GOOD-BY, SUMMER
ONE errand which Irving Bruce performed in Boston besides buying
Betsy’s wedding present, was to seek out a poor relation of his
step-mother’s in her suburban home, and carry her back with him to
Fairport.
He wired: “Miss Frost is returning with me.”
And such was Mrs. Bruce’s loneliness, and worry, and desire to hide
from her friends, that never did poor relation receive a more cordial
welcome.
Miss Frost, a bird-like little person with a high apologetic voice, was
bewildered with joyful excitement.
“I haven’t a _thing_ to wear, my dear, not a thing!” she cried to her
hostess on her arrival; “but Irving was so _perfectly_ lovely, he
wouldn’t let me _wait_ for _anything_; and he told me how you’ve let
that valuable Betsy go to this faithful lover of _years_, so like you,
always to think of _others_, and Irving says you’re _tired_, so that
really perhaps I _can_ take some care of you, and it will be such a
_joy_ to feel that I’m not _useless_ in this beautiful, beautiful spot,
and you never _could_ look anything but _pretty_, Laura, but I do think
you _show_ the natural fatigue of _travel_,” etc., etc.
This combination of flattery and confidence bound up some of Mrs.
Bruce’s wounds. She did make the newcomer useful, not only in the
actual labor of housekeeping, but as an excuse for not going where she
did not wish to be.
But meanwhile she lived a life within herself which her cousin never
suspected. Daily the battle between love and pride was renewed. Robert
Nixon remained with them, and through him, more than through Irving,
she learned of Rosalie’s continued vogue.
She declined the sailing party which went out with Captain Salter, and
Miss Frost was with difficulty persuaded to go in her place.
Upon her return, blown and dishevelled, but joyful, Mrs. Bruce met her
cousin with veiled eagerness.
“Did they think it very strange of me not to come, Lavinia?”
“Why of course they were _disappointed_,” chirped the little woman,
endeavoring to tuck up the flying strands of her gray hair; “but
when I told them how you felt it a _duty_ to rest _absolutely_ for a
week, they understood. I told them how I disliked to leave you alone,
but that you never _could_ think of your_self_, and were determined I
should have the pleasure, and so I _came_; and oh, Laura, it was the
most _lovely_ sail; I did wish every _minute_ for you!”
Mrs. Bruce in her chastened state drank in the praise which she knew
was sincere.
“Lavinia Frost is really a much more agreeable person to have about
than Betsy,” she thought.
Those clear eyes of Betsy’s which had always seemed to read her through
and through, appeared to her mental vision now as she mounted the
stairs after her cousin, and followed her to her room, remaining with
her while the visitor repaired the ravages of wind and wave.
“Do you think Mrs. Nixon enjoyed the excursion?” asked Mrs. Bruce.
Miss Frost raised her hands and dilated her eyes expressively. “I’m
afraid not! She’s not a good sailor; but the _young_ people—Oh, what a
good time they did have, Laura!”
A little contracting pain, grown familiar, seized the listener.
“Go on. Tell me about it,” she replied quietly.
“Well, you know how _amusing_ Mr. Nixon always is,” began Miss Frost,
spreading cold cream over her sunburn; “(so _like_ you, dear Laura, to
give me this cream). He and Miss Maynard—such an _elegant_ girl, Miss
Maynard—and dear Irving, and that _lovely_ creature Miss Vincent, all
four sang together.”
“Did they? Did they sing well?”
“Yes, _indeed_; but you know they’re so full of _fun_ they couldn’t
stick to anything serious, and Miss Vincent sang some coon songs. O
Laura, that girl is _wonderfully_ talented. She made Mr. Derwent laugh
as hard as the boys. _Splendid_-looking man, Mr. Derwent. I really—I
expect I’m a silly old thing, but I couldn’t _help_ weaving _romances_
out in that boat, those four delightful young people were so _tempting_
to the _imagination_.”
“Really?” asked Mrs. Bruce. “How did you pair them off in your own
mind?”
“I didn’t have to pair them off,” twittered the little woman. “Irving
was beside that _charming_ young creature with the gold crown,—you
know the way that broad soft braid goes around her head,—he was beside
her all the time. I just _hoped_ she appreciated his attentions; but
do you know I watched them _closely_, and I never saw her look at him
_once_! She was pleasant and gay all the time,—but I just said to
myself, can—it—be _possible_ that that girl is more attracted by our
droll Nixie than by that _prince_? I’ve often heard you say you dreaded
Irving’s falling in love; you’ve always been so like brother and
sister, it isn’t to be wondered at; but when Mr. Nixon told me what a
good _angel_ you’d been to that talented girl, I thought I could _see_
that you had your little plans!”
Lavinia Frost closed one eye, and nodded knowingly at her cousin, whose
flushed face disclosed nothing.
“I told him that was the way you’d gone through _life_. I told him
about the stove you gave me for my living-room, and now what a grand
outing you were giving me here, and so thoughtfully letting me feel
myself of some _use_. O Laura, it’s a splendid thing to be rich and
powerful, but it’s better still to have that big heart and soul that
_uses_ the power to spread _blessings_ along the paths of others less
fortunate!”
Mrs. Bruce kept silent. Miss Frost washed the cream from her hands and
began winding up her sparse hair.
“It’s awfully thin, you see. Not much more than nine hairs, Laura,” she
laughed, “three behind to braid, and one on each side to puff. I don’t
_want_,” she continued after a silence, “to see anything you don’t
_wish_ me to, but I _could_—not—help—thinking that Irving admired that
girl _extremely_; and though I know you’re above such considerations, I
couldn’t help being _glad_ she was well-connected as well as beautiful.
One of the Derwent family. Think of it! Mr. Nixon told me so, and
it was plain to see that Mr. Derwent thinks the world of her. Such
an elegant man! And what do you suppose he said to me, Laura? As we
were leaving the boat he said with such a _charming_ bow—perfectly
_charming_! He said, ‘I think in some way you have been given the wrong
_name_, Miss Frost. _I_ think it should be Miss _Spring_!” Lavinia gave
a joyous but apologetic giggle. “Wasn’t that a perfectly _lovely_ thing
for him to say?”
Mrs. Bruce regarded the speaker thoughtfully.
“Lavinia,” she said, “how should you like to stay with me?”
“Stay with you—my _dear_?” The little woman stood stock-still, the
dress skirt she was about to put on, in her hand.
“Yes,—keep house for me in Boston.”
“Why, Lavinia, it would be _heaven_—but, how _can_ I!”
“Why can’t you? It is only to give up a few rooms in somebody else’s
house. You’re quite alone.”
“I suppose I am,” replied Lavinia slowly, “but somehow I never realize
it.”
What a wealth of implication lay in the simple words! Mrs. Bruce could
not appreciate that, but she persisted in her plan, which had been
gradually taking form for days.
A capable, useful, refined admirer was what her beaten and dependent
soul yearned for.
Tears dimmed Lavinia’s eyes when at last she accepted the offer.
“Laura!” she exclaimed, with touching sincerity, “you have been
planning this beautiful thing for me! _That_ is why Irving brought
me here. Dear Irving, always so courteous, he has been, to your
relatives! Dear Laura, when do you _ever_ take time to think of
yourself!”
* * * * *
One day in the second week in September, Betsy stood by a window in her
cottage and saw Rosalie, in hat and street dress, enter the garden. She
watched the girl unnoticed, and saw her turn and look seaward. Clouds
were scudding along the sky, and swallows circling against the strong
breeze. Presently Rosalie came up the path.
Betsy threw open the door. “Welcome home!” she said, and embraced her.
“I’m the most fortunate girl in the world,” declared Rosalie.
Betsy took the bag she carried. “Let me show you your room,” she said.
With happy pride she led the guest up the narrow stairs, and ushered
her into a comfortable little bower, hung in white dimity.
Rosalie turned, and gave her hostess another hug. “Why should you be so
good to me?” she exclaimed.
“Because you’re all the little girl I’ve got,” returned Betsy. “See
what a nice cozy corner that makes for your trunk!”
Rosalie regarded her affectionately. “I have the greatest news for
you,” she said. “I can only stay two days.”
“Answers to the advertisement, eh?” asked Betsy with interest.
“Better than that! How wonderfully good people are! Mr. Derwent
actually went to Portland weeks ago, and managed somehow, so that
yesterday I received a summons from the Moore School to come and take
up my work there. It seems that some of the faculty have heard me at
the inn, and it’s settled, practically.”
“All the better, child. Cap’n Salter and I’d never get tired o’
havin’ you here, but you wouldn’t be satisfied with an idle winter
in Fairport. Come in my room and sit down for a chat. I’m doin’ some
mendin’, and we can settle all the affairs o’ the nation.”
Rosalie followed into the front room, and seated herself by a low
window looking out on the gray billows.
“Good-by, summer,” she said, as if to herself.
Betsy glanced at her and sat down by the bed where were scattered
articles of clothing.
“The swallows are making them ready to fly,
Wheeling out on a windy sky—”
sang the girl softly.
“Well,” said Betsy, “when you take ’count o’ stock, what sort of a
summer has it been?”
“Wonderful.”
“That may be,” returned Betsy, “but how about the net result. Would you
like to live it over again?”
“Yes, indeed!” was the fervent reply. “_No_, Betsy! What am I talking
about! No, I wouldn’t. I might not do so well again.”
“How do you mean?” asked the other, beginning to make a lattice-work
across the vacant toe of a man’s sock. “Do you mean professionally?”
“Not altogether,” answered the girl slowly.
“Oh, you mean socially too, eh?”
“Yes.”
Silence, while the breakers struck and burst on the rock at the left of
the cottage.
“Whom have you over here?” Rosalie rose and moved to the dresser where
a flexible leather case stood in a semi-circle. “Captain Salter?”
She picked up the case. “Irving!” she added in a different tone, and
studied the six pictures with down-drooped face.
“See the envelope standin’ there against the glass? You can open it. It
came with my silver.”
Rosalie obeyed. “Oh!” she said softly.
Presently Betsy spoke again: “I’ve heard a lot about how popular you’ve
been all summer. Says I to myself, there’s safety in numbers, says I.”
“Yes,” agreed Rosalie, “there’s safety in numbers.”
She returned the card to its envelope.
“Take the pictures over to the window if you’d like to,” said Betsy,
mending busily.
“No, thank you,” returned the girl; and placing the case as she had
found it, she came back to her seat.
“The Nixon party got off all right, I s’pose,” said Betsy. “Mr. Nixon
came over to say good-by. Did you know Mr. Derwent took supper with the
cap’n and me one night?”
“Yes. He is greatly taken with Captain Salter.”
“We had a real good time,” said Betsy, “and he praised the supper.”
“There are no suppers as good as yours. Nixie and I had made him hungry
telling him about the dinner we had with you that day.”
“And my boy never broke bread with me once,” said Betsy sadly. “I
couldn’t ask him away from Mrs. Bruce.”
“Betsy,” asked Rosalie wistfully, “whatever did happen?”
Betsy shook her head. “Nothin’ you need worry about, child.”
“But that’s just what troubles me. I’ve always believed it was about
me.”
“Rosalie,”—Betsy lifted her eyes from her work for a minute,—“do you
know it says in the Bible that God makes the wrath o’ man to praise
him? or somethin’ like that? I’ve thought of it often since I’ve been
livin’ here. There had to be some kind of an explosion for Hiram to get
his rights. I see now he’s only got his rights.”
“But one thing is very strange,” said Rosalie. “The few times I’ve
spoken with Mrs. Bruce this summer, she has been quite polite to me.
Do you know about this cousin who is with her, this cunning little
Miss Frost, more like a canary-bird than any one I ever saw? Well, she
adores Mrs. Bruce, and do you know it has seemed to me that Mrs. Bruce
is trying to live up to it. Wouldn’t that be strange?”
Betsy dropped her work and regarded the speaker.
“Miss Lavinia Frost,—I know her well. She don’t _seem_ to wear
spectacles, but she’s got a pair on all the time. Rose-color. Mrs.
Bruce went out to her rooms once and she didn’t like the looks of ’em,
and she took one of her notions and fixed ’em up with a handsome stove,
and an arm-chair, and some other nice things, and Miss Frost never
could get over it.”
“Mrs. Bruce is going to keep her with her.”
“Fine!” exclaimed Betsy. “Nothin’ could be better.” She shook her head
and resumed her work. “Here’s hopin’ Miss Frost’ll never lose those
magnifyin’ spectacles!”
“You never saw any one admire another more sincerely. Why, she takes it
for granted that Mrs. Bruce made _me_, and is in love with her work.”
Betsy dropped her hands.
“‘God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform!’”
she declared. “Rosalie,” she added gently, “I wouldn’t wonder one
mite if Lavinia Frost livin’ with Mrs. Bruce would be the makin’ o’
_her_. What do we all want? We want love. Mrs. Bruce hasn’t drawn it
to herself from the folks that’s lived closest to her. She’s had some
sharp lessons, from what Mr. Irving says, and now, when the plough’s
gone deep, and the soil’s softer, this cheerful little lover may be
takin’ her just at the right time, and will make a big difference in
her.”
“Why, I seem to see it begin,” returned Rosalie. “She’s so much more
gentle, and Miss Frost chirps and twitters around her, and waits on
her—”
Betsy nodded. “That’s right,” she said with satisfaction. “That’s good.
She loves bein’ made of. I b’lieve that’ll work well.”
There was another silence, which Betsy broke.
“I understand you’ve got somethin’ for me,” she said.
The girl looked around, puzzled.
“Why,—why no, Betsy.”
“Mr. Irving says so.”
Rosalie regarded her calmly, but the faint color deepened in her cheeks.
“I don’t know what he means.”
“Well, I don’t know who else should.” Betsy took a letter out of her
pocket and tossed it across to her guest, who opened it, and read:—
DEAR BETSY,—I’m feeling very important because they’ve
wired for me from the bank. I can’t even run over to
the cottage to see you, because I must make a train.
I’ve asked Rosalie to give you a hug for me. Good-by.
Your devoted
BOY.
“Oh, you mean that,” said Rosalie quietly, refolding the note.
“Of course I mean that. Do you suppose I want to be cheated out o’ his
hugs?”
The girl smiled and shook her head. “I certainly haven’t any of them,”
she said.
“But he found time to go over and say good-by to you, I notice.”
“Yes, he came. Mrs. Bruce and Miss Frost are to follow him in a day or
two.”
“What do you think o’ the young man, now you’ve summered him?” asked
Betsy quietly.
“If I didn’t think well of him I’d never dare to tell you so.”
“Perhaps not. Has he been specially attentive to any one o’ the girls
at the inn?”
Rosalie twisted the curtain tassel and looked out at the sea.
“Yes,” she answered after some moments. “If I hadn’t known—if you
hadn’t told me that—even if he _were_, the ending of the summer would
end his remembrance, I might have been—well, pretty silly a good many
times.”
Betsy looked up. “I hope I haven’t made a mistake, or spoiled any o’
your good times, dear.”
“No,” answered the girl. “I’ve been more than glad of all your
warnings. Everybody has been so kind, and there have been so many
people who wanted to do things for me, that it was made easy in one
way. I could avoid him without it’s looking strange to him, or any one
else.”
“Was there,” asked Betsy, “was there any other o’ the young men that
you liked—just as well?”
Rosalie turned and gave her a look. There was the darkening of the eyes
that Betsy remembered, and the lip was caught under the girl’s teeth.
Betsy fumbled with her darning-egg, dropped her eyes, and cleared her
throat.
“That child won’t _ever_ learn to be mejum!” she thought.
“You’ve worked and played pretty hard, I guess,” she said, presently.
“You’re some thin, Rosalie. I’ve been noticin’ it lately. I hope you
feel real good.”
“Never better,” was the reply. “I’m eager to go to work—real work. I
hope I can make the girls like me.”
“Law, child, you’ll have to fight ’em off,” was the reply. “Did—did you
and Mr. Irving part real friendly?”
“Oh, certainly. I must show you something he gave me a good while ago.”
The girl rose and went to her own room. Betsy laid down her work and
gazed ahead. “Ain’t she made o’ the real stuff, though!” she thought.
“I guess Irving Bruce has found out that porcelain’s pretty strong
sometimes!”
Here Rosalie returned and put into her friend’s hands an exquisite
white fan, whose carved sticks Betsy examined with admiration.
“If he’s given you this?” she said, looking up questioningly.
“He had to, I suppose,” returned the girl, “practically; he broke mine
the first night we met at the inn. It was part of my outfit. I couldn’t
object to his making it good.”
Betsy laughed at the prosaic tone, and looked back at the rich toy.
“He made it good, all right,” she remarked. “When you need another
outfit you can pawn this.”
“It is very handsome,” said Rosalie, regarding her possession, while
the downcast eyes darkened again under their drooping lids.