Betty was about the fourth girl to be asked. She rose to her feet and said gravely, “I would propose that Susie Rushworth and the other members of the Specialities have their games and fun afterwards; but I have a short story to tell, and I should like to tell it first, if those present are agreeable.”
Margaret felt that the little cloud as big as a man’s hand had returned, and that it had grown much bigger. A curious sense of alarm stole over her. Martha, meanwhile, stared full at Betty, wondering what the girl was going to do. Her whole manner was strange, aloof, and mysterious.
“We will, of course, allow you to speak, Betty dear. We are always interested in what you say,” said Margaret in her gentlest tone.
Betty came forward into the room. She stood almost in the center, unsupported by any chair, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed on Margaret Grant’s face. Just for a minute there was a dead silence, for the girl’s face expressed tragedy; and it was impossible for any one to think of “telegrams,” or frivolous games, or of anything in the world but Betty Vivian at the present moment.
“I have something to say,” she began. “It has only come to me very gradually that it is necessary for me to say it. I think the necessity for speech arose when I found I could not go to chapel.”
“My dear Betty!” said Margaret.
“There were one or two nights,” continued Betty, “when I could not attend.”
“Betty,” said the voice of Fanny Crawford, “don’t you think this room is a little hot, and that you are feeling slightly hysterical? Wouldn’t you rather—rather go away?”
“No, Fanny,” said Betty as she almost turned her back on the other girl. Her nervousness had now left her, and she began to speak with her old animation. “May I repeat a part of Rule No. I.: ‘Each girl who is a member of the Specialities keeps no secret to herself which the other members ought to know’?”
“That is perfectly true,” said Margaret.