Betty's Happy Year

It had been arranged that Betty should sing the verses as a solo, and that all the others, and indeed all the audience, should join in the chorus. Betty had not cared specially about singing, but had good-naturedly agreed to do so when the music committee asked her to.

Her voice had improved by reason of her singing lessons in Boston, and after practising the national anthem with her mother, she felt that she could manage its high notes successfully.

It seemed a little incongruous for a girl in a green costume and carrying the harp of Erin to sing the American song, but Betty was of New England parentage as well as Irish, and she was glad to show her double patriotism. Constance was greatly pleased at her rôle of Columbia, and her costume was beautiful. Very becoming, as well, was the striped red and white skirt, and the blue bodice spangled with stars. A liberty-cap, and a large well-made shield on which to lean, added to the picturesque effect.

Mr. Dick Van Court was a humorous figure in his “Uncle Sam” suit. He looked just as the Uncle Sam of the cartoons always looks, and as he was a tall, thin young man, the character suited him well. A white beaver hat and the long, sparse locks of hair and white goatee were all in evidence, so that Mr. Dick’s costume was pronounced a success by all the visitors.

About two o’clock Betty went to her room to dress. She had been busy every minute of the day, had scarcely taken time to eat her luncheon, but now everything was in readiness, and she had only to dress and take her place in the grand march at three o’clock.

Slipping on a kimono, she threw herself down on a couch for a moment’s rest before dressing. It was perhaps half an hour later when Constance presented herself at the door of Betty’s room, ready for inspection of her pretty costume.

“May I come in?” she called, as she tapped at Betty’s closed door.

Getting no reply, she tapped again, but after two or three unanswered calls she concluded Betty had gone down-stairs, and so she went down herself.

She didn’t see Betty, but Mr. Van Court was there, in the full glory of his “regimentals,” and the two, as it was not quite time to take their position, strolled about the veranda, looking out upon the grounds.

“It’s just like fairy-land,” said Constance, “and to-night, when the lanterns are lighted, it will be still more so. Oh, here comes the band.”

The orchestra, in resplendent uniforms, took their places on the band-stand, and began their preliminary tuning of instruments.

Then the girls and boys began to arrive, and each costume was greeted with admiring applause.

“Where’s Betty?” said Dorothy, as she came down, dressed as a dear little Swiss peasant.

“I don’t know,” answered Constance; “she must be out in the grounds somewhere. She wasn’t in her room when I came down.”

“Well, it’s time she appeared,” said Dorothy. “It’s ten minutes of three now.”

“Where’s Betty?” said Jack, as, wrapped in his Indian blanket, he came suddenly up to the girls, looking somewhat worried.

“I don’t know,” they replied at the same time. “She must be around somewhere.”

“Maybe she is,” said Jack, “but she isn’t dressed for the grand march yet. I’ve just been to her room, and her green dress is all spread out on the bed, and she’s nowhere to be found. Mother doesn’t know where she is.”

“Why, how strange!” said Constance. “Betty’s never late, and it was about two when we both went up-stairs to dress. Where can she be?”

There didn’t seem any real reason for alarm, but it was certainly strange that Betty should disappear so mysteriously. As Constance said, Betty was never late. She was always ready at the appointed time, and it seemed as if something must have happened to her.

“I can’t find Betty anywhere,” said Mrs. McGuire, as she joined the disturbed-looking group. “It’s so strange, for I know she had nothing more to attend to. She stopped at my door about two o’clock, and said everything was ready and she was going to dress.”

It was beginning to look serious now, and Dorothy went back to Betty’s room to make search.

As Jack had said, her pretty green dress was spread out in readiness. The little green slippers stood near by, and the green cap and gilt harp lay on the couch. Surely Betty had not begun to dress. She must have been called away by some one suddenly. Her kimono was flung across a chair as if hurriedly thrown there, and Dorothy looked in the dress-cupboard to see what Betty might be wearing. But there were many suits and dresses hanging there, and Dorothy couldn’t tell which, if any, pretty summer costume was missing. It was very mysterious, and she went slowly down-stairs again, wondering what they should do.

“She’s been kidnapped,” Mrs. McGuire was saying; “I’ve always feared it!”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Van Court, an elderly lady, who was Mr. Dick’s mother. “Of course she hasn’t been kidnapped. I think she has fallen in the pond.”

Jack laughed at this.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Van Court,” he said; “Betty is too big a girl to tumble into the water. I think some one on some committee wanted her to look after some booth or something, and she’s about the place somewhere.”

“That’s all very well,” said Dick Van Court, “but if I know Betty, she’d attend to the matter and be back in time for the march at three o’clock.”

“It’s after three now,” said Dorothy. “Whatever can we do?”

Nobody knew just what to do. It didn’t seem possible that anything unfortunate had occurred, and yet what else could be keeping Betty away, wherever she was?

Meanwhile what had become of Betty?

Well, it was just this:

While she was in her own room, just about to dress in her green suit, a note was brought to her by one of the servants.

The note read thus:

“Deer Bety: Susie isent going to the Forth a July Party atall. She’s mad at you.

“Jennie Hale.”

Jennie Hale was Susie’s younger sister, and Betty saw at once that she had written this note without Susie’s knowledge.

But for Susie, the president of the club, to stay away from the garden-party would be a catastrophe indeed! Betty would be censured for making trouble, and Susie’s friends would say all sorts of things. It was hard on Betty. She had truly tried to make friends with Susie, and thought she had overcome the girl’s silly jealousy. What especial thing Susie was “mad at” now, Betty didn’t know. But she must find out, and make peace, if possible, before time for the garden-party to begin.

She looked at her watch. It was a quarter past two. If she went right over to Susie’s she might fix it up, and get back in time to dress.

She flung off her kimono, and quickly donned a linen suit, selecting the one she could get into most easily.

Then she ran down-stairs, and, without a hat or gloves, jumped into the pony-cart, to which Dixie had been harnessed all day, in case of errands, and drove rapidly down the road toward Susie’s.

It happened that no one noticed her going, but Betty did not think of this, so engrossed was she in the matter in hand.

She dashed up to Susie’s door and rang the bell. Mrs. Hale herself opened the door, and from the cold, hard expression on her face, Betty felt that she was unwelcome.

“I’ve come to see Susie, Mrs. Hale,” she said pleasantly. “Isn’t she ready for the party?”

“No, she isn’t!” snapped Mrs. Hale. “She isn’t going to your old party, so you can sing the solos yourself.”

Then Betty understood. Susie had wanted to sing the solos! Betty remembered now that Susie was the soprano of the village choir, and she probably resented Betty’s being asked to sing the solos instead of herself.

“Oh, my gracious!” exclaimed Betty, annoyed at this foolishness, and yet relieved that it could still be set right, “she can sing the solos, of course! I’d much rather she would! Tell her so, won’t you, and ask her to hurry and come.”

Mrs. Hale looked mollified, but she said:

“She can’t come now. She’s gone to her grandma’s to spend the afternoon.”

“Oh, dear! what a goose she is! Why couldn’t she tell me sooner what she wanted? Where is her grandmother’s?”

Betty was looking at her watch and getting back into the cart, and gathering up the lines, preparatory to going after the truant.

“It’s pretty late,” said Mrs. Hale, glancing at the clock. “She’ll have to come back here to dress, you know.”

“Never mind that!” said Betty, a little impatiently, for she was upset over it all. “Where is her grandmother’s?”

“Oh, out on the Pine Hill road. The third house after you pass the mill.”

Betty groaned, for the place designated was a good two miles away, and Dixie was somewhat tired. But she touched him gently with the whip, and said:

“Dear old Dixie, you’ll help me out, won’t you?” And then they went spinning away toward the Pine Hill road.

Susie, from the window, saw Betty coming, and went out to meet her.

She didn’t look very pleasant, but Betty had no time to waste in coaxing just then.

“Susie Hale,” she said, “get right in this cart. Never mind your hat; just get in this very minute!”

Susie was fairly frightened at Betty’s tones, and though she was unwilling, she couldn’t help doing as she was told.

Silent and a little bewildered, she climbed in beside Betty, and turning quickly, they were soon flying back over the road Betty had come.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Betty began, for she was of no mind to spare Susie’s feelings now. “You, the president of the club, to cut up such a childish caper! You can sing the solos, of course; I don’t care a mite! But you should have told me you wanted to sing them, in the first place.”

“Who told you I wanted to?” said Susie, weakly, now thoroughly ashamed of herself.

“Your mother did, and I’m glad she did, for I never should have guessed what foolish thing was the matter with you. I don’t think anybody that would act like you have is fit to be president of a club!”

Betty’s righteous indignation seemed to show Susie the despicableness of her own conduct, and she began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” she said; “truly I am. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I can,” said Betty, “if you’ll do just as I tell you. First, stop crying. Second, jump out of this cart when we get to your house, and get into your costume like lightning! Third, come over to Denniston and take your place in the march and sing the solos, and act pleasantly and nicely about it. I’ll drive home after I leave you, and I’ll send the cart back for you. And you must be ready! Do you hear? You must be ready!”

Betty spoke almost savagely, and Susie still looked scared, as she said: “I don’t want to sing your solos now.”

“But you will sing them,” said Betty. “You must sing them, and do your very best, too. You sing as well as I do, and to do as I tell you is the only way you can make up for the trouble you’ve stirred up. Now, here you are at home. Fly and dress. Don’t waste a minute. The cart will be back for you in a quarter of an hour!”

Susie sprang out of the cart and ran into the house, and Betty drove rapidly away to Denniston. As she tore up the driveway among the decorated booths and lantern-hung trees, the funny side of it struck her, and smiling broadly, she reached the veranda, where a bewildered group awaited her.

“Where have you been?” cried Constance. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been on an errand of mercy,” said Betty, smiling still; “and nothing’s the matter. The grand march must be delayed a little, but I’ll be ready in a jiffy. Come on, Dorothy, and help me dress. Pat, please take Dixie and go over to Mrs. Hale’s and bring Miss Susie back with you.”

And so the grand march was delayed only about half an hour. Susie arrived duly, and sang the solos very prettily. Afterward, when the whole story came out, much indignation was expressed that Betty should have been so bothered, but Betty herself didn’t mind, for it had the result of making Susie her staunch friend forever after.

X

BETTY CRUSOE

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.”

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.