she had been so friendly-intimate as Bije. She made such haste as she
could, poor beast, and it was a great relief when she saw Brindle's
horns round the corner; for now, she had already learned from
experience, the hurry was over. Now she and her bovine friend could
take their way along the grassy road, as slowly as any cow could wish.
Bijah, who had come panting along the road, breathless with haste and
repeated adjurations, became suddenly compassionate. The poor beasts
were tired, likely. 'Twouldn't do to hurry them; anyhow, 'twas bad for
the cream. Oh, Bijah! Bijah! what would your pious grandmother say, if
she were witness of your barefaced duplicity on these occasions?
But what occasions they were! It was a pretty sight, if one had been
there to see. The road was pretty, to begin with,--the Indiana road,
with its overhanging birches and elms, and the fringe of daisies and
golden-rod along the sides. The evening light was soft and sweet, as
if the sun had put on his tenderest gleam to smile on Betsy; and as
the twilight deepened, in rosy gray softening into amethyst, did not
the moon come up, all clear and silver, just to look at Betsy? The
white light shimmered on the girl's soft hair, and deepened the
dimples in her round cheek, and cast strange gleams into her lovely
eyes. Was the other Juliet fairer, I wonder? Possibly; but, on the
other hand, she could not drive cows, nor milk them, either. Surely
the other Romeo was not more passionate than this dark-eyed boy in his
brown jean overalls, walking so sedately by Juliet's--I should say, by
Betsy's--side. Bije felt as if the whole world were light and fire;
the fire within him, the light without. He thought that Betsy gave
light to the moon, not the moon to Betsy. He did not wish he were a
glove upon that hand, for the little brown hand had never worn a
glove, except once, at the wedding of a friend. The gloves were at
home now, wrapped in silver paper; she meant to wear them at her own
wedding. He did not swear by yonder blessed moon, because he was not
in the habit of swearing. "By gosh!" was the only expletive Bije ever
used, and he would not have thought of using that in a lady's
presence. The fire within burned him; but what sweet pain it was! If
he had only had the gift of language, this poor, dear Bije, what
floods of glowing words he would have poured out! How he would have
praised her, the beloved one, and praised the night, and blessed the
moon, and the stars, and the old cows, and everything that came near
him and his happiness! But if he had spoken, Bije could only have said
that it was a sightly night, and Betsy would have responded that it
was so.
One of these sightly nights Bijah found voice, if not language. They
were pacing slowly along, letting Brindle and Molly have it all their
own way. It was the full of the moon, the harvest-moon, and all the
world lay bathed in silver light. They had been silent for a while,
through sheer peace and content in each other; but suddenly Bije broke
out with, "I wish't I had a snow-apple!"
"Why, how you startled me!" Betsy responded. "Why do you want a
snow-apple now, of all times in the world? They won't be ripe for nigh
onto two months, Bije."
"Do you know what I thought of, first time ever I see you?" the boy
went on, with apparent irrelevance. "Well, I thought of a snow-apple
then, and thought you looked the most like one of anything in the
world."
"Well, of all!" said Betsy.
"I did! There's nothing else as I know of that's so red and white, and
so round, and so--so sweet, Betsy."
"Bijah Green, how you do talk!" Betsy cried. "It's time we was gettin'
home with these cows." But she did not quicken her pace, and Bije
noticed that she did not.
"Do you know what I'd do if you were a snow, Betsy?" Bije came a
little nearer, and his voice grew husky.
"Eat me, presume likely!" said Betsy, with a little laugh that
trembled as if it were full of tears.
"No!" cried the boy. "I'd pick you off the tree, though, and have you
for my own, Betsy. I'd carry you off, and run away with you, sure's
the world. Should--should you mind much, Betsy?"
But for once Betsy had nothing to say. She could only hang her head,
and look more and more like the snow-apple, as Bije's arm stole round
her, and his hand clasped hers. Little Betsy! She was only eighteen;
four years older, it is true, than that creature of fire and perfume
over in the other Verona, but still almost a child, according to New
England ideas. The moon looked down, and probably thought she had seen
the same sort of thing ever since she was an asteroid, and these
children were like all the rest. But what a mistaken old moon she
was,--for there had never been any one like Betsy, and certainly no
one like Bijah, since the world began; and it was all perfectly new
and strange, and--and--they had a very pleasant walk home.
* * * * *
"A bird of the air shall carry the matter!" What bird of all that fly
could have had so bad a heart as to tell Miss Resigned Elizabeth of
what was going on? Did a raven come on heavy-flapping wings, and
croak it in her ear? Or was it a magpie, or a chattering jay? Surely
no respectable robin or oriole would think of such a thing! But,
however the news reached her, it was there, and the golden time was
rudely broken in upon.
Coming in one evening all flushed and radiant with her new joy, the
child was met by her mistress (only we do not say "mistress" in New
England; we say "she" or "her," as the case may be),--she was met, I
say, by Miss Resigned Elizabeth, wearing so stern a face that the
blush froze on Betsy's cheek, and the smile fled from the corners of
her mouth, where it always loved to linger.
"Betsy Garlick, where have you been with that cow?"
Betsy faltered. "Been with her, Miss Bute? I've been bringing her back
from pasture, same as I allers do."
"Same as you allers do? And how's that? Betsy Garlick, ain't you
ashamed to look me in the face, and you goin' with that low-lived
feller over t' the other house?"
But at this Betsy caught fire. "He ain't no low-lived feller!" she
cried, the blushes coming back again in an angry flood over cheek and
brow and neck. "You can scold me all you're a mind to, Miss Bute, and
I won't say nothin'; but you ain't no call to abuse Bijah."
"Oh, I ain't, ain't I?" cried Miss Resigned Elizabeth, taking fire in
her turn. "I'm to be shet up in my own house, am I, by a girl from
North Beulah? I'm to have such actions goin' on under my nose, and
never so much as wink at 'em, am I? I should like to know! You go to
your room this minute, Betsy Garlick, and stay there till I tell you
to come out, or you'll find out p'raps more than you like. North
Beulah! Well, of all impudence!"
Betsy fled to her room, and the angry woman followed and turned the
key upon her. Then, returning to her sitting-room, Miss Resigned
Elizabeth sat down and made out her line of action in this domestic
crisis. She sat for some time, her head shaking with indignation over
the iniquities of this generation; then she went to the writing-desk,
so seldom used, and, with stiff, trembling fingers, wrote two notes.
One of the notes was posted, being intrusted to the care of the
travelling baker, who went jingling by just in the nick of time; the
other was thrust in at Miss Duty's door by a withered hand, which held
it unflinchingly till Miss Duty came and took it, wondering greatly,
but not opening the door an inch wider to catch a glimpse of her
sister's face,--the face she had not looked into for ten years.
When the hand was withdrawn, Miss Duty proceeded to decipher the note,
her gray hair bristling with indignation as she did so.
SISTER DUTY,--Your help has been courting my hired girl, and I
don't suppose you want any such doings, any more than I do. I
have shet the girl up in her room till he is gone, and sent for
her stepmother. So no more from your sister.
R. E. BUTE.
Who shall paint Miss Duty's wrath? It was more violent than her
sister's, for she was of sterner mould; and it was really a fiery
whirlwind that greeted the delinquent Bijah when he came whistling in
from the barn, cheerfully smiling and at peace with all the world. But
the boy who faced Miss Duty in her fury was a very different person
from the meek, submissive youth whom she had learned to know and
tyrannize over as Bije Green.
This Bije met her torrent of angry words with head held high, and
smiling countenance. Ashamed? No, he wasn't ashamed, not the least
mite in the world. Pick up his duds and go? Why, of course he
would--just as easy! Should he wait to split the kindling-wood and
bring in the water? Just as she said; it didn't make a mite o'
difference to him. Go right off, this minute of time? Ruther go than
eat, any time. One week's pay--thank her kindly, much obliged. The cow
was fed, and he cal'c'lated she'd find everything pretty slick in the
barn. Real pleasant night for a walk--good evenin'!
The consequence of which was--what? Certainly not what Miss Duty had
expected, or Miss Resigned, either.
At daybreak next morning, when the gray heads of these indignant
virgins were still lying on their pillows, taking an interval of peace
with all the world, Bijah was under Betsy's window, like a flame of
fire. Betsy was not asleep. Oh, no! She was crying, poor little soul,
at thought of going back to her stepmother, one of the old-fashioned
kind, and never seeing Bije again. For she would never see him, of
course. Hark! Was that a pebble thrown against the glass? A peep
through the green blinds, up went the little window, softly, softly,
and the dearest girl in the world leaned out, showing her sweet
tear-stained face in the faint gray light,--a sight which made Bije
more fiery than ever. Softly she bade him begone, for she dared not
speak to him. How did he know Miss Bute wasn't looking at him this
minute, out of her window?
It appeared that Bije did not care if twenty Miss Butes were looking
at him, though one was enough to frighten the crows. Betsy was to put
on her bunnit that minute, and come along with him. Door locked? What
did that matter, he should like to know? He should laugh if she was to
be kept shet up there like a mouse in a trap. Send her home to her
stepmother? He'd like to see them try it, that was all. Never mind the
things! Come right along! She'd ben cryin'! He'd like to get hold of
them as made her cry. There'd be _some_ cryin' round, but it wouldn't
be hers. Come! Why didn't Betsy come? They'd take the cows out to
pasture this once more,--he didn't want the dumb critters to suffer,
and 't wasn't likely the old cats could get any help before
night,--and then they'd go. Go where? Now Betsy knew that well enough.
To Friar Laurence, of course (Bije called him parson instead of friar,
and he spelled his name with a _w_ instead of a _u_, but these are
mere trifles of detail), to get married. Where else should they go?
Wasn't she his Betsy, his own girl? Did she think she was goin' to
stay there and be hectored, while he was round? Parson Lawrence was to
home, Bije saw him only last night. Now could she climb down that
grape-vine? He reckoned she could, and he'd be standin' ready to catch
her if her foot should slip.
"Oh, Bije! you take my breath away, you're so dretful speedy. Why, I
can't--no way in the world. What--where should I go then, if--if we
did--do what you say? Not that I can--with no clo'es but what I've got
on. The idea!"
"Go? go home, of course, to mother's. Won't she be glad to see ye?
Won't Delilah half eat ye up, she'll be so pleased? That's all you
know, Betsy. And the help you'll be, and me too! Mother was dretful
onreconciled to my goin' away, but I felt to go and see something of
the world. And now I've seen all I want to, and I'm good and ready to
go home, Betsy; but not alone."
How silver-sweet, indeed, sound lovers' tongues by night! But no
sweeter than now in the early morning, when all the world was as young
and fresh as Betsy, and as full of love and tenderness. In truth, it
was the hour for a bridal. The air was full of bridal-veils: floating
wreaths of silver fog that hung soft on the trees, and shimmered
against the hill-sides, and here and there began to soften into golden
and rosy tints as the light strengthened. They were all over the
grass, too, these bridal-tokens, in tiny webs of purest spun-silver,
diamond-set. A carpet of pearls was spread for Betsy's little feet,
and she would never cry out, as slug-a-bed maidens do, if the pearls
and diamonds wetted her shoes. Is the bride ready?
"Red as a rose is she.
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy."
Hark to them now! They are tuning their instruments in every branch of
the elm-tree, cheep, twitter, trill; and now they burst out in a
triumphal chorus of song:--
"O Hymen, Hymenæe!"
and Betsy needs neither Mendelssohn nor Wagner to tell her what a
wedding-march is. In very sooth, are there no young people beside
Betsy and Bijah who know enough to be married in the early morning,
and begin their first day together?
For Betsy can hold out no longer. She retires to put on the pink
calico gown, because Bije will not hear of her being married in any
other. It is a pity that she will put on her best hat, instead of the
pretty sunbonnet; but one cannot expect a girl to be married in a
"slat." She ties up her little bundle with trembling hands, while her
cheeks glow and her heart beats so that she fancies Miss Bute must
hear it in the room below.
Now she peeps out again, but shrinks back, afraid of the fire in the
brown boy's eyes, and the passion of his outstretched arms. O Romeo!
Romeo! But the whisper, "Betsy, _my_ Betsy!" brings her out again,
with a little proud, tearful smile. Yes, she is his Betsy. He is good
and true; he will take care of her. She would trust all the world to
Bijah.
Carefully now! The trellis is strong. (Had not Bijah tested it in the
night, when she was sobbing in her sleep, to see that all was safe for
her?) One foot on this round--so! Now down, slowly, carefully; take
care of this step, for it is a weak one! Drop the bundle--there! Safe
at last! At last! "All the world and we two," nothing else beside. As
Betsy's foot touches the ground, up comes the sun to look at her. A
long shaft of golden light touches her fair head, and lies like a
benediction on her brow. The boy gazes at her, and sees no other sun.
Ah, Juliet! if the measure of thy joy be heap'd like mine, and that
thy skill be more to blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath this
neighbor air, and let rich music's tongue unfold the imagin'd
happiness that both receive in either by this dear encounter. Call
softly, though, softly, so as not to wake the old ladies: "Co'boss!
Co'boss!" Push the mossy gate, and let the good, silent creatures out,
the confidants of our love these many weeks. Come, sweet Capulet!
Come, Betsy, and let us drive the cows to pasture!
* * * * *
Great was the wrath in the virgin bosoms of the Misses Bute when the
flight of Betsy and her dark-eyed lover was discovered. Miss Duty
relieved her feelings by a furious bout of house-cleaning, and
scrubbed and scoured as if she were determined to purge the house from
the very memory of Bijah Green. But Miss Resigned Elizabeth had a
touch of rheumatism, and could not take refuge in that solace of
womankind. She could only sit and fret, poor soul, and wish she had
some one to talk it over with. Dear to goodness! Come times like this,
one did feel forsaken. Miss Resigned Elizabeth almost felt that she
could make up with her sister, for the sake of the common cause of
anger they now had. She glanced across the way, as she huddled up in
her shawl, taking the sun on the back-porch. If she had seen any
softness in the lines of Miss Duty's back, as she stood washing
windows on her own porch, Miss Resigned Elizabeth almost felt as if
she could cough, or perhaps even speak, just to pass the time of day.
But Miss Duty's back was as rigid as her principles; and though she
knew well enough that her sister was near, she gave no sign of
consciousness. The younger sister felt forlorn and old, and drew her
shawl closer around her, as if a cold air blew from that stiff figure
on the other porch.
But 'twas warmer here than in the house, anyway.
The house seemed strangely cold and cheerless since Betsy went away.
There was no one singing in the little pantry, or making a cheerful
clatter among the milk-pails. If Miss Resigned Elizabeth had only
known how things were going to turn out, she would never have hired a
girl; but now, it didn't seem as if she could get along without
one,--coming winter, too.
But it was not so easy to get a girl in Verona. "Help is turrible
skurce!" was the answer to all Miss Resigned Elizabeth's inquiries;
nor did Miss Duty fare better in her search for a boy to fill the
place of the delinquent Bijah. They both had to send for old John, the
village chore-man, a surly elder, who grumbled bitterly at the
half-mile walk on the Indiana road, and wanted to know what folks
lived out there in the wilderness for, anyway. A sad time the poor
ladies had now. Their pails were mixed up, because old John saw no
reason for giving way to such foolishness on the part of the Bute
girls, with whom he had gone to school forty years before, and who
had never been so all creation as they thought they were, that he
knew of. The indignant maidens found baskets marked with hostile
initials in the shed; and if old John did not find what he wanted on
the premises of one sister, he coolly took it from the other house,
without so much as "by your leave." They could not even tell whether
they were drinking their own cow's milk, or that of the critter over'n
the next yard; for John drove the cows together to whichever pasture
he happened to fancy, and milked them together, whistling defiance as
he did so. Any remonstrance was met with the announcement that he,
John, was only coming to accommodate, and the sooner they found some
one else to do their putterin', the better he should be pleased.
It was really a dreadful state of things. Why, they might almost as
well be living together again, Miss Duty thought; and Miss Resigned
Elizabeth thought so, too. And so the days wore on, and the weeks, and
made themselves into months; and the Misses Bute mourned in secret for
Betsy Garlick and Bijah Green.
A year passed, as years do, whether people are comfortable or not.
Miss Duty and Miss Resigned Elizabeth were not comfortable; but nobody
seemed to care, and help continued to be "turrible skurce." Summer had
come again, the late summer even, and the harvest-moon. One evening,
just at sunset, as Miss Duty was straining the milk, there came a
sharp knock at the door. Miss Duty did not altogether approve of
people's knocking at her door at any time, and it was a special
outrage just now, when anybody with brains in his head must know that
she was busy; so she set down the pan and waited to see what would
come next. Another knock came next, so imperious that Miss Duty wiped
her hands on her apron and went to the door, outwardly calm, but
inwardly raging.
There stood Calvin Parks, the driver of the Beulah stage, with a straw
in his mouth and a twinkle in his eye.
"Lady out here to see you, Miss Bute," he said. "Very important
business. Good evenin'!"
He was gone before the indignant lady could say a word. If you came to
think of it, this was shameless impudence. A lady indeed! An agent,
likely, selling some trash that wasn't fit for stove-kindlings. At any
rate, Miss Duty must go and give the woman a piece of her mind, comin'
traipsin' round, just when folks was busy. The idea!
Out she went, fire in her eye, thunder ready rolling on her tongue.
Out she went, and found--Betsy Garlick.
Betsy Green, rather; for the maiden Betsy never had this air of
prosperity, this sweet, matronly look; was never dressed like this
young woman, who sat on the boundary-stone that divided Miss Duty's
lot from that of the other house, and smiled,--actually smiled in Miss
Duty's face; and in her sister's too, for Calvin Parks had summoned
Miss Resigned Elizabeth also, and she was approaching with feebler,
slower steps. And who was this, standing by Betsy's side, erect,
beaming, jubilant? Who but the recreant Bijah?
"Oh, Miss Butes!" cried Betsy, lifting her sweet face to one and then
to the other of the sisters. "Please, Bijah and me couldn't pass
through Verony without stoppin' to pass the time of day, and see how
you was gettin' on. We're real sorry we went off and left you that
way, without notice. 'Twan't right, we know that now; but, then, we
couldn't find no other way to fix it, seemed's though. I hope you
don't bear malice, Miss Butes. We've done real well, Bijah and me.
We're goin' now to look at a farm in Cortez't we've heard of. Bijah's
grandmother has left him quite consid'able of means, for us, and we
want to have a place of our own, though no one couldn't be kinder than
Mother Green and Delilah has been. I--I hope you've both been right
smart, this time, and had good help right along?"
Oh, wicked little Betsy! You knew very well that they have _not_ been
right smart. Calvin Parks told you and Bijah all about their forlorn
condition, and how old John bullied them (How did he know? Why, what
is the use of being a stage-driver, if you do not know everything?),
and you have come here with the very slyest scheme in your little head
that ever kindness and cleverness concocted. And now you are going to
play your trump-card, seeing that the two ladies are still silent,
each, perhaps, waiting for the other to speak.
"And another reason we had for stoppin'," says Betsy, looking down at
a great bundle in her lap, from which faint sounds now began to issue.
"Oh, Miss Butes, we--I _did_ feel to have you see Baby, 'cause I don't
believe you ever did see such a darling in this world." With these
words, she drew the shawl aside, and there on her lap lay the child,
all warm and rosy, just waking from his nap, and stretching his little
limbs, and blinking his eyes in the light.
A baby! When had the Bute ladies seen a baby as near as this? Miss
Resigned Elizabeth felt a tugging at her heart-strings; she had always
been fond of children. Miss Duty felt--she hardly knew what; but she
saw the tears on her sister's cheek; saw, too, how old and feeble she
had grown, and what a pitiful look there was in her pale blue eyes.
And yet she had a look of Mother, too!
At this moment the baby gave a crow and a kick, and made a grab at
Miss Duty's dress. In the effort, he nearly rolled off his mother's
lap. Instinctively the two sisters bent down to catch him, and as they
did so their heads came together with a smart crack. Miss Resigned
Elizabeth began to cry, she could not tell why, and Miss Duty laughed.
"You ain't fit to live alone, Resigned Eliz!" she said, and she hardly
recognized her own voice.
"Well, I ain't, sister; that's a fact!" responded Miss Resigned
Elizabeth, meekly. "My eyesight ain't what it was. But he _is_ a
lovely child, Betsy; and--and I'm right glad to see you, Betsy, if you
_didn't_ act quite as you should."
"Why, you're as blind as a mole!" cried the elder sister, in high good
humor. "And you ain't had the sense to get glasses fitted." (Miss Duty
could read the very smallest print, as well as she could twenty years
ago) "The idea! And that thin dress ain't fit for you to wear this
cold day." Miss Duty seemed to meditate. "Bije Green!" she said
sharply, turning for the first time to her quondam "help."
"Yes, ma'am!" said Bije, meekly. He had kept silence till now, having
absolute confidence in Betsy's diplomatic powers; but now he stepped
boldly forward, and met Miss Duty's gaze without flinching.
"You behaved scandalous, Bije Green, when you was here before, as well
you know. But I'm willin' to let bygones be bygones, seein' things is
how they is. You go get the wheelbarrow, and bring it here. Resigned
'Liz," she added, turning to her sister, "go on in, and pack up your
things. I s'pose it's fitting I should see to you, from now on. You
come home, and we'll see. Mebbe I used to be a little cuterin',
sometimes--though you did try me."
"I know I did, sister!" Miss Resigned Elizabeth cried. "Most prob'ly
the fault was mine, though I did feel your cuttin' up the hair
bracelet. But there! I've been dretful lonesome sence Betsy went.
I--I'd be real glad to come home, sister!"
"So that's all there is to it," said Miss Duty, in a final manner. "As
for the other house--"
"Miss Bute!" cried Betsy Green, her eyes sparkling, her breath coming
quickly. "We--we weren't so dretful set on goin' to Cortez. We'd
enough sight ruther find a place nearer home. I never thought--" here
she stopped short, being a truthful Betsy; for she _had_ thought, and
planned, and hoped in her kind little heart, and now here was
everything coming out just as she hoped it would. "I'd ruther live
here than anywhere else in the world!" she said simply. "'Twas here I
saw Bijah first, and all; and you was real kind to me, Miss Bute, and
I do love Brindle."