LEFT BEHIND
And so the barque Elizabeth was left stranded while the stream of
progress swept onward, bearing her friends. After the boys had left,
the languorous October days passed very slowly at The Dale, and
Elizabeth's energies of both body and mind soon began to cry out for a
wider field of activity.
She was hourly oppressed with a sense of her own uselessness, a feeling
her aunt's aggrieved manner tended to foster. Her heart smote her as
she saw everyone at work but herself. She tried to help her father
with his township affairs, but he met all her offers of assistance with
his indulgent smile, and the remark that little girls could not
understand business, and she must not bother her head.
Neither could she find any regular occupation about the house. Sarah
Emily, who had conceived a great respect for Elizabeth since she had
been living in the town, refused to let her soil her hands in the
kitchen. It was too much of a come-downer, she declared, for a lady
educated away up high the way Lizzie was to be sloppin' round with an
apron on. Why didn't she sit still and read books, the way Jean did?
And Sarah Emily's will was not to be disputed. She was even more than
usually independent these days, for without doubt a real suitor for her
hand had appeared at The Dale kitchen. He was none of those "finest
young gents as ever was seen," that existed only in Sarah Emily's
imagination; but a real, solid, flesh-and-blood young farmer, none less
than Wully Johnstone's Peter, now the eldest son at home, and to whom
the farm was to eventually fall. Since Peter had openly avowed his
intentions, Sarah Emily had been thrown into alternate fits of ecstasy
over her good fortune,--which she strove to hide under a mask of
haughty indifference--and spasms of dismay over the wreck she was
making of poor Tom Teeter's life. That Tom was in a frightful way, she
could not but see; for, as she confided to Elizabeth, it fairly made
her nerves all scrunch up to hear him sing that awful doleful song
about wishin' she would marry him.
Elizabeth suggested to her aunt, that as Sarah Emily was likely soon to
give notice finally and forever, that she should be the one to take up
the burden of the housekeeping. But Miss Gordon seemed unwilling that
Elizabeth should find any settled place in the household. Mary was
quite sufficient help, she said, and when Sarah Emily left of course
another maid must succeed her. There really was nothing for Elizabeth
to do, she added, with a grieved sigh.
She was equally averse to any proposition on the part of the girl to go
away and earn her own living. Now that there was no hope of her ever
becoming a school-teacher, Miss Gordon said, with a heavier sigh than
usual, there was really no other avenue open for a young lady that was
quite genteel.
And then Elizabeth would sigh too, very deeply, and wish with all her
soul that she had had just sufficient mathematics in her head to meet
the requirements of the cast-iron system of the Education Department,
which unfortunately required all heads to be exactly alike.
Meanwhile, her nature being too buoyant to allow her to fret, she
managed to put in the days in a way that made even her aunt confess
that the old house was much brighter for her presence. Mary was her
constant companion, glad of any contingency that kept Lizzie near her.
But beyond the home-circle she found little congenial friendship.
She visited Mother MacAllister once a week, of course, and was some
real help to her, as she was to poor Susie Martin. But she had
outgrown her schoolmates, or grown away from them, even had her aunt
approved of her associating with them. The Price girls had spent all
their father's substance in riotous dressing, and were now in domestic
service in Cheemaun. Rosie was living away up north on the McQueen
farm, a new, practical, careful money-making little Rosie. And Martha
Ellen Robertson even was gone. Martha Ellen was married and now lived
on an Alberta ranch and had many gold watches and all the dresses she
could desire. The only familiar sight in Forest Glen for Elizabeth was
Noah Clegg. He was still superintendent of the Sunday school, still
wore the same squeaky Sabbath boots, and though he had never quite
regained his old-time cheerfulness since the day his assistant left, he
still smilingly urged his flock to "sing up an' be 'appy."
Elizabeth often wondered what had become of old Sandy and Eppie. She
had not quite outgrown her childish desire to right poor Eppie's
wrongs, and often, even yet, she told herself that some day she would
intercede with Mrs. Jarvis, and Eppie would be brought back to Forest
Glen.
But in spite of her buoyant nature Elizabeth was not happy. Great new
aspirations were springing up in her heart. She had submitted to a
well-known magazine her little verses, born of that night of moonrise
and sunset, when the boys said good-by. They had not been accepted,
but the reviewer, a lady of some insight, had written the young poetess
a long and encouraging letter. Miss Gordon must read and study nature,
she advised, and she would do something some day. So Elizabeth tried
to obey. Studying nature was like breathing and came very easily, and
reading was always a joy; but she grew restless in spite of it all, not
knowing what was the matter with her.
"I wish I could go away and do something, John Coulson," she said to
her brother-in-law on an afternoon which he and Annie and the baby were
spending at The Dale. "I'm no use here. I have horrible suspicions
that I'm a cumberer of the ground."
"You're surely not going to develop into a new woman, Betsey," said
John Coulson with alarm. "One never knows which way the wild streak is
going to shoot off next."
Elizabeth was kneeling by the old dining-room sofa, upon which the
Vision rolled from side to side, waving his bare pink toes in the air.
She had just been busy saying over for the fifth time, "Dis 'itty pig
went to market," and had evoked such gurgles and coos and giggles from
the owner of the "'itty pigs," that it was hard to give her attention
elsewhere.
"Maybe I am," she said at last, looking up at him with serious gray
eyes. "I don't know. But I do know I don't want to sit on a cushion
and sew a fine seam forever and ever like the lady in Baby's book. The
rest are working hard. I wonder if I couldn't earn my living somehow."
John Coulson looked at her gravely. He generally treated his young
sister-in-law as a joke, but evidently she wanted to be taken seriously.
"What do you think you would like to be?" he asked gently.
Elizabeth chucked the Vision under the chin, rolled him from side to
side, and kissed each separate dimple in his plump hand before
answering.
"Oh, I don't care. I'd just as soon be one thing as another."
"Well, well," John Coulson's eyes twinkled again. "Have you no
ambition at all, Betsey Bobbett?"
Elizabeth looked across at him, her eyes half-veiled by her long
lashes, in that way she had when she wished to hide her thoughts. The
forced reticence of her childhood had grown to be a fixed habit, and
for all her love for her brother-in-law, which had grown steadily with
the years, she could not confide in him. For Elizabeth had ambitions,
though her aunt would have found it hard to believe in them. They were
quite as radiant as her old dreams of Joan of Arc, though different.
They were such conflicting aspirations, too, that she was puzzled by
them herself. She was filled with vague golden dreams of one day
overturning the world and righting all wrongs, and making all Eppies
rich and Susies happy, and giving all Mother MacAllisters their
rewards. And side by side with these glorious visions lived the
desire, very real and very deep, to be like Estella Raymond and have a
half-dozen boys expiring for love of her. Elizabeth would have died
rather than confess this wish--even to herself. Nevertheless, it was
there, and back of it lay another, still hazy, but also very real, the
ambition to be an Annie and have a John Coulson and a brick house with
white pillars and a Vision lying on a sofa waving ten pink rosebud toes
in one's face. But these were things one would not breathe, so
Elizabeth answered lightly.
"I guess I haven't--much. I think I'd like to teach school--maybe. At
least I'd like it just as well as anything else, but you see I can't,
now."
"My, but you're enthusiastic. But isn't there something you'd like
better than anything else?"
Elizabeth's long lashes drooped again. That was forbidden ground. She
shook her head, and poked the Vision's ribs until he screamed with
laughter.
"Some of the girls in your class have gone to Toronto to learn nursing.
Would you care about that?"
"I suppose that would do to earn my own living; only John makes me sick
when he talks about operations. Look, Sweetie; pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake,
baker's man."
"I suppose you wouldn't like to hammer a typewriter in my office? I
need a girl, but perhaps Aunt Margaret wouldn't think it was genteel."
"That would do, if I wouldn't bother you too much; and I'd just love to
be with you, John Coulson, only--oh, oh, look at the darling pet
swallowin' him's own pinky toes. Oh, John Coulson, just look!"
John Coulson laughed indulgently.
"Oh, Betsey!" he said in despair, while his eyes were very kind,
"you're no use in the world. We'll just have to get you married."
Nevertheless, he thought much about the girl after his return home and
talked over her case with his wife. "Send her a note and tell her to
come here for a week," was his final decision. "We must do something
for the poor kid."
So Annie very willingly wrote her sister, and on the day her letter
arrived at The Dale Elizabeth received another. This one was from
Estella. It was an ecstatic letter, as everything emanating from
Estella generally was. It chronicled page after page of her trials
with her beaux. An embarrassment of riches was what troubled Estella.
She did wish Beth would come to Cheemaun and take some of them off her
hands. But of course Beth didn't care about boys, she had forgotten.
Madeline Oliver was just as bad, boys never looked near her. And
speaking of Madeline, what did Beth think? Since they'd left school
she had been putting on frightful airs, and was just perfectly,
dreadfully horrid to all the girls except the Annsleys and the
Delafields and a few others of those nobs on Sunset Hill. Madeline
seemed to forget she'd ever known half her old chums. And Mrs. Oliver
gave Bridge parties in the afternoon now, and didn't ask half the
people she used to ask. And it was all on account of Mrs. Jarvis. She
had just come back from the Old Country, and the Olivers were making a
terrible fuss about her. They said she intended to spend the winter in
California, and Madeline was working to get taken with her. And the
Olivers had given a great big reception last week for Madeline's coming
out, and such airs Beth never saw, and Mrs. Jarvis was there dressed
like a queen. And she, Estella, had asked Madeline if she wasn't going
to ask Beth Gordon to her party, seeing she'd been called for Mrs.
Jarvis, and Madeline just tossed her head and said, "Oh, Aunt Jarvis
never thinks about her now." And Horace was there; it was down in the
ice-cream parlor where Frank Harper had taken her--really, he was
getting perfectly awful he called so often--and Horace spoke up and
said he bet his Aunt Jarvis would just like jolly well to see Beth, and
he'd a good mind to drive out and fetch her in; and Madeline looked
crosser than ever. And so now, here was Estella's plan. She was just
going to show Madeline Oliver, see if she wasn't! She was going to
"come out," and mamma was going to give a reception--one far bigger and
grander than the Olivers' had been, too. And they were going to ask
Mrs. Jarvis, of course, and Mrs. Oliver daren't refuse because papa had
a hold on Mr. O. in business, and the whole family would just have to
come. And darling Beth was to come, too--with Mrs. Coulson, and wear
her white dress and the blue bows in her hair, and Mrs. Jarvis would
see her, and be certain sure to love her. She couldn't help it. And
between them they'd spite that nasty Madeline, see if they wouldn't.
Horace himself had said he knew his aunt would like to see Beth. He
told her that, going home one evening from choir practice. Horace had
done that twice, and Frank Harper and Will Drummond were both just wild
about it. But of course there was nothing at all between her and
Horace, and if Beth minded the tiniest bit she'd never speak to him
again as long as she lived, etc., etc.
The letter went on in this strain for many more pages. Elizabeth
laughed and handed it to her aunt, anticipating some fun when Miss
Gordon gave her opinion of it. But to Elizabeth's intense surprise the
lady made no comment upon the writer's manners and heartily approved of
her niece accepting the invitation. Elizabeth had fully expected
Estella to be pronounced entirely ungenteel, and no sort of person to
associate with a Gordon. But Elizabeth did not yet understand her
aunt, any more than her aunt understood her.
So very joyfully an acceptance of both invitations was written, and
Miss Gordon helped Elizabeth prepare for her visit to Annie's with hope
once more rising in her heart. Surely, surely, upon this occasion,
this one unsuccessful member of her family would grasp opportunity
before he passed her for the last time.
They were debating as to how Elizabeth was to reach town, for both the
gray horse and the old phaeton were now tottering on the verge of
dissolution, when Auntie Jinit McKerracher came across the brown shaven
fields, to make a call and an offer. Auntie Jinit had heard of
Elizabeth's proposed visit to Cheemaun, for the lady knew minutely the
downsitting and the uprising of everyone in the valley. She, too, was
bent on a journey thither, on the morrow,--on important business, she
said mysteriously,--and she invited Elizabeth to accompany her.
The offer was gladly accepted, though Miss Gordon would have preferred
that her niece make a more dignified entry into the town than could be
accomplished in Wully Johnstone's old buck-board with the bunch of hay
sticking out behind, and Auntie Jinit leaning far forward slapping the
old gray mare with the lines. But little cared Elizabeth. She was
going on a tour into the unknown--she was to enter Cheemaun society,
and it mattered little to her how she got there, she was sure to have a
good time.
The day they set out was a glorious October morning, warm and bright,
with a hint of that soft blue-gray mist on the horizon which in the
afternoon would clothe the landscape in an amethyst haze. Auntie
Jinit's old gray horse ambled along easily, and Elizabeth gave herself
up to hilarity. To go abroad with Mrs. McKerracher was to have one's
entertainment insured. She was a highly diverting lady, with a
youthful twinkle in her eye contradicting the shining gray hair that,
parted demurely in the middle, waved down over her ears. There was
youth, too, in her round plump face and the soft flush of her cheeks.
Plainly Auntie Jinit had been a pretty girl once and had not yet
outlived the memories of that potent fact.
As the white road dipped into the first hollow, where the crimson
leaves of the maples and the gold of the elms softly floated down from
the blue above, there arose from a barnyard on their right the sound of
loud, uproarious singing.
"_Oh, and it's whippity whoppity too,
And how I'd love to sing to you!
I'd laugh and sing,
With joy and glee,
If Mrs.--ti-dee-dilly-dee-dilly-dee!_"
The singer had fortunately caught sight of the familiar gray horse,
with the accustomed bunch of hay sticking out behind, and had saved his
life by an adroit improvisation. For Tom had been in the habit of
substituting another name for "Mrs. McQuarry," and though he might take
liberties with his neighbor across the way, well he knew the dire
consequences of taking Auntie Jinit's name in vain.
Elizabeth crumpled up with silent laughter; but either Mrs. McKerracher
did not notice, or designedly ignored the singer. She was looking in
the opposite direction, examining with a critical eye the trim fields
of Jake Martin's prosperous-looking farm.
"Yon's no a place to be sneezed at, Lizzie," she remarked tentatively.
"The place is lovely, Auntie Jinit," Elizabeth returned, with marked
emphasis. "Only--only----"
Auntie Jinit gave a little giggle. There was a queer mixture of
girlish coquetry and masculine strength about her that was
disconcerting. Elizabeth paused, afraid to go on.
Auntie Jinit gave her trim bonnet-strings a jerk, flapped the old gray
mare with the lines and began her confidences in a business-like manner.
"Ye're a wise lassock, Lizzie," she said, by way of introduction, "an'
ah'm gaun to hae a bit private crack wi' ye. Ye're aunt's brocht ye up
weel, an' ah ken ah'm takin' nae risk in confidin' in ye. Some o' the
neeighbors 'll be sayin' ye're a' that prood, but ah've always stood up
for the Gordons, an' said ye were nae mair prood than ye ocht to be.
Noo, aboot this business. Ah wanted tae get yer help." The girlish
manner had returned, she hesitated and gave Elizabeth a half-shy,
half-sly glance over her shoulder. "It's aboot him--yonder, ye ken."
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards the receding farm-house.
"There's a pint o'--o' beesiness ah'd like ye tae see Maister Coulson
aboot, Lizzie--if ye would'na mind obleegin' an' auld neeighbor buddy."
Elizabeth's risibilities were nearly upsetting her composure.
"Yes," she faltered, "I--I'll do anything I can for you, and I'm sure
John Coulson will, too, in your--business."
"It's no jist what a buddy might ca' beesiness, exactly." There was
another coquettish glance and a toss of the pink roses in Auntie
Jinit's bonnet. "But it's a thing a lawyer buddy would ken a' aboot.
An' ye ken, lassie, a modest buddy like me disna like to talk aboot
sich like things to a--a man, hersel." She gave another glance, quite
shy this time. Her companion was silent, afraid to speak lest her
laughter break forth. The contrast between Auntie Jinit's staid,
middle-aged appearance, and the gay, naughty glance of her eye was
almost too much for a frivolous person like Elizabeth.
"Ah want his advice, ye ken, because ah dinna ken jist whit's the best
to dae. Ah ken whit ah want to dae,"--another coquettish toss of the
roses,--"but ah'm no so sure jist whit's best--aboot--merryin', ye ken."
"Yes," said Elizabeth faintly.
"He's tarrible took wi' me, mind ye,"--she looked archly at her
listener,--"but ah'm no sae saft as to be took wi' men, ma' lass.
Ah've seen lots o' them in ma' day." She paused and smiled
reminiscently as though reviewing past conquests; and, looking at her
bright eyes and pink cheeks and the waves of her once abundant hair,
Elizabeth could not but imagine that many hearts lay strewn along
Auntie Jinit's past.
"Ye see, it's this way, lassock: Ah've jist got to mak' ma' way in the
warld. Wully is a kind brither, but the hoose is too fu' already. An'
the bairns are aye merryin' here an merryin' there, an' yon daft Peter
'll be bringin' yon harum-scarum girl o' yours in ane o' thae days--not
but that she's a guid honest lass, but ah dinna see whit he wants wi'
an Eerish thing like yon; an' the land jist owerrun wi' guid Scotch
lassies that ye ken a' aboot wha their faethers an' mithers were."
"But Sarah Emily will make Peter a fine wife, Auntie Jinit," exclaimed
Elizabeth loyally. "Aunt Margaret has spared no pains to make her
clean and tidy and saving----"
"Hoots havers! Ah ken yon. But there's nae cleanin' nor scrubbin' nor
washin' that'll scour the Eerish oot o' a body, lass, mind ye that.
But niver mind her. Ye see, when Wully an' Betsey gets auld ah'll be
left on their hands. Aye, an' ah'll be auld masel then, and, it's high
time ah wes pittin' ma best fit foremost an' settlin' masel." She
paused, and the shrewd, business-like air fell from her. Her eyes grew
somber, she looked far away down the crimson and golden vista of
Champlain's Road.
"Ah'd no be left this way, lassie, gin ma' lad, Tam, had been spared
me. He wes oor only bairn, an' ah sometimes think the Lord surely
micht a' left me him. But He kens best," she sighed brokenly, "aye,
aye, He kens best. But it wes a hard day for me the last time they
brocht ma Tam to me. He'd jist gaed awa wi' the lads aefter his
supper, an' it wes no an oor, till they brocht ma bairnie hame drooned.
An' ah couldna even see his bonny face. He'd fallen aff a bridge, an'
bruised it that bad. Aye, aye,"--a big sigh came again
convulsively,--"an' his faether not deid a month. Ma Tam wes sax feet
in his socks--a bonny lad, an' eh, eh, sik a guid laddie to his mither."
Elizabeth felt a lump rising in her throat. She stroked the black
alpaca arm next her in silent sympathy. Auntie Jinit fumbled in her
black leather bag, and brought out a neatly folded handkerchief with
which she wiped away the tear that had slipped down her cheek. There
was a long silence.
"So ye see, Lizzie, lass," she said at length, her voice still thrilled
with the sorrow of her great motherless, "ye see, lassie, ah've naebody
but Wully an' Betsey to look to. Ma Jeams left me a wee bit siller,
but it's no enough gin a wes pit oot in the warld, an' if Wully slips
awa' ah canna say whit'll happen--so ah must look for a hame, ye ken.
An' there's this ane ah kin have." She tossed her head towards the
receding farm-house. The coquettish all-sufficient air was returning.
"Oh, yes; but, Auntie Jinit," said Elizabeth very gently, "you
know--he--Mr. Martin, you know, he's a little--well, the neighbors say
he's rather disagreeable at home."
"Hits!" said Auntie Jinit lightly. "He couldna be ony waur than the
man ah had. Ah'm no feared but ah'll manage _him_." She drew her
mouth up into a firm line, and Elizabeth looked at her, forced to
admiration. Certainly Mrs. McKerracher was a many-sided woman--and one
perfectly capable of taking care of herself. "But ah'm wantin' ye,
lassie," she lowered her voice, "jist to speak quiet like to Maister
Coulson. Ah want to know jist how _he's_ fixed." She pointed with her
thumb towards the big, red brick house of Jake Martin. "He tells me
braw tales aboot his siller, but ah'm jalousin' he's no tae be trusted.
The first time he cam' sparkin', he tauld me he wes jist fufty-sax, an'
then ah catchet him up aboot hoo auld he wes the time he cam' to these
pairts, an' anither time ah got it oot o' him hoo lang yon wes afore
the railroad wes pit in to Cheemaun, an' a rin it up in ma mind, an' ah
calcalate he was saxty-siven. Noo yon's a tarrible descreepancy, ye
ken, so ah says to masel, ah'll be up sides wi' ye, ma lad. Naebody's
got the better o' Jinit Johnstone yet, an' naebody's gaun tae; an' ah
thocht Maister Coulson could jist tell me if the lads hae ony hand on
the ferm--lawyer bodies kens a' aboot thae things--an' whit a wife's
portion is, gin he should slip awa. An' ax him tae, whit ma rights 'll
be. Ah've got a buggie, ye ken, an' a coo o' ma ain', foreby a settin'
o' Plymouths, an' ah'm to have a horse, he says, to drive to
Cheemaun--ah got that oot o' him in writin' an' he didna ken whet ah
wes up to. But ah'd like to ken jist hoo much ah'm to expact. Ah'm no
goin' to leap an' look aefterwards."
Elizabeth listened with mixed feelings. Auntie Jinit was not so much
to be pitied after all. It would seem that Nemesis was after Jake
Martin all right; but suppose she caught Susie too, and the younger one
still at home? What would become of Susie if her stepmother secured
her "rights"?
"I--I hope," she ventured hesitatingly, "that you'll get all you want,
Auntie Jinit, but poor Susie and Charlie have slaved there for years
and it would be cruel to turn them out."
The woman turned and looked at Elizabeth with a flash of her brilliant
eyes. "An' d'ye think ah'd do yon?" she exclaimed indignantly. "Eh,
eh, lassie, it's no Jinit Johnstone wad ill use a bairn. If there's
onything we kin dae in this warld we suld dae it, and there's Jake
Martin's bairns need a mither if ever onybody did--aye, for they niver
had ane yit, ah misdoot--jist a pair drudge that hadna the spunk to
protect her ain. But ah'm no that kind. Aye, but ah'm no!"
Elizabeth, looking at her, could not doubt her--neither could she doubt
that Susie and the younger Martins would fare well at Auntie Jinit's
hands.
"What about church, Auntie Jinit?" she asked teasingly. "Mr. Martin
won't go to Dr. Murray since Tom Teeter goes--you'll have to turn
Methody!"
The lady gave her a reassuring look out of the corner of her eye. "No
likely," she said, with a setting of her firm mouth. "Dinna ye fear
for me. He's gaun to Maister Murray--an' no sik a late date neither."
She smiled slyly and her eyes twinkled. "He ses tae me, ses he, 'Ah
dinna like ye in black,' ses he, 'Ah'd like to see ye in somethin'
that's mair spicy,' ses he. An' ses ah, 'Weel, if ah hed a nice braw
husband to gang to the kirk wi' me foreby, it's a braw spicy goon ah'd
be wearin'--an' ah'm thinkin' o' gettin' a gray poplin the day, mebby.'
An' he's promised to come--gin ah merry him--but ah'm jist no sure yet."
It was impossible to describe the air of youthful coquetry and mischief
mixed with hard determination and assurance of triumphant power that
beamed in Auntie Jinit's eyes. The most successful society belle,
accomplished in all the arts of refined flirtation, might have envied
her that glance.
Elizabeth arrived at Annie's white-pillared house bursting with mirth.
She described the interview to John Coulson at the mid-day meal in such
a diverting manner that he roared with laughter, and declared he would
undertake Auntie Jinit's cause and tie up Jake so tight financially
that he would never be able to spend five cents again without
permission.
Elizabeth took full possession of the Vision during her visit. It was
well she was willing to accept the position of nurse, for he welcomed
her with leaps and squeals of joy, and wept loudly and bitterly
whenever she dared leave him. His mother was relieved greatly by her
sister's help. For Mrs. John Coulson was suffering from the chronic
housekeeping malady, an incompetent maid. A faithful servant of two
years' standing had gone off in a temper the week before because her
mistress had announced that henceforth they should have dinner at six
o'clock in the evening. Everyone on Sunset Hill had evening dinners
and Annie had long felt the disgrace of their mid-day meal. But social
eminence, she discovered, was dearly bought, for the faithful Bella
immediately departed, declaring "she'd wash pots and pans for no living
woman on nights when her gentleman friends was calling." Her successor
was a leisurely young lady with an elaborate dressing of hair, who
could not have got dinner a minute earlier than six o'clock in the
afternoon in any case, and the Coulsons were now fashionable and
uncomfortable.
During the week preceding Estella's reception, the young lady visited
Elizabeth frequently to report progress. Preparations were going
forward on a grand scale, and the plan to "show the Olivers" had
expanded into "showing Cheemaun" what might be done in the way of an
up-to-date social function.
Others of Elizabeth's old schoolmates called, but Madeline Oliver was
not one of the number. Horace, however, had not forgotten his old
allegiance, and often dropped in of an evening with a box of candy to
sit on the veranda with Elizabeth and tell her how badly his father was
using him in still keeping him at school. When Elizabeth was perfectly
honest with herself she was forced to confess that Horace bored her,
and she wished he would stay away and let her play with Baby Jackie.
On the other hand, it was very nice to sit on their white-pillared
veranda with him and see the other girls pass. For, as Estella had
pointed out, it was so poky and slow to be like Madeline Oliver and
never have a boy come near you, and whatever Beth did, she warned, she
was not to get like that.
"But boys don't like me," Elizabeth explained dolefully, "and Horace is
awfully tiresome; now, Stella, isn't he?"
"Why, no, I think he's heaps of sport if you just know how to take him,
Beth," Estella declared. "But you don't know how to treat boys. Now,
when you're sitting here on the veranda in the evening, and any of the
fellows pass, why don't you call to them, and ask them something, or go
down to the gate and talk about the lacrosse matches or the regatta.
All the boys like to talk sport. You just try it."
But Elizabeth did not follow this wise advice. It had quite the wrong
effect, for when she sat alone on the steps of an evening, and some of
her old boy schoolmates passed, the remembrance of Estella's
admonitions made her turn her back and pretend she did not see them, or
even rise and retreat indoors. But she had plenty of company, for she
was very popular with her girl friends, and Horace saved her from
Estella's entire disapproval.
"I was telling Aunt Jarvis you were here, Beth," he said one evening as
he passed the chocolates to Mrs. Coulson. Annie looked interested. "I
suppose Mrs. Jarvis would not recognize Elizabeth now," she said
tentatively.
"She said she'd like to see her. Why don't you come and call on aunt,
and bring her?" asked the boy.
But Mistress Annie knew better than that, and made some vague excuse.
She well knew that Elizabeth would not be a welcome visitor just now at
the house with the triple pillars. And so the days went by, and though
the lady on whom Elizabeth's hopes were supposed to depend was only a
few streets away, she did not see her, and Mrs. Coulson, remembering
her aunt's admonitions, was forced to wait for the reception.