MRS. PHILLIPS had friends in Paulding and other towns nearby, and
though she was in mourning and did not go out much, entertained
constantly at home. But on this particular night she and her brother
were alone at dinner, and he took occasion to ask her about the young
girl in whom he already felt warm interest. For though Mrs. Phillips
did not associate with the village people, she knew the history of
everyone and was always informed as to what was going on about her.
“O--Bouncing Bet, you mean?” she exclaimed, and laughed in her pretty,
artificial way. “I wonder, Humphrey, if you remember a story we read as
children--at least, I did--called ‘The Baby Giant’?”
Meadowcroft did not recall it.
“Well, Bouncing Bet always makes me think of the pictures in that
story--there’s one where he’s climbing over a wall, and is stuck, I
believe--she’s just so big and lumbering, with just such a big baby
face and placid sort of cow-like expression. Then there’s another where
the baby giant is crying--such an absurd spectacle, his mouth puckered
up, fists in his eyes, and baby tears rolling down the cheeks of a six-
or eight- or I-don’t-know-how-many-footer. Well, when Bouncing Bet was
ever so much younger, but big as a girl of twelve really, she used to
cry if the children called her names; and, Humphrey, she was the baby
giant over again. I just wish you could have seen her.”
Her brother didn’t echo her wish. He changed the subject rather
abruptly. He didn’t like the idea of a woman recalling with unmixed
amusement the picture of a big little girl crying because her feelings
were hurt. And he felt the more concerned for the girl.
He watched for her rather eagerly next morning. Presently he caught
sight of her coming towards the house, head and shoulders above her
companion. She walked slowly, of a truth, as Tommy had said, and he had
opportunity for a searching scrutiny.
Tall and very large, Meadowcroft saw that the girl was square and
massive, so to speak, rather than fat. She was altogether too large--he
couldn’t gainsay that--but she wasn’t shapeless or clumsy. With
different clothing her figure wouldn’t, Meadowcroft decided, be bad;
it would be rather like certain Greek statues, indeed, though her
proportions probably exceeded the most ample of those marbles, and she
was, perhaps, too big even for an Amazon.
But her style of dress was most unfortunate, as if it had been designed
to call attention to her size. She wore a white blouse drawn in very
tightly at the waist under a leather belt, bulging out below which a
dark stuff skirt reached her ankles. Her hat was small and suited to an
old lady, and her fair hair, which waved prettily about her ears, was
drawn into a tight knob at her neck. And while the other school-girls
wore attractive shoes with ribbon lacings, she wore ugly, pointed-toed,
high-heeled boots which looked too tight and made her heavy step
mincing at the same time.
Meadowcroft had not sufficient time to study her face to catch its
expression--or, according to his sister, lack of expression. But he
saw that though her face was large and square, it was not what is
called plump. Rather, there was a flatness, a sort of Indian cast to
her features. Her profile was good, with a clear-cut chin, and her
color clear and fine. Perhaps, indeed, that sweet pink in her cheeks
gave her a kindlier resemblance to the pretty posy whence her nickname
had come than her size to its flaunting and rather inappropriate name.
Meantime, having passed the Phillips house, Betty Pogany turned and
glanced shyly back. Tommy had left the kindlings he had been chopping
and run down the lane on which his house stood to tell her that the
lame gentleman at Mrs. Phillips’s wanted her to come to see him just as
soon as she possibly could, and she felt pleased and rather excited.
If only Aunt Sarah wouldn’t object too seriously. She would be sure
to object and strenuously. Scarcely anyone in South Paulding liked
Mrs. Phillips and Aunt Sarah couldn’t bear her, and if she had her way
wouldn’t allow Betty to enter her house. But as the lady did a great
deal of trading with Betty’s father, who was a hardware merchant, there
was an even chance of her being allowed to accept the invitation given
by Mrs. Phillips’s brother.
It proved more than even. Aunt Sarah, who was an extremely exacting
woman and almost always had her way, told Betty that she certainly
should not go a step, talked about Mrs. Phillips for a quarter of an
hour, and upbraided the girl for wishing to enter the house of one who
thought herself so much better than her neighbors. But that evening
when she bade her brother forbid Betty to visit the mansion, George
Pogany decided that if Mr. Meadowcroft wanted to see his daughter, she
should go. She needn’t, however, let it interfere with her practising.
She must wait until Saturday afternoon.
“Of course, father,” the girl assented seriously.
“But that doesn’t mean, I hope, that you’ll neglect Rosy, Betty?” he
demanded. And Betty, who was highly elated, declared that she should of
course go first to the Harrows’.
“Well, then, it’ll surely be a case of the lame, the halt, and the
blind,” her father remarked facetiously.
“For my part, I don’t call a man that passes his days in a wheeled
chair and rides out in a brougham _lame_. I should call him a cripple,
just as everybody would if he didn’t live in the finest house in
the country with that stuck-up Mrs. Phillips,” declared Miss Pogany
severely.
Betty knew that it wasn’t a brougham but a victoria Mr. Meadowcroft
drove in, and as Tommy had told her about the crutches, she believed
the word _lame_ admissible. But she said nothing. It was almost second
nature to the girl to repress her thoughts and feelings. Perhaps it was
long experience of repression that had molded her countenance to that
impassive, Indian-like type which only Humphrey Meadowcroft had noticed.
But when she was alone in her room, as she undressed and prepared for
bed, Betty Pogany sighed more than once, despite the fact that she
had the coveted permission to call on the stranger whom Tommy found
enchanting. It hurt her almost cruelly to have Aunt Sarah call him a
cripple in that cold, scornful fashion. Furthermore, she knew that she
had a number of very uncomfortable days before her. Had Betty’s father
confirmed her decision, Aunt Sarah would have had nothing further to
say. As it was, she would be very resentful; she would bring up the
matter again and again and Betty would have no peace except while she
was at school and during the evenings when her father wasn’t at the
shop.