HOME AT LAST
On reaching Lakewood the travelers drove to the beautiful hotel Laurel-in-the-Pines, which, as they entered, seemed to Betty to be all made of glass and gaslight. She was given a room adjoining Mrs. Van Court's, and she immediately began to make her toilet for dinner.
But Mrs. Van Court declared she could not go down to the dining-room that evening, she was so tired and exhausted from the long journey, and so she said she would have her dinner sent to her room, while Betty could go down to dinner with Richard.
"But," said Mrs. Van Court, "don't attempt to look up your Irvings to-night. Wait until to-morrow, and we will set about it properly."
"Yes, 'm," said Betty; and then she proceeded to put on her prettiest frock, a flowery organdie with rose-colored ribbons.
She presented herself to Mrs. Van Court, who said, "You look very sweet, my dear "; and then Mr. Richard came and with his charge went down the wide staircase and through the long gallery of great palms, and on through the marble hall to the dining-room. After dinner they sauntered around the rooms until they came to the music-room, at the entrance of which a small notice was posted up.
Mr. Van Court read it, and then turned to Betty with an exclamation: "Popinjay, we 've found her!"
"Who?" said Betty, bewildered by his mysterious tone.
"Read that notice! But no—you don't understand French, do you ? Well, it tells of a concert to be given here to-night, at which a lady will sing who is called L'Alouette. Now, L'Alouette is French for 'the lark,' and I have no doubt it is the lady whom Mr. Ross called Lallowet."
"Of course it is!" cried Betty, clasping her hands together to keep from clapping them, "and she is my aunt, William Irving's daughter!"
"Perhaps she is, but don't get so excited. You 'll be doing the 'grasshopper act' next. Now listen. If you 'll promise to sit quietly, and not make a scene, we 'll attend the concert; but if not, I 'm going to show you to your room at once and put you in mother's care."
"Oh, I will be good! I 'll sit as still as a mouse, and not say a word. Only let me see her and hear her. Do, please, Mr. Dick!"
Of course Mr. Dick consented; and as the audience chairs were rapidly filling with people, he led Betty to a seat near the back of the room, for he did not know what demonstrations the impulsive child might be guilty of.
The concert was a delightful one, and music-loving Betty enjoyed every number, and was so happy listening that she almost forgot to be impatient for L'Alouette's appearance. But when that lady at last came on the stage, Betty turned pale with excitement, and her hands grew cold. She said nothing, but her eyes shone like stars as she looked fixedly at the beautiful singer.
L'Alouette was well named. Her clear, bird-like notes rang out like the song of a lark, and though her voice had not great volume, it was full of sweetness and sympathy.
Mr. Van Court was almost as much agitated as Betty, for he could see—what the child could not—that there was a wonderful resemblance between the face of L'Alouette and that of the little Irish girl. It was not so much in feature as in expression, and the young man felt convinced that it was really a family likeness, and that Betty had at last found a relative. But though it would never have occurred to Betty that she could resemble that beautiful lady, yet she was equally certain that she was looking at her own aunt; for Betty saw—what Mr. Dick did not—that L'Alouette's white silk gown was very like the one Mlle. Francois had made, only of a more modern fashion. And, aside from any circumstantial evidence, Betty felt in her own heart a kinship with the lovely lady as unexplainable as it was certain.
After L'Alouette had finished her song, and had sung an encore, Betty said:
"Mr. Dick, that's my own aunt, and I know it. I like the concert, but I don't want to hear any more to-night, and I think, if you please, I 'll go to my room now."
Mr. Van Court was surprised at her calmness, but felt so relieved that she was willing to wait before making herself known to her new-found relative that he only said:
"Very well, my child. Do you know where your room is?"
"Oh, yes; I have the key with me. I brought it that I might not disturb Mix Van Court if she should be asleep when I return."
So Mr. Dick took her to the stairs and consigned her to the care of a passing maid, who showed her to her room.
Betty unlocked the door noiselessly, and then as carefully closed the door between her room and Mrs. Van Court's. Then she sat down and thought a long while.
She had no intention of waiting until morning to claim her own aunt—not she! And besides, the way was clear to speak to the lady that night without making any scene such as Mrs. Van Court dreaded.
As soon as L'Alouette appeared on the stage in the music-room, Betty had recognized her as the lady whom she had met coming out of a door just across the hall from her own. She had noticed the gown particularly, and she knew she was not mistaken. "And now," she thought, "I will just go to that room across the hall, and see if it is really hers; and if it is, I will wait for her there until she comes up-stairs."
It seemed a rash act, and Betty's heart beat fast at the thought of it; but something impelled her to do it, and she felt that she just could n't wait until morning.
So she opened her own door softly, and seeing no one in the hall, she stepped across to the opposite door, and knocked.
A sleepy-looking maid opened the door and regarded Betty with some surprise.
"Is this L'Alouette's room?" said the little girl, timidly.
"Yes, miss," answered the maid; "did she send you for anything?"
"No," said Betty, with a dignity born of excitement; "I am a friend of hers, and I wish to wait here until she returns."
"Yes, miss," said the maid, pleasantly enough; and she offered Betty an easy-chair and a footstool.
Then Betty sat down and waited.
She did not mind waiting; she had made the plunge, and now she must accept the consequences, whatever they might be.
Her mind was full of fancies and anticipations; she planned a dozen different phrases with which to greet her aunt; and finally—she dropped asleep and continued her castle-building in her dreams.
An hour or so later, L'Alouette came in. She looked at the sleeping child and then turned to her maid for an explanation.
"Who is this, Lisette?" said she.
"A little girl, madame, who tapped at the door this evening, and said she was a friend of madame's and would wait for her."
L'Alouette gazed earnestly at the stranger, and then caught her breath quickly, while a great wonder filled her eyes.
Then she said quietly: "You may go, Lisette; I will wait on myself to-night."
"Yes, madame," said the maid, and she went away.
Then L'Alouette came and knelt beside Betty, and looked at her a long time. Then she gently wakened her by kissing her on the cheek.
Betty opened her eyes, and was awake and alert in an instant.
"Who are you?" she cried. "Are you my aunt, my dear mother's sister? Oh, say you are!"
"I am L'Alouette," said the lady, smiling; "and now, who are you?"
"I am Betty McGuire," said Betty, speaking very fast; "and my mother was an Irving of Boston, and my grandfather was William Irving. But my mother was killed in a railroad accident when I was a baby, and oh—I "hope you are her sister."
L'Alouette gave a little cry, her eyes closed, and Betty thought she was going to faint. But she did not; she recovered herself, and with a quick, tense gesture she grasped Betty's hands, and looking into the little girl's eyes, while her own fairly blazed, she said:
"And who was your father?"
"Martin McGuire," answered Betty; "he too was killed when I was a baby—"
But she got no further, for L'Alouette clasped her in her arms, and showered kisses all over the wondering little face, as she said:
"Betty—my baby Betty, I am not your aunt; I am your mother!"
"My mother?" said Betty, almost solemnly. "Then do you love me?"
"Yes," said L'Alouette, the beautiful light that had come into her eyes growing deeper and deeper; "I love you with all my hungry mother-heart, with a love that tells me you are really my own baby, though I was forced to believe that you had died years ago."
"And I believed you were dead," said Betty, clinging to L'Alouette as if afraid she might even yet disappear. " Were n't you killed in the railroad accident?"
"No, darling; I was injured, and taken to a hospital in Chicago, where I lay ill for months. And after that I tried every possible way to search for my husband and child, only to be convinced at last that they must have perished."
"My father was killed," said Betty; "I know that—because I was taken to an orphan asylum, and they told me so afterward. And I know it, too, from my Grandfather McGuire's papers. And you are the one Mr. Ross called Lallowet—and I have worn one of your white dresses!"
"And do you know Mr. Ross? How much we have to tell each other! But who is here at Lakewood with you? and with whom do you live, and where?"
And then, still clasped in her mother's embrace, Betty told the whole story of her eventful little life; and then L'Alouette told of her own sad years since last she had held her little girl in her arms.
After vainly using every effort to find her husband and child, either dead or alive, she had given up the quest and resigned herself to a life of loneliness and sorrow. Music was her only consolation; and as her voice developed under training, she was urged to sing on the stage; but this she refused to do, though she finally consented to sing at an occasional concert.
Her teacher had often called her L'Alouette, and as this name appeared to advantage on a program, she had used it.
They talked far into the night; and then—for L'Alouette could not give her up—Betty remained and slept beside her mother. But Betty's mother could not sleep, and all night she watched over her new-found child as if afraid the whole meeting might be only a repetition of an old and dear dream.
Next morning Betty awoke to find a happy face smiling at her. She flung herself into her mother's arms, crying: "It's true this morning, is n't it? I was n't quite sure of it last night."
"Yes," said Mrs. McGuire, "it is true; and now you must go at once to Mrs. Van Court, for I fear she will miss you and be worried."
"Oh, she never wakes up early," said Betty, confidently; "but I 'll go back to my own room and dress for breakfast, and as soon as I can see her I 'll tell her all about it."
Mrs. Van Court was so surprised and delighted at Betty's wonderful news that she did n't reprimand her for "making a scene"; and, indeed, she felt now that Betty was no longer under her charge, and that her responsibility had ceased. Mr. Dick was sincerely glad of Betty's new happiness, and the Irvings and the Van Courts soon became fast friends. Mr. and Mrs. Irving proved to be ideal grandparents, and their affection for Betty was only second to that of Mrs. McGuire herself.
Betty wanted them to come and live at Denniston; but the old people were too fond of their own home for that. So they all decided to remain a few days at Lakewood, and then Betty was to take her mother home and install her as mistress of Denniston Hall.
Mrs. McGuire expressed herself as perfectly willing to adopt Betty's whole family as her own; indeed, she would have agreed to anything that insured her continued nearness to her idolized child.
"You 'll like Grandma Jean," said Betty to her mother, "she 's so kind and obliging; and you 'll like Jack, I know; and you 'll just adore baby Polly."
"Yes," said her mother, "I 'm sure I shall; and I 'm already fond of Ellen and Pete, because they were so good to my little Betty when she was poor and motherless."
When at last they went home to Denniston, Mrs. McGuire was warmly welcomed because she was Betty's mother; but it was not long before she was loved by the whole family because of her own goodness and gentleness.
Grandma Jean was in no way made to feel that she was meant to assume an inferior position. She was expected to be the same responsible housekeeper she had been before; and being a sensible old lady, she felt no jealousy of the charming young mistress who had usurped Betty's place rather than hers. Jack was shy at first, but his timidity soon melted away before the tact and kindness of the new-comer; and Polly fell in love with her at first sight.
As for Betty—she was happy now, truly happy; and she realized that all her life she had been starving for true human affection. This was the longing that had kept her hungry heart unsatisfied, and now that it had been fulfilled, her beautiful Denniston was perfect. At last mother-love had made for Betty a home.
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