Elizabeth, Betsy, and Bess--Schoolmates
BOOKS BY AMY E. BLANCHARD
_REVOLUTIONARY SERIES_
=A GIRL OF ’76.= A STORY OF THE EARLY PERIOD OF THE WAR FOR
INDEPENDENCE. 331 pages.
=A REVOLUTIONARY MAID.= A STORY OF THE MIDDLE PERIOD OF THE WAR FOR
INDEPENDENCE. 321 pages.
=A DAUGHTER OF FREEDOM.= A STORY OF THE LATTER PERIOD OF THE WAR FOR
INDEPENDENCE. 312 pages.
_WAR OF 1812 SERIES_
=A HEROINE OF 1812.= A MARYLAND ROMANCE. 335 pages.
=A LOYAL LASS.= A STORY OF THE NIAGARA CAMPAIGN OF 1814. 319 pages.
_THE PIONEER SERIES_
=A GENTLE PIONEER.= BEING THE STORY OF THE EARLY DAYS IN THE NEW
WEST. 336 pages.
=BONNY LESLEY OF THE BORDER.= A STORY. 331 pages.
=A FRONTIER KNIGHT.= A STORY OF THE EARLY TEXAN BORDER-LIFE. 339
pages.
These books are fully illustrated. Price, $1.25 _net_.
_IN THE GIRLS’ DOLLAR BOOKSHELF_
=ELIZABETH, BETSY, AND BESS.= A STORY. 284 pages.
=ELIZABETH, BETSY, AND BESS--SCHOOLMATES.= A STORY. 308 pages.
Illustrated by colored Frontispiece. Price $1.00 net.
[Illustration]
Elizabeth, Betsy, and Bess--Schoolmates
By
AMY E. BLANCHARD
_ILLUSTRATED BY_
FRANK T. MERRILL
[Illustration]
W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON CHICAGO
Copyrighted 1914,
BY W. A. WILDE COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
ELIZABETH, BETSY AND BESS--SCHOOLMATES
TO
ELIZABETH EVARTS PERKINS
DEAR FOR THE SAKE OF HERSELF, HER MOTHER,
AND HER MOTHER’S MOTHER
A. E. B.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I BEFORE A HOLIDAY 9
II PRISONERS 23
III THE PIECE BAG 38
IV ON MONDAY 54
V THE THEMES 66
VI SCARED 80
VII WINTER DOINGS 95
VIII BESS GIVES A PARTY 109
IX IN DESPAIR 124
X ELIZABETH OFFENDS 141
XI BETSY AS FIRST AID TO INJURED FEELINGS 155
XII THE ARTIST 171
XIII THE STUDIO 187
XIV THE MODEL 204
XV ELIZABETH WEARS BLUE 218
XVI THE GRAY HOUSE OPENS 233
XVII MRS. MCGONIGLE’S BABIES 249
XVIII WEDDING GIFTS 267
XIX THE MODEL’S PAY 281
XX THE LOCKED DOOR 294
ELIZABETH, BETSY AND BESS SCHOOLMATES
CHAPTER I
BEFORE A HOLIDAY
Miss Jewett had just rung the bell and the children trooped into the
schoolroom, taking their places as quietly as exuberant youthful
spirits would permit, the smallest boys and girls in the front row, the
older ones further back. It was a cheerful room, and Elizabeth, by the
side of her chum, Betsy, thought of the changes which had taken place
there since Miss Jewett was installed as teacher. Where had been bare
walls, except for a couple of uninteresting maps, now were attractive
pictures which brought visions of all sorts of delightful historical
places; shelves in front of the windows displayed gay, blossoming
plants, while in an aquarium, standing in their midst, gold-fish darted
about. In the centre of the black-board Miss Jewett had just drawn
the picture of a man and woman in Puritan dress; a big yellow pumpkin
ornamented one corner of the board, in another was a turkey, in the
third an ear of corn and in the fourth a squirrel nibbling a nut. The
pictures were drawn with colored chalks and there was not a child who
did not look upon them with sparkling eyes.
“Thanksgiving,” the whisper went around. Miss Jewett nodded. “Yes,
Thanksgiving, and when we come to our history lesson I will tell you
how our first Thanksgiving Day originated and why we still keep it in
remembrance.” Then Miss Jewett took up her violin and drew the bow
across the strings. She paused a moment before she began to play.
“We will sing a very old hymn this morning,” she said, “one that was
written by a man named Kethe, away back in the sixteenth century, and
it might well have been sung by the Pilgrim Fathers on that first
Thanksgiving Day. It is very quaintly worded, I think. You may all look
for it in your hymnals; it begins: ‘All people that on earth do dwell,’
and we shall sing it to the tune Old Hundred, for that seems most
appropriate, as the tune is as old as the hymn.”
She started the first note and Elizabeth gave a quick sigh of pleasure.
It was a constant surprise and delight to her to find how many things
Miss Jewett could do: she could play the violin and sing sweetly, if
not very powerfully; she could draw wonderful things on the board; she
wore the daintiest and most becoming clothes and she made the lessons a
pleasure instead of a task. Surely she was the most wonderful teacher
in the world, and Elizabeth adored her. “Anything more like an angel
than Miss Jewett could not possibly be,” she confided to Betsy at
recess, “especially when she plays the violin.”
“But angels play on harps,” objected Bess Ferguson who had joined them.
“They don’t always,” returned Elizabeth, “for I’ve seen pictures of
them with violins; Betsy’s uncle Rob has one among the photographs he
brought from Europe.”
That settled it and Bess had no more to say; indeed, Elizabeth had
a way of forcing unanswerable arguments upon this less quick-witted
friend of hers, and it was seldom that she did not get the best of
it. Just here Flo Harris came up and was greeted cordially; she was
not often invited to join this trio, for it was an understood thing
that Elizabeth with her first best friend, Betsy, and her second
best, Bess, did not care for an addition to the group at lunch time.
It was regarded as a privilege when another girl was admitted; Flo,
however, had special claims upon this occasion, for this was her first
appearance after some weeks of illness. She was still rather pale and
thin, and the girls regarded her with something like admiring envy.
“Come right over here, Flo,” Elizabeth invited her. “We have a lovely
lunch today. Betsy has some of those great big red grapes that grow in
her aunt’s garden, Bess has some special cakes and I have a special jar
of marmalade. You’re well enough to eat anything now, aren’t you?” she
asked a little anxiously.
“Oh dear, yes,” returned Flo, accepting the attentions offered, “but I
have been awfully ill; I wasn’t expected to live.”
The three girls gazed at her with new interest. The phrase, “not
expected to live” had a weird fascination for them all, Elizabeth
especially. She had never reached such a danger point, although she had
gone through an ordeal during the summer when an accident threatened to
rob her of her sight. “Well,” she said, “I was never quite that bad,
although I did nearly have my eyes put out.”
“And once I was awfully ill with measles,” put in Bess.
“Yes, but you were never where they gave you up,” returned Flo in
triumph. “There was one night when, my mother said, the doctor declared
that he didn’t expect I would live till morning.” Again the alluring
phrase.
Elizabeth offered another spoonful of marmalade, Betsy laid half a
second bunch of grapes in Flo’s lap and Bess added her last cake, from
which she had just taken one bite.
“You look so lovely and pale,” said Elizabeth admiringly. “I would give
anything to be pale; it is so interesting. I think when I die I would
like to languish away,” she added sentimentally, “although I wouldn’t
like to have a worm feed on my damask cheek.”
“Who had that?” inquired Flo with interest.
“Why, don’t you know the poetry that says a worm in the bud fed on her
damask cheek?”
At this a merry little chuckle sounded from just above them and Miss
Jewett’s bright face looked out from the window; “Elizabeth, you funny
girl,” she said, “you don’t get that quotation right; it is: ‘And let
concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, feed on her damask cheek.’”
“I always thought it was a worm, a real live worm,” replied Elizabeth,
quite taken aback. “I don’t believe I understand it yet, Miss Jewett.”
“Neither do I,” spoke up Flo.
“Why, it means this: that the young woman concealed her love and the
effort to do so showed its effect; concealment took her vitality, the
rose from her cheek, and made her pale--just as a worm in the bud of a
rose destroys it.”
“Oh!” The girls saw the point. “I am rather glad it is that way,”
decided Elizabeth, “for I cannot bear any kind of worm, and Betsy is
always teasing by putting caterpillars on me; I dislike them more than
spiders. Miss Jewett, did you know that Flo wasn’t expected to live?”
“Yes, I heard the sad news at the time. We are very thankful to have
her back again, aren’t we? I hope she will get some roses into her pale
cheeks.”
“I think it is nice to be pale,” remarked Elizabeth honestly.
“Oh dear me, what a notion,” exclaimed Miss Jewett. “It is much nicer
to be rosy and healthy and strong and active.”
Elizabeth looked doubtful. She was generally very ready to adopt Miss
Jewett’s opinions, but she could not give up this treasured idea at
once though she did not say so; instead she asked solemnly, “Miss
Jewett, were you ever at the point of death?”
Miss Jewett smiled. “I believe so, when I was a child.”
Elizabeth sighed regretfully. “I never was.”
“You think it is something to boast of?” said Miss Jewett. “Why?”
Elizabeth cast about in her mind for a true reason, but she could not
settle upon a satisfactory one. “I don’t know exactly,” she answered
at last, “but we girls always do. I suppose it is just like having the
biggest or the finest or the rarest of anything; we feel proud of it
because it goes ahead of what the rest have.”
Miss Jewett laughed. “That is not a bad explanation, Elizabeth. You use
your mind very well, though one doesn’t always want to be the biggest
in all directions.”
“No,” returned Elizabeth with conviction, “I shouldn’t want to be the
biggest liar or thief, for instance.”
They all laughed, Miss Jewett included. “You’d better come in now,” she
said. “We want to have that Thanksgiving story, you remember.”
“But that won’t even be a fib,” retorted Elizabeth merrily.
“No, we can depend upon its being solid fact,” returned her teacher.
Having disposed of the last remnant of marmalade, the final grape and
the remainder of the cake, the girls shook the crumbs from their laps
and went inside to hear the story of the first Thanksgiving, and then
to go forth, somewhat earlier than usual, for their holiday. On the
way home there was great talk of the next day’s jollification. Miss
Jewett and her aunt, Miss Dunbar, were to dine at Betsy Tyson’s, and
the afternoon Betsy and Elizabeth were to spend together at the home
of the latter. This was determined upon after Betsy explained that she
would be left alone otherwise. “There will be no one at home,” she told
her friends, “for uncle Rob and Hal are going to the football game with
Miss Jewett and your sister Kathie, Elizabeth.”
“What will your aunt Emily do?” queried Elizabeth.
“She and Miss Dunbar are going to take tea with Mrs. Lynde.”
“And I have to stay at home,” complained Bess. “Grandma said she
couldn’t think of my going away from home on Thanksgiving.”
“It will be rather stupid, won’t it?” said Elizabeth compassionately.
“Yes, it will,” returned Bess in an aggrieved voice. “I wish you and
Betsy would come over and spend the afternoon with me.”
“Oh, but--” Elizabeth began and looked at Betsy. There was never much
fun in visiting at Mrs. Lynde’s; everything was so spick and span, so
very orderly. Mrs. Lynde did not like any noise and would not permit
anything out of place. The girls never had as good a time anywhere
as at Elizabeth’s home, the least pretentious among them all. For
this holiday Betsy and Elizabeth had planned a specially entertaining
afternoon and were not ready to give it up.
“I promised Elizabeth I would spend the afternoon with her,” said Betsy
doubtfully.
“Couldn’t you possibly come to my house, Bess?” asked Elizabeth.
Although Bess would not be any great addition to the proposed play,
Elizabeth was quite willing to include her.
Bess shook her head. “No, grandma and mamma both said I must stay with
them.”
“Oh dear! Well then they won’t want us,” decided Elizabeth, “for on
a holiday like Thanksgiving we wouldn’t think of going unless they
particularly invited us, would we, Betsy?” Elizabeth was rather pleased
with herself at having found a way out of the difficulty.
“But if I ask them they will invite you,” persisted Bess.
“It wouldn’t be the same,” Elizabeth was positive. “They probably will
go to drive and will want you with them; there wouldn’t be room for us
and so you see we’d only be in the way.” Elizabeth spoke forcibly, the
slower Bess finding no answering argument.
“You’ll have lovely things to eat,” Elizabeth went on, trying to
console Bess, “and you’ll wear that beautiful new frock, of course.
We might run in for a teentsy-weentsy minute to see you in it, after
church, you know. We could do that, couldn’t we?” She turned to Betsy
to receive her assenting nod, and Bess, pleased at the prospect of
displaying her finery, gave up further urging.
“Walk up to the next corner with me, Betsy,” said Elizabeth to her
first best as they left Bess at her own gate, and Betsy agreed.
“I never saw anyone like you, Elizabeth,” said the latter admiringly.
“You always know just what to say to Bess to make her satisfied. We
really didn’t exactly want her, did we? Yet she wasn’t a bit offended.”
“I didn’t mind her coming to our house,” declared Elizabeth; “it was
only that I didn’t want to go to hers. It would be as dry as pine
needles to sit around in that stiff way, as they do at her house. We
couldn’t jump about or run or make the least noise, for Bess would have
to be careful of her new frock, and we’d have to talk in whispers and
do some crazy fancy work or something. That reminds me, Betsy, I have a
lovely idea for Christmas. If you will come over some rainy Saturday we
can flabricate something nice.”
“What?” asked Betsy.
“Why, some little sachets, not sachets exactly, either--scent bags. I
thought of them long ago, and I gathered all the sweet-smelling leaves
and things I could from the garden to put in the bags: lemon verbenas,
rose leaves, bergamot, rose geranium, lavender, and oh,--lots. I’ll
give you some. My only trouble is to find bits of silk or ribbon to
make the bags of; Kathie confisticates everything of that kind.”
“I’ll tell you what we can do,” returned Betsy; “we can swap. I’ll
furnish the pieces and you can furnish the filling. Aunt Emily is very
nice about letting me have pieces; she likes to encourage me in doing
fancy work,” Betsy laughed. “I could have gathered sweet things from
our garden, too,” she went on, “but I didn’t think of it and it is too
late now, so the best I can do is to supply the outsides while you
supply the insides.”
“Oh, that’s lovely of you, Betsy,” responded Elizabeth appreciatively.
“Of course it is too late to get garden things now, for the frost
has nipped everything, and besides they have to be dried. Won’t it
be something nice to look forward to for the next rainy day? We’ll
go up into my playroom and make the bags; it will be quite light by
the window, you know, even if it is in the attic. I speak to make the
prettiest for Miss Jewett.”
“Oh dear,” responded Betsy disappointedly, “I was just going to say
that myself; you always do get ahead of me, Elizabeth.”
“Why, no, I don’t, but--I suppose it wouldn’t do for each of us to give
her one, would it? Even if they were different. Well, I will tell you
what; if I think of anything just as nice I’ll agree to your having the
prettiest piece and to giving that bag to Miss Jewett.”
“And if you don’t think of anything, what then?”
“Then maybe you will.”
“Now, Elizabeth, you know I am not anything like as clever as you about
having ideas for such things.”
“You flatter me, your serene highness. All right, then I can ask Kath;
she knows of lots of things to make and she will show me how when I
tell her the good cause. I’ll give up the bag if you want it so much.”
“I suppose I am a mean, selfish worm,” sighed Betsy, “but it does go to
the spot to have anything as nice as that for Miss Jewett, and besides
she is to be my aunt, you know, and I have the right to give her the
best.”
Elizabeth inwardly resented this, but there was no denying the fact,
to her mind, and she could answer only: “Woe is me, that she is not to
be mine, but you know something else; we’ll have the same brother and
sister after awhile.”
They stopped at the corner, Betsy declaring she could not go a step
further; therefore, walking backwards, they called to one another till
Elizabeth, stumbling against the protruding roots of a tree, thought
best to face about, calling over her shoulder: “See you at church
tomorrow.”