BETSY’S GIFT
THE Colonial Hotel that evening looked such a haven of rest to tired
wanderers, that as soon as it was settled that they could get rooms
Mrs. Nixon and Mrs. Bruce were able to smile on each other again.
The mountain lake lay calm in the waning light, and strings of fish
being brought in caused excitement among the men.
“One thing you must do, Irving,” said Mrs. Bruce, looking graciously
upon Helen, “is to take Miss Maynard to that place where you stand on
shore and catch trout, and then whisk it right over into a boiling
spring and cook it before you take it off the hook.”
“Miss Maynard has only to command me,” rejoined Irving.
“I am going fishing with Mr. Derwent,” said Helen. So subtle were the
changes in the mental atmosphere of the last few days, so complete the
step from subserviency to dominance, that any exhibition of coquetry
with the two young men would have been considered legitimate by their
natural guardians. It was the absence of all archness in the girl that
concerned Mrs. Nixon, and the quiet declaration just made disturbed her.
She secured her son’s attention.
“You surely won’t oblige your uncle Henry to act as cavalier to a young
girl,” she said.
“What?” asked Robert. “Oh, you mean the fishing.” He laughed with a
mischievous flash of the eyes which brought color into his mother’s
cheeks. “Afraid she’ll fish for him as well as with him, eh? Well, I
think perhaps you have _raison_.”
“Robert, why _are_ you such a tease? I wish you would choose a time
when I am not so nervous and tired. I’ve never thought of such a thing,
foolish boy!”
“I told you to count ten before you asked her to live with us.”
“Don’t you like her, dear?”
“Yes, I think she’s good stuff; but—you know what I told you. If she
comes to live with us, she’ll run the ranch. You hear me. I don’t care
to have anybody pull my wires. When I hop, I want it to be from my own
pure lightness of heart.”
Mrs. Nixon looked thoughtful. “I intend to count ten, Robert. I told
you that a month at the Fairport Inn would reveal a great deal.”
“I think it will,” agreed Robert dryly.
“Meanwhile,” continued Mrs. Nixon with some asperity, “you can either
leave her entirely to Irving Bruce or you can do your part toward
entertaining her.”
Robert threw an arm around his mother’s shoulders and gave her a
squeeze which ruffled her dignity into a heap.
“You’re no wire-puller, honey,” he said. “Better leave it alone.”
Mrs. Nixon wriggled herself free.
“Mrs. Bruce is so conceited about her stepson,” she said warmly, “that
I really have some feeling about it, Robert. I confess it frankly.”
“Well, mamma dear, they shouldn’t tease her! As I’ve spent the whole
day with Miss Maynard, you should be satisfied with the proof of your
son’s fascinations. She might have dived off the driver’s seat into
Brute’s arms, and she didn’t do it. Be comforted.”
“I know Mrs. Bruce will make Irving take her to see the bears after
supper. You watch! And you might just as well do it yourself.”
“Oh no,” Robert shook his head. “I’d rather be free to climb a tree.
Speaking of supper, come; and talk loudly, please, while I take my
first mouthful, so the guests won’t hear it fall.”
Mrs. Nixon sighed and went with him.
When the party rose from the table there was a general movement to the
back of the hotel to view the bears.
Mrs. Bruce, quite restored by supper and the prospect of a night’s
rest, held Betsy’s arm as a sign to Irving that he was at liberty.
He and Robert sauntered on together, talking of the morrow’s fishing,
and the others followed.
Mr. Derwent was thoughtful. His sister leaned on his arm and Helen
walked on his other side.
“So you were at school with Miss Vincent?” he said.
“Yes; a short time. It seems Mrs. Bruce gave her a short course.”
The girl’s tone was cool; but Mrs. Nixon noted, as she had done before,
the cleverness with which she conveyed her distinct words, and the ease
with which her brother understood.
“Didn’t you like her very much?”
“No, not especially. I had no occasion to know her well.”
“H’m! She seemed to me so appealing. Very modest and engaging.”
“I dare say she is,” returned Helen carelessly. “Oh, there! See? That
black bear and her cubs!”
For the following fifteen minutes the party watched the bears. They
heard the mother give the cubs warning under suspicion of a cinnamon
bear’s approach, and saw the babies scamper fleetly up a tree, followed
by mamma; then, presently reassured, the whole family came down and
proceeded with their meal.
Wires were stretched to prevent the human guests from trespassing
beyond certain limits, and soldiers were on duty, for it is difficult
to believe that the animals are not tame, and the curious would
approach them.
While the party watched, the cinnamon bear did appear, headed for the
garbage-heap, and the house of black bear took to the woods in a body.
Then came a grizzly, and the conquering cinnamon unostentatiously
disappeared.
“It is very interesting,” wailed Mrs. Bruce, “but why don’t the
management provide clothespins for the guests’ noses?”
Robert had gravitated to Helen’s side.
“When we get across the Styx,” he murmured, “I’m going to follow that
woman up. I’m as sure as if I’d seen it, that her halo won’t fit.”
“And Mr. Bruce is so nice to her!” said Helen.
There was gayety that night in the hotel office. An orchestra played,
and there was dancing. Both the young men danced with Helen, then
Irving wandered off to see about fishing-tackle, and Robert floated on
with the girl, whose cheeks glowed.
“How well they dance together!” said Mrs. Nixon to Mrs. Bruce
complacently.
“Yes,” returned the latter. “Mr. Nixon being shorter is a better height
for her than Irving.”
“Robert is quite tall enough,” said Mrs. Nixon.
“Yes, for Miss Maynard,” returned Mrs. Bruce.
Neither of them had slept as yet, and their sitting together at all had
a savor of reckless daring.
Betsy was deeply engaged at the counter where pictures and postal-cards
were sold.
“I don’t know,” she thought, “as it would be anything out of the way if
I should get that whole set o’ postal cards and send ’em to Hiram. Poor
soul, he can’t travel any, and they’d sort o’ illustrate my talk if I
ever told him anything about the trip.”
As she meditated thus, Betsy’s slow color rose, for her New England
conscience remarked rather tartly that this plan for giving pleasure to
her patient admirer was not without ulterior motives, and pretense was
useless.
“Don’t I know,” she mused defensively, “that it would just make Hiram’s
life over to have the child in his house? Old Mrs. Bachelder would like
nothin’ better than to move all her traps over instead of comin’ by the
day.”
All of which goes to show that Clever Betsy’s wits were still busy with
Rosalie’s problem, and that she desired to settle it without committing
herself to a surrender to the able seaman.
“As for postal cards, I guess I wouldn’t have grudged Hiram that much
pleasure if Rosalie Vincent had never come to the Yellowstone; and he
and I—I mean he and Rosalie can enjoy lookin’ at ’em evenin’s.”
Upon which, with conscious innocence and a withering disregard of the
presumptuous inner voice, Betsy put down her money and took the set of
cards in its neat case.
As she did so, Mr. Derwent sauntered up to the stand; the smile which
always rested more in his eyes than on his lips was evident as he
noticed Betsy’s concentrated interest.
“Finding some pretty things?” he asked.
She nodded vigorously. Mr. Derwent would have been surprised to know
how constantly his image had held possession of this woman’s thoughts
since yesterday afternoon.
Hiram Salter was a bird in the bush, and no matter how wary, Betsy
felt that she could lure him—yes, upstart conscience, even without
the aid of postal cards!—to come to her and eat out of her hand; but
Mr. Derwent was the bird already in that hand so far as physical
neighborhood was concerned. She had wondered through many hours how
she could compass a conversation with the deaf gentleman which others
should not overhear.
Betsy looked wildly around for a likely spot for a vociferous
tête-à-tête. There was a corridor which ran out of the large office in
each direction, and from which opened the first-floor bedrooms.
Would the elegant Mr. Derwent think she was quite mad if she endeavored
to lead him down one of these, and was there a chance of her
accomplishing the move without the observation of the two tabby-cats?
Yes, as a truthful biographer I must admit that this was the title
bestowed by Rosalie’s champion upon two complacent ladies since the
playing of the Riverside Geyser yesterday afternoon.
Mr. Derwent’s voice interrupted her swift thoughts.
“What have you been finding that is pretty? Is there anything here I
ought to get?”
Betsy repeated her vigorous nodding and addressed the saleswoman.
“Let me see that water-color of the canyon again, please.”
“A water-color, eh?” said Mr. Derwent; then as Betsy looked at him in
surprise, he smiled again.
“These capricious ears of mine like a racket,” he said. “The more the
orchestra and the clatter of voices and feet deafen you, the more they
make me hear. That’s pretty, that’s very pretty.”
The clerk had produced the picture, and Mr. Derwent gazed upon the
waterfall, the spray dashing up its golden cliffs; and Betsy gazed
eagerly at him. He could hear her. That was more exciting than the
prospect of seeing on the morrow this climax of beauty in the great
Park.
“We ought not to have looked at this until after we had visited the
canyon,” suggested Mr. Derwent. “Paint is cheap, and disappointments
are bitter.”
“The picture’s just beautiful, though,” said Betsy.
“And not a bit too bright,” declared the clerk. “There couldn’t any
picture do justice to it.”
“You like it, do you, Miss Foster? Did you buy one?”
“No, sir. I’ve got a postal of it, though, in this set of cards.”
“I will take this,” said Mr. Derwent to the clerk, passing her the
water-color.
While the picture was being put into its envelope, and the clerk was
making the change, Betsy’s wits were working fast. How, _how_ to make
the most of this golden opportunity! She shrank from the appearance of
begging even for the winning girl she had left behind her. It did not
help matters nor lessen her embarrassment to have her companion hand
her the envelope containing the water-color.
“With my compliments, Miss Foster,” he said with a bow.
“For me!” burst forth Betsy, flushing under her mingled emotions.
“A souvenir,” he returned. “It is really pretty.”
“Oh, it’s a gem, and I do thank you!” exclaimed Betsy. “Oh dear, how
can I now!” was her mental moan. “It’s exactly like sayin’ one good
turn deserves another. I hate to be those kind o’ folks that give ’em
an inch and they’ll take an ell.”
While she hesitated, fearing every moment that the prize would turn and
saunter back to his people, Mr. Derwent lingered.
“I have been very glad,” he said, regarding Betsy’s narrow, excited
face, “of your kindness to the little Miss Vincent.”
Now Rosalie was not little. She was an upstanding daughter of the gods,
meriting their trite description; and the adjective warmed Betsy’s
heart and filled her with courage. That, and the tone of the words,
gave her a welcome cue. She looked wistfully into the kind eyes.
“It’s one o’ the hardest things I’ve ever done to leave Rosalie at that
inn,” she said.
“I didn’t like it either,” responded her companion quietly. “Let us
come over in this corner and talk a bit.”
Betsy followed, an inward pæan of thanksgiving going up from her good
heart.
Irving was still talking fishing-tackle at a desk at the opposite end
of the office. Miss Maynard was frisking in a two-step with Robert, and
the two mothers chaperoned her gravely and with increasing sleepiness,
while the orchestra rang its rhythmic changes. Betsy, standing a little
at one side of the crowd, told again the story of Rosalie’s life
to an attentive listener, who in his turn recounted to her certain
circumstances of the Vincent losses.
“And it has come to this, has it,” said Mr. Derwent, “that this young
girl hasn’t a friend in the world except you and me?”
“That’s it,” responded Betsy promptly. “That is—” she added
hurriedly—“we’re the only safe ones she’s got.”
“How is that?” Mr. Derwent smiled leniently. “A lover? I shouldn’t
wonder at that.”
“Oh, no, not a lover. I should hope not! Good gracious!”
Betsy’s manner and precipitate speech made Mr. Derwent smile again.
“You don’t mean that big boy in our stage with two mothers, neither of
whom owns him?”
Betsy’s wandering eyes looked so desperately embarrassed that the
speaker could not forbear pressing her a little.
“Two mothers; one of whom he loves and one who loves him.”
Miss Foster started. “Oh, Mr. Derwent,” she gasped, and now her eyes
met his in fright.
“Very well,” he said, “whoever it is, I think we shall be equal to
the case without his help. They tell me you’re called Clever Betsy.
Now let’s see whether you’re well-named. Let’s talk ways and means a
little.”
And Betsy did talk: talk as she had seldom done since Irving’s mother
went to sleep one night in her arms.
She told Mr. Derwent of a friend of her childhood, one Hiram Salter,
and laid bare her designs on that mariner’s hearth and home.
Mr. Derwent listened, nodding sometimes, and when she had finished, he
spoke.
“And this talent of Rosalie’s,—this elocutionary business? Would there
be any field for her perhaps in Fairport, as a teacher?”
Betsy looked dubious. “Maybe. It’s a pretty well-to-do village all
times o’ year; but that could come afterward. If I just once knew she
was safe in a home! She could likely get into a school somewhere later.”
“Well-to-do, you say,” repeated Mr. Derwent thoughtfully. “Do the
people there entertain? Parlor entertainments pay pretty well.”
“No,” replied Betsy slowly, fixing her interlocutor with a gaze which
little by little seemed to see beyond him. “Folks there wouldn’t think
they could—spend money—that way—”
Her voice trailed off and there was a silent space, while Mr. Derwent
wondered at her altered expression. Suddenly her gaze focused on him
again and her hard hands clasped the water-color against her breast.
“Mr. Derwent, I’ve got an idea!” she said in a changed tone.
“Of course you have,” he replied encouragingly. “It’s a peculiarity of
clever people.”
“Let me tell you what I’ve thought;” and Betsy proceeded to do so with
eagerness.
“I believe it would work,” returned Mr. Derwent thoughtfully, when she
had finished. “Follow that up, Betsy. May I call you Betsy?”
“Of course, Mr. Derwent. I ain’t anything else; and if you knew how I
felt towards you for befriendin’ Rosalie, you’d know that you might
call me anything.” Bright tears glistened in the good gray eyes.
“The first thing to do, then, is to write Rosalie a letter. Come, we’ll
do it now,” he answered. “I must talk with her. We will have her come
to the canyon.”