“I just thought—” Betty would have welcomed a yawning cavern if it would only kindly have opened its jaws to receive her.
But it did not. She was left, for the first time in her life, perhaps, to bear the brunt of her helter-skelter ways as she stood for several moments surrounded by the junior Guides of the company, and with the full consciousness of Sybil’s cool, quiet gaze fixed upon her while she waited thoughtfully without speaking a word.
Then—“You took a very great responsibility on yourself, Betty Carlyle, in doing what you did,” said the head. “I am afraid that indirectly your action may be at the root of the loss of the Cup.” She spoke in tones as cold as the glance from her blue eyes. Then she turned and began to cross the lawn again.
But even as she went she seemed to recollect something, and for one instant turned again. “All of you juniors will go at once, please,” she said, “and get ready for games. As I have kept you back for a moment it will be best, I think, for you not to waste time now in talking while you change your shoes, but to go straight to the field. Gerry and Betty, will you collect the rugs before you go?”
It was kind of Sybil. Even at that moment, even while Betty was in the direst disgrace that had ever fallen upon her, the head girl had realized—even while blaming the culprit—her state of mind. By this arrangement Betty gained a few minutes’ breathing-space, with Gerry her friend at her side, before joining the rest. The Mascot bent over her task with a crimson face.
Would Gerry say anything comforting?
But Gerry was apparently too much overwhelmed to speak. It was only when, carrying the rugs between them, they had nearly reached the house, that Betty summoned up courage to gulp out an inquiry.
“Gerry,” she whispered in a panting voice, “I didn’t mean anything. I truly thought I was helping.”
Gerry said nothing.
“I—Sybil doesn’t think I—took it, does she?” said poor Betty.