BEATRICE
"And he who wins the fight with Self
Has won the bravest battle."
"GOOD-BYE, Miss Billy."
"Good-bye, Beatitude. You're a dear to help me off in this way. I
won't forget it in a hurry."
"All rightie. See that you don't."
"And Bea, don't vex your soul over that mending basket. It's only one
stitch in nine that saves time, you know."
"I won't, but you'd better make haste; you'll miss the boat."
"A miss wouldn't be as good as a mile then, would it? Good-bye,
again. Yes, mother, I _have_ a handkerchief. Also a corkscrew for the
olives. Also my rubbers. Good-bye, everybody."
Miss Billy was going to a picnic, and in her usual way. The whole
house had been in an uproar since six o'clock. There had been a
hurried dressing, a hurried breakfast, and a hurried packing of
lunch; and it was not until the blue linen suit disappeared around
the corner that a lull fell over the home, and the household paused
to take breath.
There were still the remains of the preparations for lunch to be
cleared away, the study to be made clean, and the disorder which was
left in Miss Billy's wake to be remedied. Her sister's work added
to her own took Beatrice longer than usual, and it was ten o'clock
before she came languidly into the garden with the mending basket
under her arm. She tumbled out a large bundle of ragged stockings,
and set to work.
It was hot and deserted on Cherry Street. Even in the shade, where
Beatrice sat, the air was sultry and close, and the garden seat warm
to the touch. The children seemed to have melted away from sidewalk
and gutter. The absence of Miss Billy and Theodore had left the
place unnaturally dull and forlorn, and the incessant tick-tick of
the little creatures in the grass was the only sound that broke the
stillness.
Beatrice's thoughts flew with her needle. Last year at this time the
whole family were at Gordon's Lake for the season. And it had been
such a gay summer. A summer of boating and dancing; of driving and
golfing, of pretty clothes, and new friends and good times. A summer
of long, jolly, merry days, and of long, cool, restful nights. A
summer that seemed made for the merriment that only ended when the
last good-byes were said.
And now everybody else was going away; the Seabrookes, and the Van
Courtlands and even the Blanchards; and they were to be left at
home. It was all right for the rest of the family; Theodore hated
"resorts," and Miss Billy never seemed to care for anything so long
as she had her beloved books and flowers and children. "But I care,"
thought Beatrice bitterly, "more than I ever thought I should care
for anything."
It was easy enough to be good when one was happy, when good friends
and pleasant times and pretty clothes were one's birthright; but when
poverty and hard work was one's portion, when one's clothes were
shabby and when one lived on Cherry Street----! A hot tear baptised
Theodore's gay striped sock, and Beatrice, forgetful of her age
and dignity, put her head down on the garden seat, and like little
Cinderella, "let the tears have their way."
The stout, rosy-faced man who came up the front walk and rang
the door bell did not look like a fairy godmother, but the most
beneficent fairies go about disguised. Beatrice was so busy wiping
her eyes that she did not notice his arrival, and as she went bravely
back to work she little guessed the surprise that was in store for
her. Not even the glad note in her mother's voice when she called her
into the house made her suspicious.
The rosy-faced man was leaning up against the door of the study,
smiling benignantly at Mr. and Mrs. Lee. He beamed even more
delightedly as Beatrice entered.
Mrs. Lee scarcely waited for their greeting. Her eyes shone as she
put her hand on her daughter's shoulder, and her voice was very happy
as she said:
"Guess, dearie, what Mr. Van Courtland has come for. He wants you to
go abroad next week."
The self-possessed Beatrice lost her dignity. She grew rosy with
delight and gasped speechlessly for a moment before she ejaculated
brokenly:
"Me? To go abroad? Oh, mother!"
That "oh, mother!" settled the matter, Mrs. Lee decided at once that
she must go.
"It will not be a very long trip," explained Mr. Van Courtland. "We
did not intend to start until later, but that bugbear 'business'
stands like a fence between me and the rest of the world. Be
thankful, Lee, that you are not a banker. Mrs. Van Courtland and I
shall sail on the 16th, land seven days later, and go immediately
to Cologne for Margaret. We hope to be in Germany long enough
for the Rhine trip, but shall probably sail for home immediately
afterwards. We planned to borrow Miss Billy to take with us, but Mrs.
Van Courtland says that the sea breezes will be just the thing for
Beatrice's pale cheeks. She ought to see you this minute, young lady.
You're anything but pale and wan now."
Beatrice did not even notice the compliment. Her brain was moving
faster than Mr. Van Courtland's words. Europe, sea breezes, the
Rhine! To leave the heat and dust of the city, the shabbiness and
noise of Cherry Street, for the enchanting country across the sea.
It seemed like a glorious dream of white-capped waves and cool
breezes, from which one must wake up to the swarming Canarys and the
loud-voiced Hennesys on Cherry Street.
"And if she goes, she goes as our guest. Mrs. Van Courtland dreads
the trip, and I confess a lingering longing for a young piece of
humanity when I am aboard ship. As for our own Margie,--why she will
jump out of her beloved Germany with joy when she sees a glimpse of
her home friend. We will consider it a great favour if you'll lend us
your girl for a while."
The matter was hurriedly decided. Mrs. Lee looked over at her husband
with a quick glance that showed how much motherly love and anxiety
for her daughter was at stake. The minister answered with a nod and a
smile that seemed to say, "We must manage it."
Mr. Van Courtland departed satisfied, and Beatrice returned to the
garden seat to dreamily wind the darning cotton into a snarl, and
whisper joyfully to herself, "I am going abroad."
There was a family council after supper that night. Beatrice had
rather dreaded to tell Miss Billy the glorious news, feeling that the
trip was originally planned for the younger sister, but Miss Billy
sternly frowned upon her sister's reticence.
"The idea!" she said scornfully, "of thinking that I should be
so mean and small about a thing like this. You would have been
delighted if this trip had come to me,"--Beatrice made a small mental
reservation--"and it belongs to you anyway. You need it more than I
do."
If she felt any disappointment she failed to show it either in action
or word, but went on making extravagant plans, and most elaborate
suggestions for the trip. She offered to lend Beatrice anything and
everything she possessed, from her cut glass vase to her ice cream
freezer, and the last thing the elder sister heard that night was a
recipe for sea sickness and an idea for making over a travelling suit
out of Miss Billy's brown gown.
It was daybreak when Beatrice awoke. The house was very still and
quiet, and the light morning breeze blew aside the white curtains at
the windows. Beatrice raised herself on one elbow and looked out
at the little glimpse of water visible between the high roofs. The
sun was rising, away out on the breast of the lake, and each little
ruffled wave was touched with a crest of gold.
Beatrice was not often affected by her surroundings, but just now,
in the light of her new happiness, the day seemed symbolic of her
life, and the sun that gilded the grey waves like the pleasant plan
that had made her sombre life glad. Yesterday's grief seemed very far
away, and to-day's joy was very near and dear. She clasped her hands,
and whispered earnestly: "Help me to deserve it, Lord." The sounds
of the two whispered voices which came from the next room did not
disturb her, and she lay dreamily happy in her own thoughts, until
the sound of her own name aroused her. It was her father's voice that
said:
"Well, Beatrice needs it. We must manage it some way."
The girl turned her head, and listened intently as he continued:
"How much money is it going to cost us?"
Mrs. Lee's estimate was not discernible, but her husband's reply
betrayed its tenor:
"I wish a hundred dollars came as easily to me now as it did six
months ago."
"I don't see how we can do it for any less," said Mrs. Lee. "Bea's
wardrobe is scanty, and she will require more clothes than she
needs when she is at home. Beside, she will have to have money for
incidentals. Mr. Van Courtland is very generous, but we don't want to
impose on him, or embarrass Beatrice."
"Oh, no, she can't get along with any less. Still, it will be a
little hard to spare just now. I feel our poverty most when it
touches the children."
"It _is_ a good deal, but I think it's worth the sacrifice. Beatrice
has looked white and worn lately, and we can't afford to let her be
sick."
"I hadn't noticed it," said Mr. Lee anxiously. "Do you think she's
not well?"
"It's heart sickness as much as anything else. Bea has never seemed
happy since we moved onto Cherry Street. She misses the old home and
the old friends. She was not so easily reconciled as Wilhelmina and
Theodore."
"Then I think more than ever that we must manage it. I shall not
regret the effort if she comes back physically improved. After
that I'll trust the mental and moral indisposition to take care of
themselves. Bea is not naturally pessimistic."
"But I don't see exactly how we are to arrange it. We are living so
near to our income just now; and I don't know how to economise more
closely than I have been doing."
Mr. Lee made a suggestion that Beatrice did not hear, to which his
wife replied decidedly:
"No, dear man, you can't get along without that. A minister can't
afford to go shabby. We'll find some other way of saving. I can let
Maggie go home for a month or two. Beatrice's going away will make
the family smaller, and I'm sure Wilhelmina and I could do the
housework."
"No indeed." The minister's voice was most emphatic. "That would be
extravagant economy. You would be sick in a month. I can spare the
money, I'm sure, but I shall have to give up a cherished plan to do
it. I hoped to be able to rent a horse and buggy for you two days a
week this summer. You don't get enough of out of doors, and it tires
you so to walk."
There was a glad little note in Mrs. Lee's reply that went straight
to Bea's heart.
"Oh, if that is all!" she exclaimed. "Why John, I'd rather never
drive again than to have Beatrice miss this opportunity. It will mean
so much to her. Beside, dear, do you think I would enjoy driving
around in state while my husband was shabby?"
"No, it doesn't sound like you," said Mr. Lee. "Still, I would like
to do it for you," he added wistfully.
"Well, dear, don't say a word to spoil Beatrice's pleasure. She
seemed so glad to go! And I think we all would be willing to
sacrifice ourselves a little for her sake."
The conversation ended there. The father and mother went back to
sleep, and the eavesdropper returned to her pillow with wet eyes. Her
soul, as well as her body, was wide awake, and perhaps for the first
time in her life, Beatrice realised the beauty and divineness of self
sacrifice. In the light of the whispered conversation the melancholy
of the day before seemed petty and unworthy, and the girl who sternly
choked back the tears of disappointment was not the girl who had wept
in the garden. Nobody ever knew of the struggle which took place in
the little white bed, nor was any the wiser for the puddle of tears
that made a miniature lake in the pillow; but Beatrice was victor in
the battle with herself.
As the clock struck five, a slim little figure in white crept
silently out of bed, and tiptoed over to the desk, that Miss Billy
should not be wakened. A stranger would not have appreciated the
depth of the struggle; but to Beatrice it was the tragedy of a
lifetime, and there was real heroism in the letter which read:
"DEAR, DEAR MR. VAN COURTLAND:
"I hope you won't think I am silly to change my mind so
suddenly, after all the arrangements were made yesterday,
but I have decided that I must not go. I know that you
won't misunderstand my motive, because you know how much I
long to go, and how grateful I am to you both for inviting
me.
"Father and mother both are willing that I should go, but
I know that my trip would mean a big sacrifice on their
part, which I am not willing to accept. You and Mrs. Van
Courtland have always been so kind to me that I am sure
you will understand what I mean, and help me to do what is
right.
"I can never tell you how grateful I am to both of you.
"Lovingly yours,
"BEATRICE LEE."