Betty Vivian Part 14

As they pa.s.sed under the great oak-trees Betty looked up, and her eyes danced with fun. "Are you good at climbing trees?" she asked of Margaret.

"I used to be when I was very, very young; but those days are over."

"There are a few very little girls in the lower school who still climb one of the safest trees," remarked Olive.

Betty's eyes continued to dance. "You give me delightful news," she said. "I am so truly glad none of you do anything so vulgar as to climb trees."

"But why, Betty?" asked Margaret.

"I have my own reasons," replied Betty. "You can't expect me to tell you everything right away, can you?"

"You must please yourself," said Margaret.

Olive looked at Betty in a puzzled manner; and the three girls were silent, only that they quickened their steps, crunching down some broken twigs as they walked.

By-and-by they reached the three bare patches of ground, which were railed in in the simple manner which Mrs. Haddo had indicated, and in the center of which stood the wooden post with the words, "THE VIVIANS'

PRIVATE GARDENS," painted on it.

"How very funny!" exclaimed Olive.

"Yes, it is rather funny," remarked Betty. "Did you ever in the whole course of your existence see anything uglier than these three patches of ground? There is nothing whatever planted in them except our darling Scotch heather; and oh, by the way, I don't believe the precious little plants are thriving! They are drooping like anything! Oh dear! oh dear!

I think I shall die if they die!" As she spoke she flung herself on the ground, near the path.

"Of course you won't, Betty," said Margaret. "Besides, why should they die? They only want watering."

"I'll run and fetch a canful of water," said Olive, who was extremely good-natured.

Betty made no response. She was still lying on the ground, resting on her elbows, while her hands tenderly touched the faded and drooping bells of the wild heather. She had entered her own special plot. Olive had disappeared to fetch the water, but Margaret still stood by Betty's side.

"Do you think they'll do?" said Betty at last, glancing at her companion.

Margaret noticed that her eyes were full of tears. "I don't think they will," she said after a pause. "But I'll tell you what we must do, Betty: we must get the right sort of soil for them--just the sandy soil they want. We'll go and consult Birchall; he is the oldest gardener in the place, and knows something about everything. For that matter, we are sure to get the sort of sand we require on this piece of waste ground--our 'forest primeval,' as Olive calls it."

"Oh dear!" said Betty, dashing away the tears from her eyes, "you are funny when you talk of a thing like that"--she waved her hand in the direction of the uncultivated land--"as a 'forest primeval.' It is the poorest, shabbiest bit of waste land I ever saw in my life."

"Let's walk across it," said Margaret. "Olive can't be back for a minute or two."

"Why should we walk across it?"

"I want to show you where some heather grows. It is certainly not rich, nor deep in color, nor beautiful, like yours; but it has grown in that particular spot for two or three years. I am quite sure that Birchall will say that the soil round that heather is the right sort of earth to plant your Scotch heather in."

"Well, come, and let's be very quick," said Betty.

The girls walked across the bit of common. Margaret pointed out the heather, which was certainly scanty and poor.

Betty looked at it with scorn. "I think," she said after a pause, "I don't want to consult Birchall." Then she added after another pause, "I think, on the whole, I'd much rather have no heather than plants like those. You are very kind, Margaret; but there are some things that can't be transplanted, just as there are some hearts--that break--yes, break--if you take them from home. That poor heather--once, doubtless, it was very flourishing; it is evidently dying now of a sort of consumption. Let's come back to our plots of ground, please, Margaret."

They did so, and were there greeted by Olive, who had a large can of cold water standing by her side, and was eagerly talking to Sylvia and Hester. Betty marched first into the center plot of ground.

"I've got lots of water," said Olive in a cheerful tone, "so we'll do the watering at once. Sylvia and Hester say that they must have a third each of this canful; but of course we can get a second can if we want it."

"No!" said Betty.

Sylvia, who was gazing with lack-l.u.s.tre eyes at the fading heather, now started and looked full at her sister. Hester, who always clung to Sylvia in moments of emotion, caught her sister's hand and held it very tight.

"No," said Betty again; "I have made a discovery. Scotch heather does not grow here in this airless sort of place. Sylvia and Hester, Margaret was good enough to show me what she calls heather. There are a few straggling plants just at the other side of that bit of common. I don't want ours to die slowly. Our plants shall go at once. No, we don't water them. Sylvia, go into your garden and pull up the plant; and, Hester, you do likewise Go, girls; go at once!"

"But, Betty----" said Margaret.

"You had better not cross her now," said Sylvia.

Margaret started when Sylvia addressed her in this tone.

Betty's face was painfully white, except where two spots of color blazed in each cheek. As her sisters stooped obediently to pull up their heather, Betty bent and wrenched hers from the ground by which it was surrounded, which ground was already dry and hard. "Let's make a bonfire," she said. "I sometimes think," she added, "that in each little bell of heather there lives the wee-est of all the fairies; and perhaps, if we burn this poor, dear thing, the little, wee fairies may go back to their ain countree."

"It all seems quite dreadful to me," said Margaret.

"It is right," replied Betty; "and I have a box of matches in my pocket."

"Oh, have you?" exclaimed Olive. "If--if Mrs. Haddo knew----"

But Betty made no response. She set her sisters to collect some dry leaves and bits of broken twigs; and presently the bonfire was erected and kindled, and the poor heather from the north country had ceased to exist.

"Now, you must see _our_ gardens," said Margaret, "for you must have gardens, you know. Olive and I will show you the sort of things that grow in the south, that flourish here, and look beautiful."

"I cannot see them now," replied Betty. She brushed past Margaret, and walked rapidly across the common.

Sylvia's face turned very white, and she clutched Hetty's hand still more tightly.

"What is she going to do? What is the matter?" said Margaret, turning to the twins.

"She can't help it," said Sylvia; "she must do it. She is going to howl."

"To do what?" said Margaret Grant.

"Howl. Did you never howl? Well, perhaps you never did. Anyhow, she must get away as far as possible before she begins, and we had better go back to the house. You wouldn't like the sound of Betty's howling."

"But are you going to let her howl, as you call it, alone?"

"Let her? We have no voice in the matter," replied Hester. "Betty always does exactly what she likes. Let's go quickly; let's get away. It's the best thing she can do. She's been keeping in that howling-fit for over a week, and it must find vent. She'll be all right when you see her next.

But don't, on any account, ever again mention the heather that we brought from Craigie Muir. She may get over its death some day, but not yet."

"Your sister is a very strange girl," said Margaret.

"Every one says that," replied Sylvia. "Don't they, Het?"

"Yes; we're quite tired of hearing it," said Hetty. "But do let's come quickly. Which is the farthest-off part of the grounds--the place where we are quite certain not to hear?"

"You make me feel almost nervous," said Margaret. "But come along, if you wish to."