Betty's Happy Year

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!”