BECKY BEARDS THE LION IN HIS DEN.
With the burning of the mill, Becky’s march towards independence was
stayed for a while by the failure of supplies. There was a disposition
on the part of Cleverly folks to lionize the young girl for the brave
deed she had accomplished. Much to her surprise, people who had before
shunned her took particular pains to call and thank her for the heroism
she had displayed. Deacon Procter’s wife--a woman who, in the tomboy
days, had caught her among the melons, who had told her she was on the
broad road to destruction--smiled upon her kindly, patted her cheek,
and called her a brave, good girl, and the pride of the town. Parson
Arnold, who before had pulled his hat over his eyes, and stepped one
side, when he met her, now benevolently laid his hand upon her head,
with a blessing. Even the boys--Teddy’s cronies--gathered about the
house, and, on her appearance at the door or the window, testified
their approbation of her conduct by loud and prolonged cheering; while
buxom Mrs. York visited the house regularly every day for a week, to
clasp Becky in her arms with such a strength of gratitude that the girl
really feared the breath would be driven from her body.
All this was a source of wonder to her. She had felt a glow of pleasure
when she saw the flush on her mother’s cheek, the tears standing in her
eyes, and a faint smile upon her lips. There was something very warming
to her heart, when Aunt Hulda said, with a shake of the head,--
“What did I tell you? She’s a brave, good girl; and I knew she’d come
out strong when she did come;” with a defiant glance at an invisible
somebody, who might be inclined to doubt her.
Mrs. Thompson’s warm kiss of approval; Harry’s loud “Well done, pet!
I’m proud of you!” all these were very gratifying to her. But these
outward demonstrations seemed to her something to which she was not
entitled, and so dismayed her that she took every opportunity possible
to hide herself on the appearance of visitors.
The destruction of the mill was a bitter disappointment to her. She had
set her heart on earning a hundred dollars. She had reached ninety, and
the opportunity had vanished in fire and smoke. Not all the praise of
Cleverly could compensate her for this loss. But though disappointed,
she was not disheartened; and leaving the ninety safely locked, like
the good woman in the Scriptures, she went searching about to discover
the missing ten.
October came, and school opened once more, Mr. Drinkwater in his place,
and Becky and Teddy among his pupils. For a time the young master,
with his lively interest in their studies and out-door pastimes, his
original way of making the most laborious duties pleasant, was missed;
but Mr. Drinkwater was an earnest teacher, a kind and honorable man,
methodical in his course of training, and under his charge the school
prospered.
Harry Thompson was still an inmate of Mr. Drinkwater’s house, chafing
under the restraint of inaction, yet obedient to the wishes of the
mother to whom he owed his education, whose loving heart could
not harbor the thought of a long absence, and whose faith in the
reconciliation that would place her son in his home was still strong.
How it was to be brought about, she knew not; but this separation was
unnatural; it must have an end. Only have patience, and the perfect
worker, in God’s good time, would mend the broken threads.
One cold November afternoon, Mrs. Thompson, with her knitting needles
busily plying, sat in the sitting-room of the little brown house, now
made very comfortable by the zealous workers. A miniature bonfire
crackled and blazed in the broad fireplace, bountifully supplied by
Harry Thompson, who lazily lounged in a rocking-chair before it, and
divided his attention between a frequent piling of sticks and the
contents of a portfolio in his lap.
Into this cosy retreat, with a rush of cold air, burst Becky Sleeper,
in her usual dashing style, flinging her books on the sofa, her hat in
one corner, her cloak in another, her gloves on the mantel-piece, and
herself into a chair.
“There, Aunt Rebecca! I’ve stood this just as long as I’m a going to.
I must earn money somehow. That hateful ten got into two of my sums
to-day, and completely ruined them. It haunts me. Master Drinkwater
asked me how many straight lines there were in a dollar mark, and I
said ten; how many senses there were, and I said ten; and I got well
laughed at. It’s no use. I never can succeed in anything more until I
earn that ten dollars. So don’t oppose me, for I’m determined to get
work at the woolen mill.”
Having emphatically launched this alarming threat, Becky applied
herself to the task of raising the temperature of that truthful
thermometer,--her nose,--which indicated a state of the weather but
little above zero. This she did by a brisk application of her hand,
with her eyes fastened upon her companions.
“Take care, Becky; you’ll rub it off. It’s very tender, and there’s
but little of it,” said Harry, with a laugh. “Woolen mill, indeed! You
can’t get up a blaze there; it’s brick.”
“Don’t think of such a thing, child. There’s no necessity for your
earning money,” said Mrs. Thompson.
“Necessity or not, I mean to try. To-morrow morning I shall go there,
and ask for work,” replied Becky; “so don’t try to stop me, for I know
it’s right for me to do all I can for the support of the family.”
“Earn money in the woolen mill! Nonsense! Why, there’s talent enough in
this portfolio to give you a handsome living, independent of the dust
and dirt of an ugly, noisy mill.”
“In that portfolio?” said Becky. “What do you mean, Harry?”
“Why, didn’t you know, Becky, that men have made fortunes by their
skill with the pencil and brush?”
“Men! Men can do anything; but girls can’t.”
“Don’t be so sure of that Becky. I know a young lady who earns twice as
much as you ever did in the paper mill, by the use of a pencil.”
“You know a young lady?” said Becky, with a flush. “Who--where? What’s
her name?”
Harry laughed.
“Ah, now you’re getting inquisitive, Miss Becky.”
“I know who it is, Becky,” said Mrs. Thompson. “He’s told me all about
it, and I’ll tell you.”
“Mother, mother,” said Harry, with much sternness, “secrets are sacred.
You must not tell.”
Becky began to feel decidedly uncomfortable. Here was a young lady she
had never heard of. There was a secret, and it must not be told. O,
dear! somebody was coming between Harry and herself. She covered her
eyes with her hand; her face was burning.
“What a silly goose!” she thought, and fell to rubbing her nose again,
which now indicated a very high degree of temperature.
“No matter, Becky,” said Harry, noticing her confusion; “I’ll make
a clean breast of it, and let you into the secret. When I was at
Cambridge, I boarded with a widow who had one daughter. She was about
your age, and her name was Alice. Nice name--isn’t it!”
“I don’t know. Yes--yes,” said Becky; “of course. Didn’t she have any
other name?”
“Certainly--Alice Parks. But Alice is such a pretty name, it’s a pity
it didn’t stand alone, and have no parks about it. Alice--Alice. I do
like that name!”
“Why, Harry, what are you thinking of?” asked Mrs. Thompson, in
surprise.
“Thinking of Alice, of course,” said Becky, with a little snap of
temper. “I don’t see what that’s got to do with a pencil.”
“Then we’ll come to the point--of the story, not the pencil,” said
Harry, who was evidently enjoying the confusion of Becky. “Well, you
must know, I took a great fancy to this girl, she was so pretty, and
so gentle and obliging. They were poor people, and found it hard to
keep up a respectable appearance, and make their home comfortable, and
table inviting. But they did it; and it was just the nicest, cosiest
place in all the world, except home.” Harry sobered here, and looked
at his mother. “Well, Alice had a talent for painting and drawing, and
amused herself in her leisure moments with making sketches and water
colors, with which to adorn their rooms. I was very grateful to them
for their kindness to me; and one day I purloined some of Alice’s
drawings, and took them into Boston. I had often played cricket with
an Englishman,--John Woodfern,--who, I knew, was one of the best
engravers in America. I took the sketches to him, told my story, and
asked him to do something for the girl. He took a fancy to the drawings
at once. He had a fancy for me already; and, fortunately, he had just
taken a contract to supply a children’s magazine, then in successful
operation. He sent for Alice, took a fancy to her, too, and at once set
her to work. She is now a successful artist. So you see, Becky, what a
young girl can do, when she has a smart, enterprising man to help her.
Ahem!”
“Do you think I could do that too?” asked Becky, with sparkling eyes.
“Of course you could. John Woodfern could never refuse such convincing
proofs as are packed away in this portfolio.”
“O, isn’t that splendid! I know I should like that work,” cried Becky,
jumping up and clapping her hands. “I’ll go to Boston at once!”
“Hold on, hold on, aspiring genius!” exclaimed Harry. “You go to
Boston--one hundred and twenty miles! Nonsense! You will stay at home,
and go to school; and when the term is over, we’ll see what can be
done.”
“But I can’t wait. I must have work. O, let me go. I can find the way,
and Mr. John Woodfern, too.”
“No, no; I won’t aid you unless you strictly conform to my wishes. Am I
not right, mother?”
“Yes, Harry,” said Mrs. Thompson; “it’s best that Becky give her
attention to home and school this winter. Be patient, Becky. Harry has
opened an agreeable field of labor to you, where you shall work in good
time.”
“Yes, Becky, I’ve discovered the mine where lie concealed treasures
of wealth, which you shall pick with the point of a pencil. Only wait
until I give you the word.”
Discovered a mine? Ah, Master Harry, you’ve reared a mine of another
sort, and laid a train, and put the match into the hands of a
quick-witted girl. Look out for a speedy explosion.
This new idea so bewitched Becky, that the haunting figures ten were
quickly rubbed out of existence in her day-dreams, to give place to the
Utopian vision of fame and fortune, which Harry had conjured for her
especial benefit. Mother and son departed. The girl sat and gazed into
the fire, with mingled feelings of hope and disappointment. There was
a bright prospect in the future for her. Harry had said she had the
talent; her own heart told her she had the power to accomplish this
new undertaking. But he had put the attempt a long way off, and bade
her be patient. Patience, indeed! Wait until the end of the term--six
months. In that time what an immense sum could be added to her store!
No; she would act at once. Patience, as yet, was no prominent quality
in her volatile disposition; and now, when so easy a victory over the
crushing despot, dependence she so loathed was at her will, she could
not heed its voice. She would act at once. And then the thought of the
dear friends she must disappoint by her disobedience checked her. But
again the ambitious fever raged, and into her musings crept Miss Alice
Parks; Alice, of whom Harry was so fond! She would go. She would see
this paragon, and know why he raved so about her. And so, two desires
mingled in her meditations, the one born of a healthy ambition to
achieve independence, the other springing from a jealous affection, too
mischievous to be the happy tenant of a young girl’s heart.
For three days duty and inclination struggled with Becky for the
mastery. In the afternoon of the fourth day she took from her box the
carefully hoarded sum she had earned at the paper mill, and set out for
school.
That afternoon Captain Thompson, as was his usual custom, was seated
at his desk in the corner of the sitting-room, making up his accounts
for the day. He was alone; his good wife, as was _her_ usual afternoon
custom, was at Mrs. Sleeper’s--a proceeding of which the peppery
captain took not the least apparent notice. But he knew all that had
happened during the year; knew what was happening now--the daily
meetings of his wife and son; the reformation of Becky; his son’s brave
deed in the dam; the girl’s heroism at the burning mill. But he never
made any comments, and to all seemed an uninterested man, wrapped in
ship-building and monetary speculations.
But one single thread connected him with any interest in the Sleeper
affairs. He and Teddy Sleeper had become warm friends. Teddy had
wandered into the ship-yard one day, had watched the ship upon the
stocks, and the men at work, and, desiring some information, had coolly
walked up to Captain Thompson, and asked a question. The captain looked
at him in surprise, then kindly answered him, found he was interested
in the ship, and, to the astonishment of everybody, sat down, and told
him all about it. From that time Teddy’s out-door life was passed in
the ship-yard. After school found him there, and the captain expecting
him. They drove about town together; and people said the boy had got
the right side of the captain, and his fortune would be made.
But not a word of home dropped from Teddy’s lips. The captain never
asked questions in that direction; and Teddy was too shrewd to peril
their friendship by treading on forbidden ground. This day Teddy had
not put in an appearance, and for that or some other reason the captain
was in his unhappiest mood. He blotted his ledger, spilled his ink,
hitched about in his chair, and puffed and worried, until he worked
himself into a steaming mood, that required frequent applications of
his handkerchief. In his highest state of excitement came a knock at
the front door.
“Here, you, Silly, you silly thing! where are you?” he shouted. “See
who’s at the door.”
There was a “clap-clap-clap” in the next room, and Silly York made her
appearance.
“Do you want me, captain?”
“No, I don’t want you. Somebody’s at the door. If they want you,
they’re welcome to you.”
“Do you want me to go to the door?”
“Of course I do. What else are you here for? Start yourself, quick!”
Silly stepped across the room, and opened a door, and passed into the
front entry.
“Here, you! mind! I’m busy, and don’t want to see anybody. Shut that
door!”
Silly slammed the door after her. Then the captain heard a scream, and
Silly’s voice.
“O, you dear little thing! I must hug you! Come right in.”
The door flew open.
“Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t see anybody?” shouted the captain.
“You don’t know who it is. You wouldn’t shut her out--would you? She
saved my sister!”
“Hang your sister! She--” And then he stopped, for in the room stood
Silly, and the last one he ever expected to meet in his house--Becky
Sleeper.
The captain looked at her in astonishment. He knew her well. They had
never spoken to each other since that first day at school--but he had
watched her since then--was well informed as to her progress. And yet,
the bright, young, well-dressed, graceful girl, with a smile on her
face, standing before him, took him by surprise, and made a _gentle_
man of him at once.
“I hope I do not interrupt you, Captain Thompson,” said Becky, very
gently; “but I have a little business with you; and if you would kindly
give me five minutes, I should be very much obliged.”
The captain got up from his chair, and made a low bow. It surprised him
as soon as it was done; but he couldn’t help it.
“Certainly, Miss Becky, if I can be of service to you,--Silly, you
needn’t stop.”
“But I want to,” said Silly. “She saved my sister.”
Becky laughed.
“I’ll come out and see you before I go,” she said. “You’re not afraid
to trust me alone with the captain--are you?”
Silly looked at the captain and then at Becky, evidently believing that
it was her duty to stay and protect Becky.
“Here; you start your boots--quick!”
The captain mounted his high horse, and Silly started for the kitchen
in a hurry.
“Now, Miss Becky, what have you to say?”
The captain sat at his desk, and motioned Becky to a chair. She did not
obey his motion, but came to his side.
“Captain Thompson, I’ve been wanting to come to you, to thank you for
being so kind to us all, for helping--no, not helping, for you have
done everything. You have given us food and clothing; and without your
aid I don’t know what would have become of us.”
“O, pshaw!” said the captain. “Is that all you came for?”
“No. I came to beg your pardon for being so much trouble to you when I
was a wild tomboy. I was young then; didn’t know how wrong it was. I’m
older now, and see my error.”
The captain looked at her with increasing wonder. Could this be the
tomboy who had snatched his whip from his hand, stolen his horse, and
given him such a chase--this little woman, with her sweet voice and
penitent air? Or was this some new trick?
“Well,” said he at last, gruffly; “is that all you came for?”
“No,” answered Becky. “When I found that we were indebted to you for
food and clothing, when I began to be a better girl, I felt it was mean
to let you do everything, and I, strong and active, doing nothing; so I
went to work in the paper mill. You know how it was destroyed.”
“Yes; and how a brave girl, at the risk of her own life, saved a weak
and helpless companion,” burst out the captain. “O, I know it!”
“Yes,” said Becky, with heightened color, “the mill was burned. I had
saved ninety dollars. O, I did so want to make it a hundred! But I
couldn’t. I meant to bring it to you, to pay you in part for what you
had done for me and mine. But I’ve brought you the ninety.” And Becky
suddenly laid upon the desk before the eyes of the astonished captain
her savings.
The captain started, then stared at the little pile of money very hard,
then harder still at Becky, and back at the money again, until tears
began to drop from his eyes, when, without any further ceremony, he
pulled out his handkerchief, and blubbered like a big school-boy. It
was now Becky’s turn to be surprised.
“O, captain, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I only wanted
to repay you just a little for your kindness. I didn’t mean any
harm--indeed I didn’t.”
“Becky Sleeper, you’re a little angel, and I’m an ugly old brute. Pick
up your money. I don’t want it. To think that I’ve been abusing you all
this time, and you coming in this way to pour coals of fire on my head.
I’m an old fool! Take your money--quick!”
“No, captain, don’t ask me to do that. If you knew what a temptation
that money has been to me, you would never ask me--never.”
“Temptation! What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you, captain, a secret. You must not tell, not even Aunt
Rebecca. You won’t--will you?” Becky smiled at the captain. “Honor
bright.”
The captain smiled at Becky. It was a good-humored smile. They were
getting on famously.
“I’ll keep your secret, Becky, when I get it.”
“Well, then, you must know that I’ve just learned of a very nice way to
make money, one I should like very much. To get it in this nice way, it
is necessary to make a journey to Boston, to see a certain man, and he
would give me drawing, for engravings. Aunt Rebecca--no, Harry--told me
of it; your Harry.”
The captain did not stop her at the mention of that name, a name
forbidden to be spoken in that house. There was a little more color in
his face; but he looked steadily at her.
“I had the money to take me there, and I was tempted to use it;
tempted, O, so hard! till at last I remembered it was your money; and,
to put the temptation from me, I brought it to you. I didn’t want to
until I had the hundred. Now I’m glad I did. Had I gone, I should have
disobeyed Aunt Rebecca, and--Harry.”
“Why disobeyed Aunt Rebecca?” said the captain, quietly dropping the
other party.
“Because _they_,” said Becky, not relishing the dropping game, “forbade
my going until the expiration of the school term.”
“How? _She_ forbid you! It’s a good idea; a nice way of earning money;
and you want to go still?”
“O, indeed I do, if only it was right.”
“Right? Of course it’s right,” said the captain, roused at a chance for
opposition. “_She’s_ no right to prevent you, and I should like to see
her do it. You want to go to Boston. You shall go.”
Becky flushed with pleasure.
“O, if could only go! I know I could succeed. But what would Aunt
Rebecca and--”
“Hang Aunt Rebecca!” shouted the captain, cutting in to prevent the
addition of the other name. “I’ve just as much right to direct your
actions as she has. I’m going to Boston to-morrow morning. You shall go
with me.”
Before the appearance of Becky, the captain had no intention of taking
a journey.
“O, that will be splendid--if I only could.”
“You can, and shall. Go home, get ready, and to-morrow morning at
five o’clock meet me at the school-house. Phil shall drive us over to
Foxtown. We’ll take the cars there, and be in Boston at one. Here, take
your money;” and the captain swept it from the desk, and put it in her
hand. “When I want it, I’ll ask for it.”
“But how can I ever pay you?”
“By shaking hands, and being friends with the old man. You may add a
kiss if you like.”
“A dozen!” cried Becky, throwing her arms about the captain’s neck.
“You dear, good, kind, noble old captain!”
“Now, good by, little one. Be sure and be on time to-morrow morning at
five.”
“When the clock strikes, you’ll find me there. Good by.”
Becky ran home with a happy heart, bounced into the sitting room, and
told them all about it--Mrs. Thompson and Harry; then ran to her
mother’s room, and told her; then to the kitchen, and told Aunt Hulda.
And such a surprised household it would be hard to find.
Harry Thompson frowned, and was inclined to put a stop to the journey;
but his mother looked happy.
“Our little witch has caught the captain. Do not interfere, for out of
this friendship I foresee a happy day for you and me. ‘Let patience
have her perfect work.’”