty.
"Well, Betty Vivian," she said kindly, "I have seen you for some time at prayers and in the different classrooms, and also at chapel; but I have not had an opportunity of a chat with you, dear, for several days. Sit down, please, or, rather, come nearer to the fire."
"Oh, I am so hot!" said Betty.
"Well, loosen your jacket and take off your hat. Now, what is the matter? Before we refer to pleasant things, shall we get the unpleasant ones over? What has gone wrong with you, Betty Vivian?"
"But how can you tell that anything has gone wrong?"
"I know, dear, because Miss Symes would not bring you to my private sitting-room at this hour for any other reason."
"Well, I don't think anything has gone wrong," said Betty; "but Miss Symes does not quite agree with me. I will tell you, of course; I am only longing to."
"Begin, dear, and be as brief as possible."
"I had a headache this morning, and went to lie down," began Betty. "Miss Symes wanted me to stay lying down until dinner-time, but afterwards she gave me leave to go out when I had been in my room for an hour. I did so. I went as far as that bit of common of yours."
"Our 'forest primeval'?" said Mrs. Haddo with a gracious smile.
"Oh, but it isn't really!" said Betty.
"Some of us think it so, Betty."
Betty gave a curious smile; then with an effort she kept back certain words from her lips, and continued abruptly, "I got to the end of the common, and there was a railing----"
"The boundary of my estate, dear."
"Well," said Betty, "it drove me mad. I felt I was in prison, and that the railing formed my prison bars. I vaulted over, and got into the road. I walked along for a good bit--I can't quite tell how far--but at last two dogs came bounding out of a farmyard near by. They barked at first very loudly; but I looked at them and spoke to them, and after that we were friends of course. I sat on the grass and played with them, and they--I think they loved me. All dogs do--there is nothing in that. The farmer and his wife came out presently and seemed surprised, for they said that Dan and Beersheba were very furious."
"My dear girl--Dan and Beersheba--_those_ dogs!"
"Those were the names they called them. We call our dogs on the Scotch moors Andrew and Fritz. They are much bigger dogs than Dan and Beersheba; but Dan and Beersheba are darlings for all that. I went into the Mileses' house and had my dinner with them. It was a splendid dinner--pork and really _nice_ potatoes--and the dogs sat one on each side of me. Mrs. Haddo, I want to go to the Mileses' again some day to tea, and I want to take Sylvia and Hester with me. The Mileses don't mind about their being twins, and they'll be quite glad to see them, and Sylvia and Hester are about as fond of dogs as I am. Mrs. Miles said she was quite willing to have us if you gave leave, but not otherwise."
"Betty!" said Mrs. Haddo when the girl had ceased. She raised her head, and looked full into the wonderful, pathetic, half-humorous, half-defiant eyes, and once again between her soul and Betty's was felt that firm, sure bond of sympathy. Involuntarily the girl came two or three steps closer. Mrs. Haddo, with a gesture, invited her to kneel by her, and took one of her hands. "Betty, my child, you know why you have come to this school?"
"I am sure I don't," said Betty, "unless it is to be with you and--and Margaret Grant."
"I am glad you have made Margaret your friend. She is a splendid girl--quite the best girl in the whole school; and she likes you, Betty--she has told me so. I am given to understand that you are to have the honorable distinction of becoming a Speciality. The club is a most distinguished one, and has a beneficial effect on the tone of the upper school. I am glad that you are considered worthy to join. I know nothing about the rules; I can only say that I admire the results of its discipline on its members. But now to turn to the matter in hand. You broke a very stringent rule of the school when you got over that fence, and the breaking of a rule must be punished."
"I don't mind," said Betty in a low tone.
"But I want you to mind, Betty. I want you to be truly sorry that you broke one of my rules."
"When you put it like that," said Betty, "I do get a bit choky. Don't say too much, or perhaps I'll howl. I am not so happy as you think. I am fighting hard with myself every minute of the time."
"Poor little girl! can you tell me why you are fighting?"
"No, Mrs. Haddo, I cannot tell you."
"I will not press you, dear. Well, Betty, one of my rules is that the girls never leave the grounds without leave; and as you have broken that rule you must receive the punishment, which is that you remain in your room for the rest of the day until eight o'clock this evening, when I understand that you are due at the meeting of the Specialities."
"I will go to my room," said Betty. "I don't mind punishment at all."
"You ran a very great risk, dear, when you went into that byroad and were attacked by those fierce dogs. It was a marvel that they took to you. It is extremely wrong of Farmer Miles to have them loose, and I must speak to him."
"And please," said Betty, "may we go to tea there--we three--one evening?"
"I will see about that. Try to keep every rule. Try, with all your might and main, to conquer yourself. I am not angry with you, dear. It is impossible to tame a nature like yours, and I am the last person on earth to break your spirit. But go up to your room now, and--kiss me first."
Betty almost choked when she gave that kiss, when her eyes looked still deeper into Mrs. Haddo's beautiful eyes, and when she felt her whole heart tingle within her with that new, wonderful sensation of a love for her mistress which even exceeded her love for Margaret Grant.