PERPLEXITY AND ADVICE
“Now, children, run along to bed,” said Grandma Jean, as the door closed
behind the last guests; “and don’t dawdle, for it’s late. Help Jack
up-stairs, Betty, and I’ll look in and see that he’s all right when I
come up.”
“Good night, grandma,” said Betty, a little wistfully.
“Good night,” said Mrs. Kinsey. “Run on now; I’m going to count the
silver.”
Though Jack was tired, he walked bravely through the hall; but when he
reached the stairs he was glad to have Betty’s assistance.
“I’ll be all right soon,” he said; “but I’ll just take a grip on your
shoulder this time, if you don’t mind.”
Betty laughed. “‘Lean on me, grandpapa; I’m ’most seven,’” said she,
quoting from their favorite story-book, and offering a sturdy shoulder
for Jack’s support.
They stopped on the landing to rest; and as they sat down on the
cushioned seat, Jack said:
[Illustration: “‘LEAN ON ME, GRANDPAPA,’ SAID BETTY.”]
“I’m glad of your help to-night, but in a few days I guess I won’t need
it. I’ll get strong awful quick, Dr. Norton says; and then I’m going to
exercise just right, and get myself up in shape, and I’m going in for
the navy. Mr. Mixon knows a man who knows somebody who’s on a ship, and
he says he’ll help me.”
“Oh, Jack, do you mean you’ll go away to sea, and stay?”
“You bet I will, if I get half a chance. But not for a long while yet. A
fellow has to study awful hard to get in the navy. Hallo, there goes the
wailer. Move, Betty; you’re sitting against it.”
They had dubbed the æolian harp the “wailer” because its music was
usually a prolonged wail. It was sweet and tuneful, but always sad.
“Ugh!” said Jack, “it’s extra sad to-night. Sounds’s if it had swallowed
a doughnut, or something heavy. I must go up-stairs, Betty; it’s
bedtime.”
With Betty’s help, Jack climbed the rest of the stairs easily enough,
and entered his own room.
“Good night, Jack,” said Betty, pausing at the door.
“Good night—and say, Betty, won’t you call down to grandma to bring up
my tonic when she comes? She knows where it is.”
“I will,” said Betty; and she delivered the message, and then went to
her room.
She entered and closed the door, and then stood with her hand still on
the door-knob, looking round her.
Such a pretty room! During the months Betty had lived in it she had
added so many lovely things that it was just overflowing with beauty and
comfort.
A fine copy of the “Sistine Madonna” looked down on her from the wall,
and a royal Bengal tiger rug gnashed its teeth at her from the floor.
Electric lights had been recently introduced at Denniston, and in
Betty’s room they were hidden among the cornice decorations, and so cast
a lovely radiance without a glare of light.
And still Betty stood looking round her.
The room had been arranged for the night. The covers of the pretty white
bed had been turned back and the little ruffled night-dress laid in
readiness. A down coverlet of blue silk hung over the foot of the
bed,—for the nights were growing chilly,—and a little blue
dressing-gown of eider-flannel and a pair of blue woolly slippers lay on
the couch. A shaded night-lamp burned low on a small bedside table.
Betty crossed the room and stood in front of a long pier-glass. She must
have been pleased with the reflection she saw there, for the fluffy
organdie dress, made over pink silk and bright with pink ribbons, was
very becoming.
But it was a sober little face in the mirror that looked back at her,
and she turned away with a sigh. Then she took off the pretty dress, and
throwing on the little blue dressing-gown, she turned a key, and the
electric light faded, leaving the room dark save for the tiny lamp. She
sat down by the low, open window, and crossing her arms on the sill,
laid her head upon them and looked out at the stars. Then the tears
came.
“It’s wicked and silly I am,” she said to herself, “and I’m glad no one
knows it, for I’d be ashamed. I’ve got everything in the world, and
still—still I’m wanting more. And I don’t even know what it is I’m
wanting. Grandma Jean is as kind as she can be, and I oughtn’t to expect
her to kiss me good night, if it is my birthday; and of course it
_is_n’t my birthday really. And I’m so glad that Jack’s leg is all
right; I don’t mind a bit that he never gave me any thanks for getting
Dr. Norton to cure him. I took Jack for my brother; and I’ll give him
all the money he wants, and all the education he wants; and then—and
then he’ll go off to that navy place, and leave me, and never think of
me again. Polly loves me in her baby way; but she’s so little, and she
wouldn’t care if she never saw me again. My party was beautiful, and the
orchestra was just splendid, and Jimmy Briggs _did_n’t spoil it all by
drumming at the wrong time; but—it wasn’t a _real_ birthday, after all,
and I suppose that’s why there seems to be something missing.
“And nobody gave me any presents. Of course I know why; it’s ’cause I’ve
got money enough to buy all the presents I want, myself. But that ain’t
it. If Miss Grace had only made me even a bit of a pin-cushion, now, or
if Jack had whittled something out of wood for me! But they think I
don’t care for anything unless it costs a lot of money—and what costs
money I can buy for myself.
“Oh, dear! I s’pose I’m awful wicked and ungrateful. Me, the richest
girl in Greenborough, a-moping here, when I ought to be singing with
joy. I’m all wrong. Mrs. Van Court said, when I came here to live, ‘Now,
Betty, if you’re not happy, it’s your own fault’; and if it’s my own
fault, I’ll strive—strive to cure it; and I’ll stop worrying about
myself; but—I _wish_ I had somebody to worry about me.”
With a sigh as sad as the wail of her æolian harp, the little girl rose
and turned on the pretty lights again. The sight of her room full of
treasures seemed to cheer her; and saying half aloud, “I _am_ a
silly—I’ll just quit it and behave myself,” she prepared for bed, and
was soon fast asleep.
She slept late next morning, and when she awoke the sun was shining, and
she was her own merry self once more. The sad thoughts seemed to have
hidden themselves away, and soon a very spick-and-span Betty in a fresh
blue gingham dress went dancing down-stairs.
She stopped to kiss Polly, who was “playing steamboat” in the hall, and
then went on to the dining-room.
“’At’s all water,” shouted Polly, “an’ you’s in it, an’ you’ll det wet.”
“Oh, dear, so I will!” cried Betty, always ready to “pretend.” “My feet
are soaking wet now; what _shall_ I do?”
She hopped up on a chair, and then jumped to a window-seat, and so made
her way from one piece of furniture to another until she reached her own
chair at the dining-table; and then, with her feet tucked up under her,
she rang the bell for the waitress.
While Betty was still at her breakfast, she heard a familiar step in the
hall, and looking up, she saw Mr. Richard Van Court smiling at her from
the doorway.
“Oh, what a lazy popinjay-bird!” he cried. “You’ll never catch the early
worm.”
Betty scorned to reply, and called out quickly: “Oh, be careful, Mr.
Dick; the water’s six inches deep on this floor, and rising fast; you’ll
be drowned if you don’t look out!”
“Good gracious, so I will!” exclaimed the young man, in great
consternation. Then he turned up his trousers, and picked his way
carefully around, to the delight of Polly, whose steamboat had drawn
nearer and was steering straight for the Great Sideboard Dock.
“The waters are rising!” yelled Mr. Dick, frantically. “I shall be
drowned! But no—I can swim.” And with the motions of a despairing
swimmer, he reached Grandma Jean’s chair at the table, and climbing up
into it, he sat on the arm, with his feet on the seat.
Polly screamed with glee; and Betty laughed heartily at the apparently
exhausted refugee, and said: “Won’t you have a cup of coffee now, to
keep you from taking cold?”
“I will take a cup of coffee,” said Mr. Dick, “but I’ve already taken
the cold”; and he gave a series of such prodigious sneezes that Polly
tumbled out of her steamboat, she laughed so hard.
Then the expert swimmer had to throw himself into the sea again to
rescue the drowning sailor; and after this heroic deed he returned to
his arm-chair island to drink the coffee Ellen brought to him.
“Popinjay,” he said, as he helped himself to cream, “I have to drive
over to the Ridge this morning; and as it is Saturday, and you have no
lessons, I stopped to see if you’d like to go with me.”
“Oh, I’d love to go,” said Betty; for a drive with Mr. Dick was always a
pleasure.
“All right, then; skip up and don your bonnet gay; my steed waits at the
door.”
Betty was soon ready, and they started off. It was a perfect morning,
and the horses spun along so fast, and Mr. Dick was in a jolly humor and
told such merry stories and funny jokes, that Betty began to wonder how
anybody could ever be sad, herself least of all.
The loneliness of the night before seemed like a dream; but as they were
discussing the birthday party in all its phases, Betty told Mr. Dick
about it.
The young man took it more seriously than she had thought he would.
“Little one,” he said kindly, “you mustn’t allow yourself to have such
thoughts.”
“I don’t often, sir,” said she. “I’m ’most always happy and glad—as
indeed I ought to be, with my home and family all complete. But
sometimes I feel the want of somebody else—somebody that I haven’t
bought with my fortune.”
Mr. Dick didn’t tell her—what he feared was the case—that her poor
little orphan heart was craving true affection and sympathy, which
cannot be bought, though the imitation of them is always for sale.
[Illustration: “‘THE WATERS ARE RISING!’ YELLED MR. DICK, FRANTICALLY.
‘I SHALL BE DROWNED!’”]
“Well, well, Popinjay,” he said cheerfully, “when those thoughts come
after you, just turn round and drive them out of your head. You’re
forming your character now, you know, and you’ve a strong will; so all
such signs of morbidness or discontent you must fight against and
destroy.”
“Yes, sir; I’ll do it. And when I think of all my beautiful home, and my
new hat and all, I know I’m undeserving and I know I’m most ungrateful
to be desiring anything else. But I think, sir, if I had a sister—I
mean a big sister, as big as I am—she’d be a companion, like. Jack’s
the best brother in the world; but he’s a boy, and he doesn’t understand
half I say to him. And I think I’ll buy one more member to my family,
and have some nice girl to be a sister of my own age.”
“Well, Betty, you may be right about this; I don’t say you’re not; but
let me give you a little advice. Don’t buy this sister too suddenly. Be
sure you’ve found the right one before you get her on your hands for
life. Take her on trial first. Have you any one in view?”
“No, sir—unless it might be Tillie Fenn. She’s a nice girl, and she
lives with her aunt. Mrs. Fenn doesn’t like Tillie very much, and she’s
awful hard on her; so I guess I could buy her, if I wanted to.”
“But don’t do it, Popinjay, until you’ve given Miss Tillie a trial. Ask
her to come and visit you for a week; and then, if you like her, extend
the invitation to a month; but be sure she’s what you need before you
adopt her.”
This seemed sensible, and Betty promised to follow her friend’s advice;
and then the subject was dropped, and they devoted all their time and
attention to enjoying their delightful ride.
“Don’t say anything about this matter,” said Mr. Van Court, as they
drove into Denniston, on their return, “but invite your friend; and
after you’ve made the experiment, tell me how it succeeded, and then
we’ll talk it over with Brewster.”
Betty felt a little proud of having a secret with Mr. Dick, and readily
promised to do as he said—though she felt sure that the acquiring of a
new sister would be a success.