BECKY GETS ACQUAINTED
Meantime Becky, Donald and Sue had maintained their interest in the new
neighbors, and partly concealed by the vines that covered the porch
were able to watch every movement across the way.
“Isn’t it a shame,” said Don, “to have them walk into our old home that
father built, and use the pretty furniture that mother bought in the
city, and have all the good things that _we_ used to have?”
“Wonder who’s got my room,” mused Sue. “If it’s that yellow haired girl
yonder, I could scratch her eyes out.”
“She’s about my age,” asserted Becky, gazing hard at the fairylike form
of the new arrival. “I hope she’s ’spectable an’ decent, an’ won’t try
to be bossy.”
“They’re from New York,” added Sue. “I jus’ hate New York folks.”
“How do you know they’re from New York?” demanded Don.
“Somebody said so. Oh, it was Lil Harrington; her father once knew ’em.”
The elders had entered the house by this time, and the carriage and
baggage wagon had driven away. The girl and boy, about fourteen and
twelve years of age, were walking with mincing steps about the grounds,
examining the shrubbery and flowers and, as Don said, evidently “taking
stock” of their new possessions.
“That fellow,” Don added, “is a snob. I can see that from here. He
wears a velvet suit, and it’s _braided_. Think of that, girls!”
“Let’s go over and talk to ’em,” suggested Becky. “We can show ’em the
stables, an’ where we kept the rabbits an’ guinea pigs, an’ how to
climb the pear-tree.”
“Not me!” exclaimed Don, scornfully.
“We’ve got to know ’em sometime,” retorted his sister, “bein’ as we’re
next door neighbors. And it’s polite for us to make the first call.”
“They’re usurpers,” declared Don. “What right had they to buy our old
house? They’ll get no politeness out o’ me, Beck, if they live here a
thousand years.”
The boy and girl opposite came down the lawn and stood at the entrance
of the driveway, looking curiously down the wide village street, shaded
with its avenue of spreading trees.
“Come on, Sue,” said Becky. “Don’t be cross to-day, anyhow. Let’s go
and talk to our neighbors.”
But Sue drew back, shaking her curls, positively.
“I don’t like ’em, Becky. They--they’re not our style, I’m ’fraid. You
can go--if you dare.”
One thing Becky couldn’t do, was to “take a dare.” She was not really
anxious to make the pilgrimage alone, but having suggested it, she
turned a comical look upon the others and said:
“All right. Here goes.”
Don gave a snort of disdain and Sue laughed. It would be fun to watch
their reckless sister and see what she did.
Becky Daring was not the beauty of the family, by any means. Her hair
was a glaring, painful red; her face long, thin and freckled; her nose
inclined to turn upward. But Becky’s hazel eyes were splendid and
sparkled so continuously with humor and mischief that they won for her
more smiles and friendly words than she really deserved. Auntie had
despaired long ago of trying to make Becky look neat and tidy, and at
fourteen she was growing so fast that she shot out of her gowns as if
by magic, and you could always see more of her slim legs and sunburned
wrists than was originally intended. She was not dainty, like little
Sue, nor calm and composed like beautiful Phœbe; but Becky enjoyed
life, nevertheless, and had a host of friends.
One of her shoes became untied as she crossed the road to where the
Randolph children stood. She placed her foot on the stone coping at the
sidewalk and, as she fastened the knot, said with her slow Southern
drawl:
“Good mawnin’. I s’pose you’re our new neighbors.”
The boy and girl, standing side by side, looked at her solemnly.
“Come to stay, I guess, haven’t you?” continued Becky, inspecting them
carefully at close range.
“Come away, Doris,” said the boy, taking his sister’s hand. “It is some
common village child. I am sure mamma won’t care to have us know her.”
Becky threw back her head with a merry laugh.
“Don was right, you know,” she said, nodding. “He sized you up in a
jiffy, an’ from ’way over there, too,” indicating the porch from whence
she had come.
“Who is Don, pray?” asked Doris, in quiet, ladylike tones; “and in what
way was he right?”
“Don’s my brother,” was the reply; “an’ he jus’ gave one squint at
_your_ brother an’ said he was a snob.”
“Me--a snob!” cried the boy, indignantly.
“That’s what he said. Funny how he spotted you so quick, isn’t it?”
“Come, Doris. It is an insult,” he said, his face growing red as he
tugged at Doris’ hand.
“Wait a moment, Allerton; we must return good for evil. Evidently the
poor child does not know she has been rude,” remarked the girl, primly.
Becky gave a gasp of astonishment.
“Child!” she echoed. “I’m as old as you are, I’ll bet a cookie.”
“In years, perhaps,” answered Doris. “But, permit me to state that
your brother was wrong. Having been bred in this simple, out of the
way village, he does not understand the difference between a gentleman
and a snob. Nor do you realize the rudeness of accosting strangers
without a proper introduction, repeating words designed to injure their
feelings. I am not blaming you for what you do not know, little girl; I
am merely trying to point out to you your error.”
Becky sat plump down upon the sidewalk and stared until her great eyes
seemed likely to pop out of their sockets. Then, suddenly seeing the
humor of the situation, she smiled her sunny, amiable smile and hugging
her knees with both arms said:
“I got it that time--right in the Adam’s apple, where it belonged. My
compliments to Miss Doris Randolph,” rising to drop a mock curtsy.
“I’ve mislaid my cardcase somewhere, but allow me to present Miss
Rebecca Daring, of Riverdale, who resides on the opposite corner. When
you return my call I hope you’ll find me out.”
“Wait!” cried Doris, as Becky turned to fly. “Did you say Daring?”
“I said Daring, my child,” with great condescension.
“The Daring family that used to live here, in this place?”
“The same Darings, little girl.”
“Forgive me if I seemed supercilious,” said Doris, earnestly. “I--I
mistook you for a common waif of the village, you know. But mamma says
the Darings are an excellent family.”
“Score one for mamma, then. She hit the bull’s-eye,” returned Becky,
lightly. But, the recognition of her social position was too flattering
to be ignored.
Said Allerton, rather sourly:
“Is that fellow who called me a snob a Daring, too?”
“He is Donald Ellsworth Daring,” replied Becky, with pride. “But he may
have been wrong, you know. You’ll have a chance to prove it when we
know you better.”
That gracious admission mollified the boy, somewhat.
“You see,” continued Becky in a more genial tone, “I can’t stay dressed
up all the time, ’cause we’re slightly impecunious--which means shy
of money. If it hadn’t been for that we’d not have sold our house and
moved over to Gran’pa Eliot’s. In that case, you’d never have had the
pleasure of my acquaintance.”
Doris looked across the street to the rambling old mansion half hid by
its trees and vines. In front were great fluted pillars that reached
beyond the second story, and supported a porch and an upper balcony.
“You live in a much more beautiful house than the one papa has bought,”
she said, rather enviously.
“What! that old shack?” cried Becky, amazed.
“Yes. Mamma and I hunted all over this part of the state to find one
of those old Colonial homesteads; but none was for sale. So, we were
obliged to take this modern affair,” tossing a thumb over her shoulder.
“Modern affair! By cracky, I should think it was,” retorted Miss
Daring, indignantly. “It cost a lot more money than Gran’pa Eliot’s
place ever did.”
“Of course,” agreed Doris, with a slight smile. “The accident of
wealth will enable anyone to build a much more palatial house than
this. But only the accident of birth, it seems, enables one to occupy a
splendid old Southern homestead.”
Becky regarded the speaker with wonder.
“You’re from the No’th?” she inquired.
“Yes. Our family is old, too; perhaps as aristocratic as that of your
Grandfather Eliot. We are from Boston.”
“L-a-w--zee! I believe you are,” declared Becky. “I knew a Boston girl
once, who was even more proper an’ ridic’lous in her ways than you are;
but she died of a cold in the head, poor thing.”
“A cold?”
“Yes. Mortification set in, ’cause she couldn’t pronounce all the big
words proper, on account o’ the cold.” Noticing a resentful look creep
over Doris’ face, she hastened to add: “But that don’t count, you know.
What really s’prises me is that you think Gran’pa Eliot’s shack is
finer than our beautiful old home. I guess that as soon as Noah’s flood
faded away Gran’pa Eliot’s house was built, it’s so blamed old.”
“Dear me!” said Doris, in seeming distress, “I wish you wouldn’t speak
disrespectfully of Bible history.”
“What’s Bible history?” asked the astonished Becky.
“The flood God sent to punish a wicked world.”
“Oh, _that_;” with much relief. “I thought you were in earnest, at
first.”
“My sister,” explained Allerton Randolph, with dignity, “is very
religiously inclined.”
“Are you?” asked Becky, curiously.
“Yes, dear. I am trying to live my daily life in conformance with the
highest religious principles. So it hurts me to hear sacred things
spoken of lightly.”
Becky regarded this prim young lady with a sudden access of shyness.
She felt that a gulf had opened between them that never could be
bridged. Allerton, studying her face, saw the effect of his sister’s
announcement and said in his serious way:
“Doris takes her religious ideas from our mother, who is interested
in charities and foreign missions. She has exhausted her strength and
undermined her health in this unselfish work, and that is why we have
come to the country to live. Neither father nor I have much religious
inclination.”
“Oh, Allerton!”
“It’s true, Doris. Father detests it with all his heart, and says our
mother has ruined his home for a lot of naked niggers in Africa; but
I’m more--more--”
“Tolerant, I suppose you mean. But you must not convey a wrong
impression of our father to Miss Daring. He merely regrets our mother’s
excessive devotion to the cause. He does not hate religion, in the
abstract.”
Becky had never been so astonished in her life. Here was a boy of
Don’s age and a girl of about her own years discussing religion with
the utmost gravity, and using such “nifty” language that it positively
shocked her. Again she realized that there could be nothing in common
between the youthful Randolphs and the tribe of Daring; but, she had
determined to be gracious to these strangers and so she stifled a sigh
of regret and said:
“If you like, I’ll show you over the stables, and where we played
circus back of the harness room, and Phil’s rabbit warren, and how to
climb the pear-tree in the garden without breaking your neck, and--”
“Thank you very much,” interrupted Doris; “but, we are not interested
in vulgar romps of that character; are we, Allerton?”
“They--they sound rather interesting,” he submitted, eyeing Becky a
little wistfully.
“Perhaps, for village children,” returned the girl, haughtily. “But
although we are now living in the country we should remember our
breeding and try to instill some of our native culture into these
primitive surroundings, rather than sink our refinement to the level of
the community.”
“L-a-w--zee!” cried Becky, again. Then, in spite of her effort to be
“good” she laughed in Doris’ face, bobbing her frouzled red head up and
down as peal after peal of genuine merriment burst from her slim throat.
Allerton frowned and Doris looked grieved and sad. Positively, this
country girl was laughing at their expense.
“I--I can’t help it!” chuckled Becky, trying to control herself.
“It’s--it’s too good to keep. I must go an’ tell the kids before I--I
bust with it all! Bye-bye, Doris. See you again soon. ‘Or river,’
Allerton! Guess I’ll call you Al. Come over an’ get acquainted.”
She had backed away one step at a time, still bubbling with hysterical
laughter that she could not control, and at the final words turned and
dashed across the street like mad, her thin legs twinkling beneath her
short skirts.
“Well,” said Don, as Becky threw herself down upon the porch and shook
with an abandon of glee; “tell us the joke, Beck. What’s happened?”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” was all the reply.
“Are they nice?” inquired Sue, squatting in a rustic chair and
swinging her legs, as she calmly surveyed her sister.
“Nice? Sue, they’re the funniest kids you ever heard of,” gasped Becky,
her eagerness to talk stifling the spasms of merriment. “They ain’t New
Yorkers--not a bit--they’re Bostoners! Think of that. It would kill you
to hear ’em talk. They’re as full of culture as an egg is of meat; an’
_langwidge!_--say, folks, it’s something awful.”
“I guessed as much,” said Don, with a grin. “But, I’m glad they’re not
our kind. I wouldn’t care to go over to our old house and play with the
usurpers. Let’s shut ’em out, for good and all.”
“Oh, they’ll shut us out, I s’pect,” remarked Becky, wiping her eyes on
her gingham sleeve. “You ought to have seen ’em stick up their noses at
me till they found out I was a Daring. Then they put on so many airs it
was disgust’n’.”
“Seems to me,” said Sue, shaking away her troublesome curls and looking
thoughtfully at her sprawling, ungainly sister, “they’re ’zactly the
sort we ought to ’sociate with. If you could rub a little culture off’n
’em, dear, it wouldn’t hurt you a bit.”
“Nor you, either, Sue,” laughed Don. “If you pronounced English that
way in Boston, they’d jail you.”
“_Now_ who’s a snob, Don?” asked Sue, indignantly. “No one’s s’posed to
pernounce ev’ry measley letter the dicsh’naries chuck into a word, is
they?”
“Oh, Sue!” said Becky; “your grammar is as bad as your pernunciation.
I mus’ look afteh your education, myself. Those Randolph kids are a
revelation to me; and, honest injun, I’m somewhat ashamed of myself.
We’re going wrong, all of us, since mother died,” with a sigh and a
catch in her voice, “an’ need to be jerked into line.”
She said this in sober earnestness, remembering the sweet, gentle
mother who had labored so hard to keep her flock from straying, and
whose loss had permitted them to wander as their natural, untamed
instincts dictated.
“Mother,” said Don in tender accents, “was a lady to her finger tips,
and wanted her girls and boys to grow up to be ladies and gentlemen. I
try to do as she’d like to have me, whenever I think of it; but, that
isn’t very often.”
“You’re a cross-patch,” asserted Sue; “and I’ve heard teacher say that
you’re the worst scholar in the school. You don’t mind Phœbe any
more’n a fly minds sugar.”
“Phœbe isn’t my boss,” retorted Don, resentfully. But, the next
moment his frown softened, and he added: “Anyhow, I try to be decent,
and that’s more than some of the family do.”
“Meanin’ me?” asked Becky, defiantly.
“You’re fourteen, and almost a woman; yet you act like a kindergarten
kid. I’ll leave it to anyone if I’m not more dignified ’n’ respectable
than you are; and I won’t be thirteen ’til next month.”
“You’re old for your years, Don; and it’s lucky that you can find any
good in yourself, for nobody else can!” remarked Becky, complacently.