DAVID
When Betsey went, two days later, along the hill road again she walked
far more quickly and did not hesitate at the turning of the lane. She
was on her way to Aunt Susan’s to announce her determination and she
felt, this time, neither irresolution nor reluctance. She went firmly up
the graveled drive, asked the grave butler whether her aunt were at
home, and, waiting in the big, impressive drawing room, even heard the
approaching rustle of Aunt Susan’s elaborate silk skirts without feeling
her courage give way.
“I have made up my mind not to go.”
She got it out quickly, almost before a word of greeting had passed. “My
father wants me to go to college and my mother did, too. If I should
leave my work now I feel sure I would not do what I have planned. So—so
I must stay.”
There was no need for her to say how much she wished for the journey.
She felt, in fact, that it was wise to say as little as possible and to
bend all her efforts to resisting the storm of arguments and protests
that would be poured out upon her. Aunt Susan was a person much
accustomed to having her own way and was dangerously skillful at
persuading people to do her bidding.
“Think how lonely you will be,” she began immediately.
Once this had been the single thought that made staying at home seem
unendurable, but now even that difficulty, it seemed, could be faced. In
one short afternoon at Miss Miranda’s, Elizabeth had felt herself
surrounded by such a warmth of friendliness that already she felt
certain that here would be a refuge where she would be welcome and at
home, no matter how empty and deserted her own house might seem. To come
home from school, weary with the labors of the day and find no one there
save Anna, busy in the kitchen and not wishing to be disturbed, to have
no one glad to see her or desirous of knowing just how things had
gone—it had seemed a depressing prospect. But now that she knew Miss
Miranda it was somehow different. Elizabeth could not have explained
just why she felt, after only an hour or two of acquaintance, after only
a little talk, that here was a friend to stand by her through
everything. Feel it she did, however, and with the knowledge, made firm
her decision. But to hold to that decision was not so easy.
“I was absolutely certain that you would come with me,” Aunt Susan
exclaimed, trying a new point of attack. “I had even decided what
clothes you were to have. Your traveling suit was to be green faille
silk with white furs.”
Betsey had before had experience with dresses planned by Aunt Susan.
They were apt to be of the sort in which you could not run upstairs, or
that split their sleeves if you raised your arms suddenly, but they were
always very beautiful. She sighed a little at the thought of the white
furs.
“And I dare say you could go to school here and there in places where we
stopped long enough,” her aunt went on; “that ought to be all you need
for keeping up your work.”
She had not been to college herself and had not grasped the fact that
dropping in upon one school and then another could fail to produce all
the education necessary. Elizabeth tried to explain, but found it
useless. She wished that, having stated her determination, she could go
home at once, for the longer she stayed the more irresistible and
enticing did the journey seem. She had rashly consented to stay to
dinner, however, and so must prepare for a long struggle. The dinner was
half enjoyable on account of the beautiful things on the table, silver
and flowers and frail china that Betsey loved, and half terrifying on
account of the things that Aunt Susan might be going to say next. She
said a great deal, she exclaimed, she expostulated, she persuaded, until
her niece was at the point of exhaustion.
“But it will be so dreary, all by yourself!” she kept insisting, in
answer to which Betsey continued to maintain stoutly—
“Miss Miranda is going to be a good friend to me. I will not be entirely
alone.”
“Do you mean Miranda Reynolds who lives on the hill, up Somerset Lane?”
Aunt Susan inquired. “I am very fond of her myself, but somehow I never
seem to see much of her nowadays. How do you happen to know her?”
“She came to see me, but I was a long time in going there to return her
visit. I did not know how nice her house was, or how kind she would be,
or what interesting things she would tell me.”
“I do not suppose,” returned Aunt Susan slowly, with a shade of
curiosity in her voice, “that she told you how she happens to be living
in a gardener’s cottage and cooking and scrubbing and tending cabbages
and ducks when she might be doing—oh, very different things?”
“No,” answered Betsey, “no, she did not tell me that.”
Now that she thought of it, there were a great many things that Miss
Miranda had not told her. She knew very little of her new friend and, in
spite of questionings among acquaintances of her own age, seemed unable
to learn more. She had discovered only that Miss Miranda dwelt in the
cottage alone with her father, that she had a big vegetable garden on
the sunny slope of the hill, that she kept ducks and chickens and, by
her untiring industry, managed to make the household prosper. Elizabeth
could well believe that to whatever she turned her hand, that thing
would be successful.
“Her father was quite a great man in his day,” her aunt went on
thoughtfully. “He had a good deal of a name as an expert in scientific
mechanics. One never hears of him now. I suppose he does not accomplish
much since he has grown old. I am continually thinking that I will go
over to see Miranda, yet I have so many engagements that I never do. She
sent me some delightful asparagus from her garden lately; I have meant
to give her some of Simmonds’ grapes in return. You can leave them there
to-night when the motor takes you home. Yes, you will have a good friend
in her, but you are very wrong and foolish not to go with me, just the
same.”
As Elizabeth, leaning back in the big car, rolled along the smooth road
on her way home, she could not help wondering how it would be to have
just such luxury at her command for the next few months, to travel in
splendor with Aunt Susan and to see all the wonderful things of which
she had just heard such dazzling description.
“It is not too late yet, if you want to change your mind,” had been her
aunt’s last words. Betsey was nearer to wavering at this moment than
ever before. The thought of the still, empty house to which she was
coming home, seemed suddenly very dreary indeed.
The car stopped at the Reynolds’ gate and Elizabeth went in herself with
the basket of grapes. The curtains were not drawn, so that she could see
Miss Miranda sitting with her work beside the table. She could even see
her look up, startled and alarmed as she had been before, when there
came a step at the door. She was so calm, so quiet and cheerful in all
other matters it was hard to imagine why this one thing should trouble
her so. After the basket was delivered, Elizabeth lingered at the door,
unwilling to say good night, while Miss Miranda, too, seemed reluctant
to have her go. When at last Betsey took her departure and the car moved
away from the gate, she found that her wavering doubts, felt so keenly
at Aunt Susan’s, had vanished again. She would not be too lonely if she
had Miss Miranda, of that she now felt doubly assured; but there was
something more. She had an odd, protective feeling for her new friend,
as though she were staying at home, not only to carry out her own plans,
but to take care of Miss Miranda.
There is sometimes a vague knowledge of things that comes without words.
It was clear enough to Elizabeth, long afterwards, just what heavy
trouble was brooding over the little household of the cottage, and just
what part she was destined to play in dispelling it. Yet it was curious
indeed, that she should have begun to feel, so early and so distinctly,
that here she was really needed and that here she would give, in return
for Miss Miranda’s friendship, not only small services but great ones.
The sunny garden on the hillside was being planted on the afternoon that
she came to the cottage again. She had said good-by to Aunt Susan that
morning and had seen her depart in a great flutter of veils and furs and
feathers. The train had rolled away carrying with it Betsey’s last
vision of snow-capped mountains, sparkling blue seas, tropical shores
and white, flower-crowned cliffs. Her mind would still linger, in spite
of herself, on the pleasures that she had renounced so that she was glad
to find some absorbing diversion and to turn her abundant energy to
helping Miss Miranda.
The peas were already pushing their pert green noses through the warm
soil, and the scattered lettuce plants showed all along the row. Betsey
became so entranced with the task of setting out beans that she would
have filled the whole garden with them had not Miss Miranda warned her
that there must be a little space left for beets and carrots and sweet
corn.
Old Michael Martin, bent and weatherbeaten, the hero of the tale she had
heard on her first visit, was at work spading the far end of the garden.
He seemed a silent, crabbed person, who did not like to answer even when
spoken to, so that Betsey found him rather disappointing. He would stop
his work now and then, however, to hurl a few words of rather
bewildering advice at the two among the bean rows.
“If you are to plant lettuce again, Miss Miranda,” he remarked suddenly,
standing with both hands resting on his spade, “you had best be doing it
to-day. It is the very last of the light of the moon.”
“What does he mean?” inquired Elizabeth in an undertone when he had gone
on with his work again. She had no notion that moonlight need be
considered in the matter of growing vegetables.
“He thinks that everything in a garden goes by signs and wonders,” Miss
Miranda answered. “He says charms for luck when he puts in the cabbage
plants, and he thinks that if the first peas are not sown on Saint
Patrick’s Day, they will none of them come up at all. It is high time to
set out the onions to-day, but he would be so disturbed at putting them
in before the dark of the moon that I have not the heart to insist on
it. All crops that grow under ground, he claims, must be planted in the
dark of the moon, and those that ripen above, some time between its
waxing and waning. So to-day is the day for lettuce and next week he
will plant potatoes and beets and carrots and after I have tended them
like babies all summer he will nod wisely when they grow big and say,
‘Oh, yes, of course they can’t help flourishing if you plant the right
things in the dark and the light of the moon.’ But it does happen to be
a good day for the lettuce. I am afraid that I have left the seeds on
the kitchen table.”
Elizabeth volunteered to get them, and went up the path from the garden,
past the big pen where the ducks and chickens were, and where a dozen
brown-yellow ducklings were waddling solemnly forth on their first
expedition into the outside world. She stopped to drive them back and
then went on, across the lawn, to the open door of the cottage.
When she first came up the lane that day, she had noticed that the same
big white horse that she had seen in the poplar-bordered cart track was
now plowing in the field opposite the Reynolds’ cottage. It was guided
by the same red-haired boy, who went plodding up and down the rows,
leaving behind them a straight, blue-black ribbon of upturned soil. She
stopped to watch for a moment as they came near the fence and she
thought that he looked up and saw her, for she caught sight of a pair of
very blue eyes and a fair, much-freckled face.
As she paused, however, there arose suddenly in the workshop wing of the
cottage, such a wild crashing, such a commotion of whirring wheels and
creaking machinery that she flew to the door to see what had happened.
The crow’s voice mingled with the din, upraised in caws of loud
excitement, while finally, during a faint lull, Mr. Reynolds was also to
be heard, calling in the familiar tone of worried helplessness—
“Miranda, oh, Miranda.”
At first she could not make out what was happening, so full did the
place seem to be of flapping black wings, whirling wheels and spinning
pulleys. At last, however, she managed to understand that one of the big
machines at the end of the shop was in violent motion and that a broken
rod was flying round and round with the spinning wheel, smashing and
crashing against everything that came in its way. Even in the midst of
the noise Mr. Reynolds must have heard Elizabeth come in, for he glanced
at her quickly over his shoulder.
“Climb up on that stool and throw the switch there above the workbench,”
he directed. “That is the only way to stop this thing and I can’t leave
the broken crank-shaft.”
Even in her haste Betsey noticed how quiet and cool he was, and with
what quick skill he was adjusting valves and closing cylinder cocks, all
the time keeping out of the way of the plunging and slashing of the
broken rod. The switch was so stiff that she tugged at it to no purpose;
she jerked and struggled but without effect. Mr. Reynolds looked back at
her anxiously as the whirring and crashing grew every moment more
violent. She thought of Miss Miranda, but she was far away in the garden
and perhaps would not have sufficient strength, nor would Michael. With
sudden inspiration she jumped down and sped through the door and across
the lawn. The boy and his white horse were just turning a furrow beside
the fence, only the breadth of the road away.
“Come quickly,” she called in unceremonious haste. “We need you.”
The boy dropped his reins, left the horse standing in the furrow and
vaulted over the fence. His face, his white shirt and his blue trousers
were all coated alike with dust but she noted with satisfaction how
broad his shoulders were and how quickly he moved. In one second he was
at the door, in another seemed to know entirely what to do. The stiff
handle groaned as he jerked the switch and flung it over to break the
current, the wildly spinning wheels began to slow down and finally,
imperceptibly, came to rest. The old man turned about to thank them, his
gray eyes under heavy white brows, alight with high excitement.
“Did you have an accident?” Betsey inquired breathlessly. “I don’t
understand what happened. Are you hurt?”
“The rod caught me a crack across the knuckles when it first gave way,
but it does not signify,” he replied cheerily.
The boy had come nearer and was examining the machine with what seemed a
practiced eye.
“It was a flaw in the steel, I suppose,” he said. “But what is this
machine? I never saw anything like it before.”
Mr. Reynolds began explaining as fully as though the stranger were a
fellow engineer, just how he was trying to perfect a new power engine
that would run on less fuel than the old ones. “For,” he said, “as there
grows to be less and less of coal and oil in the world, men must be
keeping their wits alive to improve mechanics and keep the wheels of
industry turning.” The boy became more and more interested, asking quick
questions and receiving eager answers. Elizabeth began to feel a little
left out as technical terms flew back and forth concerning things she
did not understand. She stood soothing black Dick who, still excited,
was talking to himself in a corner.
“I have tried a good many models,” Mr. Reynolds was saying, “but this
one is the newest and it developed so much more power than I expected,
that it came near to tearing itself to pieces before you came to my
rescue. If it had been wrecked I should have had to begin all over again
at the beginning.”
“I believe you should not have tried it when you were all alone,”
commented Betsey sagely. “You should have made sure that some one was
within call.”
The old man smiled, a gentle smile lit with the warmth of much
affection.
“I thought it better to try it when Miranda was not in the house,” he
answered. “If it had refused to run I did not want any one to know of
it. My daughter is always very quick to see when I am disappointed, and
I do not like to give her pain.”
He took up a wrench to loosen a bolt but found it jammed and immovable.
With ready skill the boy took the tool from him and unscrewed the
obstinate nut.
“By the way,” questioned the old man, “ought I to remember your name?
Have I ever seen you before?”
His confessed absent-mindedness was so disarming that the boy laughed.
“Miss Miranda knows me,” he said, “but you have never seen me, at least
you have never noticed me. My name is David Warren, and I am staying
with my uncle who owns the place on the east side of this hill. He is
farming a great part of it this year and finds labor so difficult to get
that I am working for him for the spring and summer. And I think old
Dobbin will be wondering where I have gone and will be dragging his plow
all across the field. You have a wonderful thing here, this machine. I—I
would like to come and see it run again.”
He was out of the door and across the road before a word could be said
to thank him. Elizabeth, still feeling rather dazed with the suddenness
of the whole affair, returned to her forgotten errand of fetching the
lettuce seeds, which Miss Miranda would surely be needing by now.
However, on coming back to the garden, she found that her long absence
had been scarcely noticed. The brown ducklings had escaped again and
even Michael had been obliged to put down his spade and go in pursuit of
them.
“Shoo, ye varmints,” he was saying, as the fat balls of down, their
lemon-colored bills wide open in faint baby quackings, went scuttling in
a dozen different directions from between his feet. “You might know they
would be wild creatures, they were hatched out in a thunderstorm!”
The afternoon had been cheerful, but the evening was long and lonely,
with Anna plunged into one of her blackest moods. Yet, though the hours
dragged, they did not suffice for the mastering of to-morrow’s lesson.
Geometry and history were Betsey’s two great difficulties, so great
indeed that, with the college examinations coming nearer, they began
vaguely to threaten real disaster. She sighed as she turned for the
tenth time to the worn page in her textbook, dealing with the volume of
the frustum of a pyramid. She knew the drawing and the text drearily by
heart, but would she ever understand it? Would the looming bulk of this
misshapen figure grow bigger and bigger until it blocked her road to
higher education? As she crept away to bed she was thinking that it was
only that morning that Aunt Susan had left her, proclaiming to the last
Betsey’s mistaken foolishness in remaining behind. Perhaps, after all,
Aunt Susan had been right!
She awoke next morning still depressed, more discouraged than ever when
her eye fell upon the cover of her geometry book. It would be a good
plan to set off for school early, she decided, and go around by Somerset
Lane for a cheering moment of talk with Miss Miranda. Her heart felt
lighter as soon as she thought of it.
As she turned in at the gate her glance swept the field across the way,
but found it empty. No sturdy white horse was plowing it to-day, no
erect, copper-haired figure was visible, only rows of furrows, drying in
the sun. The little house, also, seemed unusually quiet as she first
rang at the bell, then went across the grass to knock at the kitchen
door. She could hear Mr. Reynolds tinkering in the shop, she could see
Michael’s bent back where he was toiling alone in the garden. She saw,
presently, when the door opened, the unattractive face of a totally
strange woman who was apparently presiding over Miss Miranda’s kitchen.
In the fewest and shortest words possible the stranger explained to
Betsey that Miss Miranda was gone.
“Gone? Gone where? For how long?” cried Elizabeth in unbearable
disappointment.
But she received no answer for the woman had already closed the door.