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BETTY LEICESTER
Books by Sarah Orne Jewett
STORIES AND TALES. 7 vols. Illustrated.
THE LETTERS OF SARAH ORNE JEWETT. Illustrated.
THE TORY LOVER. Illustrated.
THE QUEEN'S TWIN AND OTHER STORIES.
THE COUNTRY OF THE POINTED FIRS.
DEEPHAVEN.
_Holiday Edition._ With 52 illustrations. Attractively bound.
OLD FRIENDS AND NEW.
COUNTRY BY-WAYS.
THE MATE OF THE DAYLIGHT, AND FRIENDS ASHORE.
A COUNTRY DOCTOR. A Novel.
A MARSH ISLAND. A Novel.
A WHITE HERON AND OTHER STORIES.
THE KING OF FOLLY ISLAND, AND OTHER PEOPLE.
STRANGERS AND WAYFARERS.
A NATIVE OF WINBY, AND OTHER TALES.
THE LIFE OF NANCY.
TALES OF NEW ENGLAND.
THE SAME. In Riverside Aldine Series. In Riverside School Library.
PLAY-DAYS. Stories for Girls.
BETTY LEICESTER. A Story for Girls.
BETTY LEICESTER'S CHRISTMAS. Illustrated.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
[Illustration]
BETTY LEICESTER
_A STORY FOR GIRLS_
BY
SARAH ORNE JEWETT
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY SARAH ORNE JEWETT
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY MARY R. JEWETT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
WITH LOVE TO
M. G. L.
ONE OF THE FIRST OF BETTY'S FRIENDS
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. AS FAR AS RIVERPORT 1
II. THE PACKET BOAT 17
III. A BIT OF COLOR 28
IV. TIDESHEAD 40
V. AT BECKY'S HOUSE 50
VI. THE GARDEN TEA 60
VII. THE SIN BOOKS 72
VIII. A CHAPTER OF LETTERS 93
IX. BETTY'S REFLECTIONS 108
X. UP-COUNTRY 137
XI. THE TWO FRIENDS 158
XII. BETTY AT HOME 171
XIII. A GREAT EXCITEMENT 185
XIV. THE OUT-OF-DOOR CLUB 209
XV. THE STARLIGHT COMES IN 221
XVI. DOWN THE RIVER 239
XVII. GOING AWAY 276
BETTY LEICESTER.
I.
AS FAR AS RIVERPORT.
TWO persons sat at a small breakfast-table near an open window, high up
in Young's Hotel in Boston. It was a pleasant June morning, just after
eight o'clock, and they could see the white clouds blowing over; but the
gray walls of the Court House were just opposite, so that one cannot say
much of their view of the world. The room was pleasanter than most hotel
rooms, and the persons at breakfast were a girl of fifteen, named Betty
Leicester, and her father. Their friends thought them both good-looking,
but it ought to be revealed in this story just what sort of good looks
they had, since character makes the expression of people's faces. But
this we can say, to begin with: they had eyes very much alike, very
kind and frank and pleasant, and they had a good fresh color, as if they
spent much time out-of-doors. In fact, they were just off the sea,
having come in only two days before on the Catalonia from Liverpool; and
the Catalonia, though very comfortable, had made a slower voyage than
some steamers do in coming across.
They had nearly finished breakfast, but Betty was buttering one more
nice bit of toast to finish her marmalade, while Mr. Leicester helped
himself to more strawberries. They both looked a little grave, as if
something important were to be done when breakfast was over; and if you
had sat in the third place by the table, and, instead of looking out of
the window, had looked to right and left into the bedrooms that opened
at either hand, you would guess the reason. In Betty's room, on her
table, were ulster and her umbrella and her traveling-bag beside a
basket, these last being labeled "Miss E. Leicester, Tideshead;" and in
the room opposite was a corresponding array, excepting that the labels
read, "T. Leicester, Windsor Hotel, Montreal." So for once the girl and
her father were going in different directions.
"Papa, dear," said Betty, "how long will it be before you can tell about
coming back from Alaska?"
"Perhaps I shall know in a month," said Mr. Leicester; "but you
understand that it will not be like a journey through civilized
countries, and there are likely to be many hindrances and delays.
Beside, you must count upon our finding everything enormously
interesting. I shall try hard not to forget how interesting a waiting
young somebody called Betty is!"
Betty made an attempt to smile, but she began to feel very dismal. "The
aunts will ask me, you know, papa dear," she said. "I am sure that Aunt
Barbara felt a little grumpy about your not coming now."
"Dear Aunt Barbara!" said Mr. Leicester seriously; "I wish that I could
have managed it, but I will stay long enough to make up, when I get back
from the North."
"Your birthday is the first of September; thirty-nine this year, you
poor old thing! Oh if we could only have the day in Tideshead, it would
be such fun!" Betty looked more cheerful again with this hope taking
possession of her mind.
"You are always insisting upon my having a new birthday!" said Mr.
Leicester, determined upon being cheerful too. "You will soon be calling
me your grandfather. I mean to expect a gold-headed cane for my present
this year. Now we must be getting ready for the station, dear child. I
am sure that we shall miss each other, but I will do things for you and
you will do things for me, won't you, Betsey?" and he kissed her
affectionately, while Betty clung fast to him with both arms tight round
his neck. Somehow she never had felt so badly at saying good-by.
"And you will be very good to the old aunts? Remember how fond they have
always been of your dear mamma and of me, and how ready they are to give
you all their love. I think you can grow to be a very great comfort to
them and a new pleasure. They must really need you to play with."
There was a loud knock at the door; the porter came in and carried away
a high-heaped armful from Betty's room. "Carriage is ready at the door,
sir," he said. "Plenty of time, sir;" and then went hurrying away again
to summon somebody else. Betty's eyes were full of tears when she came
out of her room and met papa, who was just looking at his watch in the
little parlor.
"Say 'God bless you, Betty,'" she managed to ask.
"God bless you, Betty, my dear Betty!" Mr. Leicester said gravely. "God
bless you, dear, and make you a blessing."
"Papa dear, I wasn't really crying. You know that you're coming back
within three months, and we shall be writing letters all the time, and
Tideshead isn't like a strange place."
"Dear me, no! you'll never wish to come away from Tideshead; give it my
love, and 'call every bush my cousin,'" answered Mr. Leicester gayly as
they went down in the elevator. The trying moment of the real good-by
was over, and the excitement and interest of Betty's journey had begun.
She liked the elevator boy and had time to find a bit of money for him,
that being the best way to recognize his politeness and patience. "Thank
you; good-by," she said pleasantly as she put it into his hand. She was
hoarding the minutes that were left, and tried to remember the things
that she wished to say to papa as they drove to the Eastern Station; but
the minutes flew by, and presently Mr. Leicester was left on the
platform alone, while the cars moved away with his girl. She waved her
hand and papa lifted his hat once more, though he had already lost sight
of her, and so they parted. The girl thought it was very hard. She
wondered all over again if she couldn't possibly have gone on the long
journey to the far North which she had heard discussed so often and with
such enthusiasm. It seemed wrong and unnatural that she and her father
should not always be together everywhere.
It was very comfortable in the train, and the tide was high among the
great marshes. The car was not very full at first, but at one or two
stations there were crowds of people, and Betty soon had a seat-mate, a
good-natured looking, stout woman, who was inclined to be very sociable.
She was a little out of breath and much excited.
"Would you like to sit next the window?" inquired Betty.
"No, lem me set where I be," replied the anxious traveler. "'Tis as well
one place as another. I feel terrible unsartin' on the cars. I don't
expect you do?"
"Not very," said Betty. "I have never had anything happen."
"You b'en on 'em before, then?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Betty.
"Ever b'en in Boston?--perhaps you come from that way?"
"I came from there this morning, but I am on my way from London to
Tideshead." Somehow this announcement sounded ostentatious, and Betty,
being modest, regretted it.
"What London do you refer to?" asked the woman, and, having been
answered, said, "Oh, bless ye! when it comes to seafarin' I'm right to
home, I tell you. I didn't know but you'd had to come from some o' them
Londons out West; all the way by cars. I've got a sister that lives to
London, Iowy; she comes East every three or four year; passes two days
an' two nights, I believe 't is, on the cars; makes nothin' of it. I
ain't been no great of a traveler. Creation's real queer, _ain't_ it!"
Betty's fellow-traveler was looking earnestly at the green fields, and
seemed to express everything she felt of wonder and interest by her last
remark, to which Betty answered "yes," with a great shake of
laughter--and hoped that there would be still more to say.
"Have you been to sea a good deal?" she asked.
"Lor' yes, dear. Father owned two thirds o' the ship I was born on, and
bought into another when she got old, an' I was married off o' her; the
Sea Queen, Dexter, master, _she_ was. Then I sailed 'long o' my husband
till the child'n begun to come an' I found there was some advantages in
bringin' up a family on shore, so I settled down for a spell; but just
as I got round to leavin' and goin' back, my husband got tired o' the
sea and shippin' all run down, so home he come, and you wouldn't know us
now from shorefolks. Pretty good sailor, be ye?" (looking at Betty
sharply).
"Yes, I love the sea," said Betty.
"I want to know," said her new friend admiringly, and then took a long
breath and got out of her gloves.
"Your father a shipmaster?" she continued.
"No," said Betty humbly.
"What trade does he follow?"
"He has written some books; he is a naturalist; but papa can do almost
anything," replied Betty proudly.
"I want to know," said the traveler again. "Well, I don't realize just
what naturalists hold to; there's too many sects a-goin' nowadays for
me. I was brought up good old-fashioned Methodist, but this very mornin'
in the depot I was speakin' with a stranger that said she was a
Calvin-Advent, and they was increasin' fast. She did 'pear as well as
anybody; a nice appearin' woman. Well, there's room for all."
Betty was forced to smile, and tried to hide her face by looking out of
the window. Just then the conductor kindly appeared, and so she pulled
her face straight again.
"Ain't got no brothers an' sisters?" asked the funny old soul.
"No," said Betty. "Papa and I are all alone."
"Mother ain't livin'?" and the kind homely face turned quickly toward
her.
"She died when I was a baby."
"My sakes, how you talk! You don't feel to miss her, but she would have
set everything by you." (There was something truly affectionate in the
way this was said.) "All my child'n are married off," she continued.
"The house seems too big now. I do' know but what, if you don't like
where you're goin', I will take ye in, long's you feel to stop."
"Oh, thank you," said Betty gratefully. "I'm sure I should have a good
time. I'm going to stay with my grandaunts this summer. My father has
gone to Alaska."
"Oh, I do feel to hope it's by sea!" exclaimed the listener.
The cars rattled along and the country grew greener and greener. Betty
remembered it very well, although she had not seen it for four years, so
long it was since she had been in Tideshead before. After seeing the
stonewalled and thatched or tiled roofs of foreign countries, the wooden
buildings of New England had a fragile look as if the wind and rain
would soon spoil and scatter them. The villages and everything but some
of the very oldest farms looked so new and so temporary that Betty
Leicester was much surprised, knowing well that she was going through
some of the very oldest New England towns. She had a delightful sense of
getting home again, which would have pleased her loyal father, and
indeed Betty herself believed that she could not be proud enough of her
native land. Papa always said the faults of a young country were so much
better than the faults of an old one. However, when the train crossed a
bridge near a certain harbor on the way and the young traveler saw an
English flag flying on a ship, it looked very pleasant and familiar.
The morning was growing hot, and the good seafarer in the seat beside
our friend seemed to grow very uncomfortable. Her dress was too thick,
and she was trying to hold on her bonnet with her chin, though it
slipped back farther and farther. Somehow a great many women in the car
looked very warm and wretched in thick woolen gowns and unsteady
bonnets. Nobody looked as if she were out on a pleasant holiday except
one neighbor, a brisk little person with a canary bird and an Indian
basket, out of which she now and then let a kitten's head appear, long
enough to be patted and then tucked back again.
Betty's companion caught sight of this smiling neighbor after a time and
expressed herself as surprised that anybody should take the trouble to
cart a kitten from town to town, when there were two to every empty
saucer already. Betty laughed and supposed that she didn't like cats,
and was answered gruffly that they were well enough in their place. It
was one of our friend's griefs that she never was sure of being long
enough in one place to keep a kitten of her own, but the pleasant
thought came that she was almost sure to find some at Aunt Barbara's
where she was going.
It was not time to feel hungry, but Betty caught sight of a paper box
which the waiter had brought to the carriage just as she was leaving the
hotel. She was having a hot and dusty search under the car-seat for the
sailor woman's purse, which had suddenly gone overboard from the upper
deck of her wide lap, but it was found at last, and Betty produced the
luncheon-box too and opened it. Her new friend looked on with deep
interest. "I'm only goin's far as Newburyport," she explained eagerly,
"so I'm not provided."
"Papa knew that I should be hungry by noon," said Betty. "We always try
not to get too hungry when we are traveling because one gets so much
more tired. I always carry some chocolate in my bag."
"I expect you've had sights of experience. You ain't be'n kep' short,
that's plain. They ain't many young gals looks so rugged. Enjoy good
health, dear, don't ye?" which Betty answered with enthusiasm.
The luncheon looked very inviting and Betty offered a share most
hospitably, and in spite of its only being a quarter before eleven when
the feast began, the chicken sandwiches entirely disappeared. There were
only four, and half a dozen small sponge-cakes which proved to be
somewhat dry and unattractive.
"I only laid in a light breakfast," apologized Betty's guest. "I'm
obliged to you, I'm sure, but then I wa' n't nigh so hungry as when I
got adrift once, in an open boat, for two days and a night, and they
give me up"--
But at this moment the train man shouted "Newburyport," as if there were
not a minute to be lost, and the good soul gathered her possessions in
a great hurry, dropping her purse again twice, and letting fall bits of
broken sentences with it from which Betty could gather only "The fog
come in," and "coast o' France," and then, as they said good-by, "'t was
so divertin' ridin' along that I took no note of stoppin'." After they
had parted affectionately, she stood for a minute or two at the door of
the still moving train, nodding and bobbing her kind old head at her
young fellow-passenger whenever they caught each other's eye. Betty was
sorry to lose this new friend so soon, and felt more lonely than ever.
She wished that they had known each other's names, and especially that
there had been time to hear the whole of the boat story.
Now that there was no one else in the car seat it seemed to be a good
time to look over some things in the pretty London traveling bag, which
had been pushed under its owner's feet until then. Betty found a small
bit of chocolate for herself by way of dessert to the early luncheon,
and made an entry in a tidy little account book which she meant to keep
carefully until she should be with papa again. It was a very
interesting bag, with a dressing-case fitted into it and a writing case,
all furnished with glass and ivory and silver fittings and yet very
plain, and nice, and convenient. Betty's dear friend, Mrs. Duncan, had
given it to her that very spring, before she thought of coming to
America, and on the voyage it had been worth its weight in gold. Out of
long experience the young traveler had learned not to burden herself
with too many things, but all her belongings had some pleasant
associations: her button-hook was bought in Amsterdam, and a queer
little silver box for buttons came from a village very far north in
Norway, while a useful jackknife had been found in Spain, although it
bore J. Crookes of Sheffield's name on the haft. Somehow the traveling
bag itself brought up Mrs. Duncan's dear face, and Betty's eyes
glistened with tears for one moment. The Duncan girls were her best
friends, and she had had lessons with them for many months at a time in
the last few years, so they had the strong bond in friendship of having
worked as well as played together. But Mrs. Duncan had been very
motherly and dear to our friend, and just now seemed nearer and more
helpful than ever. The train whistled along and the homesick feeling
soon passed, though Betty remembered that Mrs. Duncan had said once that
wherever you may put two persons one is always hostess and the other
always guest, either from circumstances alone or from their different
natures, and they must be careful about their duties to each other.
Betty had not quite understood this when she heard it said, though the
words had stayed in her mind. Now the meaning flashed clearly into her
thought, and she was pleased to think that she had just now been the one
who knew most about traveling. She wished so much that she could have
been of more use to the old lady, but after all she seemed to have a
good little journey, and Betty hoped that she could remember all about
this droll companion when she was writing, at her own journey's end, to
papa.
II.
THE PACKET BOAT.
THE day was one of the best days in June, with warm sunshine and a cool
breeze from the east, for when Betty Leicester stepped from a hot car to
the station platform in Riverport the air had a delicious sea-flavor.
She wondered for a moment what this flavor was like, and then thought of
a salt oyster. She was hungry and tired, the journey had been longer
than she expected, and, as she made her way slowly through the crowded
station and was pushed about by people who were hurrying out of or into
the train, she felt unusually disturbed and lonely. Betty had traveled
far and wide for a girl of fifteen, but she had seldom been alone, and
was used to taking care of other people. Papa himself was very apt to
forget important minor details, and she had learned out of her loving
young heart to remember them, and was not without high ambitions to
make their journeys as comfortable as possible. Still, she and her
father had almost always been together, and Betty wondered if it had not
after all been foolish to make a certain decision which involved not
seeing him again until a great many weeks had gone by.
The cars moved away and the young traveler went to the ticket-office to
ask about the Tideshead train. The ticket-agent looked at her with a
smile.
"Train's gone half an hour ago!" he said, as if he were telling Betty
some good news. "There'll be another one at eight o'clock to-morrow
morning, and the express goes, same as to-day, at half past one. I
suppose you want to go to Tideshead town; this road only goes to the
junction and then there's a stage, you know." He looked at Betty
doubtfully and as if he expected an instant decision on her part as to
what she meant to do next.
"I knew that there was a stage," she answered, feeling a little alarmed,
but hoping that she did not show it. "The time-table said there was a
train to meet this"--
"Oh, that train is an express now and doesn't stop. Everything's got to
be sacrificed to speed."
The ticket-agent had turned his back and was looking over some papers
and grumbling to himself, so that Betty could no longer hear what he was
pleased to say. As she left the window an elderly man, whose face was
very familiar, was standing in the doorway.
"Well, ma'am, you an' I 'pear to have got left. Tideshead, you said, if
I rightly understood?"
"Perhaps there is somebody who would drive us there," said Betty. She
never had been called ma'am before, and it was most surprising. "It
isn't a great many miles, is it?"
"No, no!" said the new acquaintance. "I was in considerable of a hurry
to get home, but 't isn't so bad as you think. We can go right up on the
packet, up river, you know; get there by supper-time; the wind's hauling
round into the east a little. I understood you to speak about getting to
Tideshead?"
"Yes," said Betty, gratefully.
"Got a trunk, I expect. Well, I'll go out and look round for Asa Chick
and his han'cart, and we'll make for the wharf as quick as we can. You
may step this way."
Betty "stepped" gladly, and Asa Chick and the handcart soon led the way
riverward through the pleasant old-fashioned streets of Riverport. Her
new friend pointed out one or two landmarks as they hurried along, for,
strange to say, although a sea-captain, he was not sure whether the tide
turned at half past two or at half past three. When they came to the
river-side, however, the packet-boat was still made fast to the pier,
and nothing showed signs of her immediate departure.
"It is always a good thing to be in time," said the captain, who found
himself much too warm and nearly out of breath. "Now, we've got a good
hour to wait. Like to go right aboard, my dear?"
Betty paid Asa Chick, and then turned to see the packet. It was a queer,
heavy-looking craft, with a short, thick mast and high, pointed
lateen-sail, half unfurled and dropping in heavy pocket-like loops.
There was a dark low cabin and a long deck; a very old man and a fat,
yellow dog seemed to be the whole ship's company. The old man was
smoking a pipe and took no notice of anything, but the dog rose slowly
to his feet and came wagging his tail and looking up at the new
passenger.
"I do' know but I'll coast round up into the town a little," said the
captain. "'T ain't no use asking old Mr. Plunkett there any questions,
he's deef as a ha'dick."
"Will my trunk be safe?" asked Betty; to which the captain answered that
he would put it right aboard for her. It was not a very heavy trunk, but
the captain managed it beautifully, and put Betty's hand-bag and wrap
into the dark cabin. Old Plunkett nodded as he saw this done, and the
captain said again that Betty might feel perfectly safe about
everything; but, for all that, she refused to take a walk in order to
see what was going on in the town, as she was kindly invited to do. She
went a short distance by herself, however, and came first to a bakery,
where she bought some buns, not so good as the English ones, but still
very good buns indeed, and two apples, which the baker's wife told her
had grown in her own garden. You could see the tree out of the back
window, by which the hospitable woman had left her sewing, and they
were, indeed, well-kept and delicious apples for that late season of
the year. Betty lingered for some minutes in the pleasant shop. She was
very hungry, and the buns were all the better for that. She looked
through a door and saw the oven, but the baking was all done for the
day. The baker himself was out in his cart; he had just gone up to
Tideshead. Here was another way in which one might have gone to
Tideshead by land; it would have been good fun to go on the baker's cart
and stop in the farm-house yards and see everybody; but on the whole
there was more adventure in going by water. Papa had always told Betty
that the river was beautiful. She did not remember much about it
herself, but this would be a fine way of getting a first look at so
large a part of the great stream.
It was slack water now, and the wharf seemed high, and the landing-stage
altogether too steep and slippery. When Betty reached the packet's deck,
old Mr. Plunkett was sound asleep; but while she was eating her buns the
dog came most good-naturedly and stood before her, cocking his head
sideways, and putting on a most engaging expression, so that they
lunched together, and Betty left off nearly as hungry as she began. The
old dog knew an apple when he saw it, and was disappointed after the
last one was brought out from Betty's pocket, and lay down at her feet
and went to sleep again. Betty got into the shade of the wharf and sat
there looking down at the flounders and sculpins in the clear water, and
at the dripping green sea-weeds on the piles of the wharf. She was
almost startled when a heavy wagon was driven on the planks above, and a
man shouted suddenly to the horses. Presently some barrels of flour were
rolled down and put on deck--twelve of them in all--by a man and boy who
gave her, the young stranger, a careful glance every time they turned to
go back. Then a mowing-machine arrived, and was carefully put on board
with a great deal of bustle and loud talking. There was somebody on
deck, now, whom Betty believed to be the packet's skipper, and after a
while the old captain returned. He seated himself by Mr. Plunkett and
shook hands with him warmly, and asked him for the news; but there did
not seem to be any.
"I've been up to see my wife's cousin Jake Hallet's folks," he
explained, "and I thought sure I'd get left," and old Plunkett nodded
soberly. They did not sail for at least half an hour after this, and
Betty sat discreetly on the low cabin roof next the wharf all the time.
When they were out in the stream at last she could get a pretty view of
the town. There was some shipping farther down the shore, and some tall
steeples and beautiful trees and quaintly built warehouses; it was very
pleasant, looking back at it from the water.
A little past the middle of the afternoon they moved steadily up the
river. The men all sat together in a group at the stern, and appeared to
find a great deal to talk about. Old Mr. Plunkett may have thought that
Betty looked lonely, for after he waked for the second time he came over
to where she sat and nodded to her; so Betty nodded back, and then the
old man reached for her umbrella, which was very pretty, with a round
piece of agate in the handle, and looked at it and rubbed it with his
thumb, and gave it back to her. "Present to ye?" he asked, and Betty
nodded assent. Then old Plunkett went away again, but she felt a sense
of his kind companionship. She wondered whom she must pay for her
passage and how much it would be, but it was no use to ask so deaf a
fellow-passenger. He had put on a great pair of spectacles and was
walking round her trunk, apparently much puzzled by the battered labels
of foreign hotels and railway stations.
Betty thought that she had seldom seen half so pleasant a place as this
New England river. She kept longing that her father could see it, too.
As they went up from the town the shores grew greener and greener, and
there were some belated apple-trees still in bloom, and the farm-houses
were so old and stood so pleasantly toward the southern sunshine that
they looked as if they might have grown like the apple-trees and willows
and elms. There were great white clouds in the blue sky; the air was
delicious. Betty could make out at last that old Mr. Plunkett was the
skipper's father, that Captain Beck was an old shipmaster and a former
acquaintance of her own, and that the flour and some heavy boxes
belonged to one store-keeping passenger with a long sandy beard, and the
mowing-machine to the other, who was called Jim Foss, and that he was a
farmer. He was a great joker and kept making everybody laugh. Old Mr.
Plunkett laughed too, now that he was wide awake, but it was only
through sympathy; he seemed to be a very kind old man. One by one all
the men came and looked at the trunk labels, and they all asked whether
Betty hadn't been considerable of a traveler, or some question very much
like it. At last the captain came with Captain Beck to collect the
passage money, which proved to be thirty-seven cents.
"Where did you say you was goin' to stop in Tideshead?" asked Captain
Beck.
"I'm going to Miss Leicester's. Don't you remember me? Aren't you Mary
Beck's grandfather? I'm Betty Leicester."
"Toe be sure, toe be sure," said the old gentleman, much pleased. "I
wonder that I had not thought of you at first, but you have grown as
much as little Mary has. You're getting to be quite a young woman.
Command me," said the shipmaster, making a handsome bow. "I am glad that
I fell in with you. I see your father's looks, now. The ladies had a
hard fight some years ago to keep him from running off to sea with me.
He's been a great traveler since then, hasn't he?" to which Betty
responded heartily, again feeling as if she were among friends. The
storekeeper offered to take her trunk right up the hill in his wagon,
when they got to the Tideshead landing, and on the whole it was
delightful that the trains had been changed just in time for her to take
this pleasant voyage.
III.
A BIT OF COLOR.
BETTY had seen strange countries since her last visit to Tideshead. Then
she was only a child, but now she was so tall that strangers treated her
as if she were already a young lady. At fifteen one does not always know
just where to find one's self. A year before it was hard to leave
childish things alone, but there soon came a time when they seemed to
have left Betty, while one by one the graver interests of life were
pushing themselves forward. It was reasonable enough that she should be
taking care of herself; and, as we have seen, she knew how better than
most girls of her age. Her father's rough journey to the far North had
been decided upon suddenly; Mr. Leicester and Betty had been comfortably
settled at Lynton in Devonshire for the summer, with a comfortable
prospect of some charming excursions and a good bit of work on papa's
new scientific book. Betty was used to sudden changes of their plans,
but it was a hard trial when he had come back from London one day,
filled with enthusiasm about the Alaska business.
"The only thing against it is that I don't know what to do with you,
Betty dear," said papa, with a most wistful but affectionate glance.
"Perhaps you would like to go to Switzerland with the Duncans? You know
they were very anxious that I should lend you for a while."
"I will think about it," said Betty, trying to smile, but she could not
talk any more just then. She didn't believe that the hardships of this
new journey were too great; it was papa who minded dust and hated the
care of railway rugs and car-tickets, not she. But she gave him a kiss
and hurried out through the garden and went as fast as she could along
the lonely long cliff-walk above the sea, to think the sad matter over.
That evening Betty came down to dinner with a serene face. She looked
more like a young lady than she ever had before. "I have quite decided
what I should like to do," she said. "Please let me go home with you
and stay in Tideshead with Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary. They speak about
seeing us in their letters, and I should be nearer where you are going."
Betty's brave voice failed her for a moment just there.
"Why, Betty, what a wise little woman you are!" said Mr. Leicester,
looking very much pleased. "That's exactly right. I was thinking about
the dear souls as I came from town, and promised myself that I would run
down for a few days before I go North. That is, if you say I may go!"
and he looked seriously at Betty.
"Yes," answered Betty slowly; "yes, I am sure you may, papa dear, if you
will be very, very careful."
They had a beloved old custom of papa's asking his girl's leave to do
anything that was particularly important. In Betty's baby-days she had
reproved him for going out one morning. "Who said you might go, Master
Papa?" demanded the little thing severely; and it had been a dear bit of
fun to remember the old story from time to time ever since. Betty's
mother had died before she could remember; the two who were left were
most dependent upon each other.
You will see how Betty came to have care-taking ways and how she had
learned to think more than most girls about what it was best to do. You
will understand how lonely she felt in this day or two when the story
begins. Mr. Leicester was too much hurried after all when he reached
America, and could not go down to Tideshead for a few days' visit, as
they had both hoped and promised. And here, at last, was Betty going up
the long village street with Captain Beck for company. She had not seen
Tideshead for four years, but it looked exactly the same. There was the
great, square, white house, with the poplars and lilac bushes. There
were Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary sitting in the wide hall doorway as if
they had never left their high-backed chairs since she saw them last.
"Who is this coming up the walk?" said Aunt Barbara, rising and turning
toward her placid younger sister in sudden excitement. "It can't
be--why, yes, it is Betty, after all!" and she hurried down the steps.
"Grown out of all reason, of course!" she said sharply, as she kissed
the surprising grandniece, and then held her at arm's-length to look at
her again most fondly. "Where did you find her, Captain Beck? We sent
over to the train; in fact, I went myself with Jonathan, but we were
disappointed. Your father always telegraphs two or three times before he
really gets here, Betty; but you have not brought him, after all."
"We had to come up river by the packet," said Captain Beck; "the young
lady's had quite a voyage; her sea-chest'll be here directly."
The captain left Betty's traveling-bag on the great stone doorstep, and
turned to go away, but Betty thanked him prettily for his kindness, and
said that she had spent a delightful afternoon. She was now warmly
kissed and hugged by Aunt Mary, who looked much younger than Aunt
Barbara, and she saw two heads appear at the end of the long hall.
"There are Serena and Letty; you must run and speak to them. They have
been looking forward to seeing you," suggested Aunt Barbara, who seemed
to see everything at once; but when Betty went that way nobody was to
be found until she came to the kitchen, where Serena and Letty were, or
pretended to be, much surprised at her arrival. They were now bustling
about to get Betty some supper, and she frankly confessed that she was
very hungry, which seemed to vastly please the good women.
"What in the world shall we do with her?" worried Aunt Mary, while Betty
was gone. "I had no idea she would seem so well grown. She used to be
small for her age, you know, sister."
"Do? do?" answered Miss Barbara Leicester sternly. "If she can't take
care of herself by this time, she never will know how. Tom Leicester
should have let her stay here altogether, instead of roaming about the
world with him, or else have settled himself down in respectable
fashion. I can't get on with teasing children at my age. I'm sure I'm
glad she's well grown. She mustn't expect us to turn out of our ways,"
grumbled Aunt Barbara, who had the kindest heart in the world, and was
listening anxiously every minute for Betty's footsteps.
It was very pleasant to be safe in the old house at last. The young
guest did not feel any sense of strangeness. She used to be afraid of
Aunt Barbara when she was a child, but she was not a bit afraid now; and
Aunt Mary, who seemed a very lovely person then, was now a little bit
tiresome,--or else Betty herself was tired and did not find it easy to
listen.
After supper; and it was such a too-good supper, with pound-cakes, and
peach jam, and crisp shortcakes, and four tall silver candlesticks, and
Betty being asked to her great astonishment if she would take tea and
meekly preferring some milk instead; they came back to the doorway. The
moon had come up, and the wide lawn in front of the house (which the
ladies always called the yard) was almost as light as day. The syringa
bushes were in full bloom and fragrance, and other sweet odors filled
the air beside. There were two irreverent little dogs playing and
chasing each other on the wide front walk and bustling among the box and
borders. Betty could hear the voices of people who drove by, or walked
along the sidewalk, but Tideshead village was almost as still as the
fields outside the town. She answered all the questions that the aunts
kindly asked her for conversation's sake, and she tried to think of ways
of seeming interested in return.
"Can I climb the cherry-tree this summer, Aunt Barbara?" she asked once.
"Don't you remember the day when there was a tea company of ladies here,
and Mary Beck and I got some of the company's bonnets and shawls off the
best bed and dressed up in them and climbed up in the trees?"
"You looked like two fat black crows," laughed Aunt Barbara, though she
had been very angry at the time. "All the fringes of those thin best
shawls were catching and snapping as you came down. Oh, dear me, I
couldn't think what the old ladies would say. None of your mischief now,
Miss Betty!" and she held up a warning forefinger. "Mary Beck is coming
to see you to-morrow; you will find some pleasant girls here."
"Tideshead has always been celebrated for its cultivated society, you
know, dear," added Aunt Mary.
Just now a sad feeling of loneliness began to assail Betty. The summer
might be very long in passing, and anything might happen to papa. She
put her hand into her pocket to have the comfort of feeling a crumpled
note, a very dear short note, which papa had written her only the day
before, when he had suddenly decided to go out to Cambridge and not come
back to the hotel for luncheon.
They talked a little longer, Betty and the grandaunts, until sensible
Aunt Barbara said, "Now run up-stairs to bed, my dear; I am sure that
you must be tired," and Betty, who usually begged to stay up as long as
the grown folks, was glad for once to be sent away like a small child.
Aunt Barbara marched up the stairway and led the way to the east
bedroom. It was an astonishing tribute of respect to Betty, the young
guest, and she admired such large-minded hospitality; but after all she
had expected a comfortable snug little room next Aunt Mary's, where she
had always slept years before. Aunt Barbara assured her that this one
was much cooler and pleasanter, and she must remember what a young lady
she had grown to be. "But you may change to some other room if you like,
my dear child," said the old lady kindly. "I wouldn't unpack to-night,
but just go to bed and get rested. I have my breakfast at half past
seven, but your Aunt Mary doesn't come down. I hope that you will be
ready as early as that, for I like company;" and then, after seeing that
everything was in order and comfortable, she kissed Betty twice most
kindly and told her that she was thankful to have her come to them, and
went away downstairs.
It was a solemn, big, best bedroom, with dark India-silk curtains to the
bed and windows, and dull coverings on the furniture. This all looked as
if there were pretty figures and touches of gay color by daylight, but
now by the light of the two candles on the dressing-table it seemed a
dim and dismal place that night. Betty was not a bit afraid; she only
felt lonely. She was but fifteen years old, and she did not know how to
get on by herself after all. But Betty was no coward. She had been
taught to show energy and to make light of difficulties. What could she
do? Why, unpack a little, and then go to bed and go to sleep; that would
be the best thing.
She knelt down before her trunk, and had an affectionate feeling toward
it as she turned the key and saw her familiar properties inside. She
took out her pictures of her father and mother and Mrs. Duncan, and
shook out a crumpled dress or two and left them to lie on the old couch
until morning. Deep down in the sea-chest, as Captain Beck had called
it, she felt the soft folds of a gay piece of Indian silk made like a
little shawl, which papa had pleased himself with buying for her one day
at Liberty's shop in London. Mrs. Duncan had laughed when she saw it,
and told Betty not to dare to wear it for at least ten years; but the
color of it was marvelous in the shadowy old room. Betty threw the
shining red thing over the back of a great easy-chair and it seemed to
light the whole place. She could not help feeling more cheerful for the
sight of that gay bit of color. Then a great wish filled her heart, dear
little Betty; perhaps she could really bring some new pleasure to
Tideshead that summer! The old aunties' lives looked very gray and dull
to her young eyes; it was a dull place, perhaps, for Betty, who had
lived a long time where the brightest and busiest people were. The last
thing she thought of before she fell asleep was the little silk shawl.
She had often heard artistic people say "a bit of color;" now she had a
new idea, though a dim one, of what a bit of color might be expected to
do in every-day life. Good-night, Betty. Good-night, dear Betty, in your
best bedroom, sound asleep all the summer night and dreaming of those
you love!
IV.
TIDESHEAD.
HOWEVER old and responsible Betty Leicester felt overnight, she seemed
to return to early childhood in spite of herself next day. She must see
the old house again and chatter with Aunt Barbara about the things and
people she remembered best. She looked all about the garden, and spent
an hour in the kitchen talking to Serena and Letty while they worked
there, and then she went out to see Jonathan and a new acquaintance
called Seth Pond, an awkward young man, who took occasion to tell Betty
that he had come from way up-country where there was plenty greener'n he
was. There were a great many interesting things to see and hear in
Jonathan's and Seth's domains, and Betty found the remains of one of her
own old cubby-holes in the shed-chamber, and was touched to the heart
when she found that it had never been cleared away. She had known so
many places and so many people that it was almost startling to find
Tideshead looking and behaving exactly the same, while she had changed
so much. The garden was a most lovely place, with its long, vine-covered
summer-house, and just now all the roses were in bloom. Here was that
cherry-tree into which she and Mary Beck had climbed, decked in the
proper black shawls and bonnets and black lace veils. But where could
dear Becky be all the morning? They had been famous cronies in that last
visit, when they were eleven years old. Betty hurried into the house to
find her hat and tell Aunt Barbara where she was going.
Aunt Barbara took the matter into serious consideration. "Why, Mary will
come to see you this afternoon, I don't doubt, my dear, and perhaps you
had better wait until after dinner. They dine earlier than we, and are
apt to be busy."
Betty turned away disappointed. She wished that she had thought to find
Mary just after breakfast in their friendly old fashion, but it was too
late now. She would sit down at the old secretary in the library and
begin a letter to papa.
"Dear Papa," she wrote, "Here I am at Tideshead, and I feel just as I
used when I was a little girl, but people treat me, even Mary Beck, as
if I were grown up, and it is a little lonely just at first. Everything
looks just the same, and Serena made me some hearts and rounds for
supper; wasn't she kind to remember? And they put on the old silver mug
that you used to have, for me to drink out of. And I like Aunt Barbara
best of the two aunts, after all, which is sure to make you laugh,
though Aunt Mary is very kind and seems ill, so that I mean to be as
nice to her as I possibly can. They seemed to think that you were going
off just as far as you possibly could without going to a star, and it
made me miss you more than ever. Jonathan talked about politics, whether
I listened or not, and didn't like it when I said that you believed in
tariff reform. He really scolded and said the country would go to the
dogs, and I was sorry that I knew so little about politics. People
expect you to know so many new things with every inch you grow. Dear
papa, I wish that I were with you. Remember not to smoke too often, even
if you wish to very much; and please, dear papa, think very often that
I am your only dear child,
BETTY.
"P. S.--I miss you more because they are all so much older than we are,
papa dear. Perhaps you will tell me about the tariff reform for a lesson
letter when you can't think of anything else to write about. I have not
seen Mary Beck yet, or any of the girls I used to know. Mary always came
right over before. I must tell you next time about such a funny, nice
old woman who came most of the way with me in the cars, and what will
you think when I tell you the most important thing,--I had to come up
river on the packet! I wished and wished for you.
BETTY."
Dinner-time was very pleasant, and Aunt Mary, who first appeared then,
was most kind and cheerful; but both the ladies took naps, after dinner
was over and they had read their letters, so Betty went to her own room,
meaning to put away her belongings; but Letty had done this beforehand,
and the large room looked very comfortable and orderly. Aunt Barbara had
smiled when another protest was timidly offered about the best bedroom,
and told Betty that it was pleasant to have her just across the hall. "I
am well used to my housekeeping cares," added Aunt Barbara, with a funny
look across the table at her young niece; and Betty thought again, how
much she liked this grandaunt.
The house was very quiet and she did not know exactly what to do, so she
looked about the guest-chamber.
There were some quaint-looking silhouettes on the walls of the room, and
in a deep oval frame a fine sort of ornament which seemed to be made of
beautiful grasses and leaves, all covered with glistening crystals. The
dust had crept in a little at one side. Betty remembered it well, and
always thought it very interesting. Then there were two old engravings
of Angelica Kauffmann and Madame Le Brun. Nothing pleased her so much,
however, as papa's bright little shawl. It looked brighter than ever,
and Letty had folded it and left it on the old chair.
Just then there came a timid rap or two with the old knocker on the
hall-door. It was early for visitors, and the aunts were both in their
rooms. Betty went out to see what could be done about so exciting a
thing, and met quick-footed Letty, who had been close at hand in the
dining-room.
"'Tis Miss Mary Beck come to call upon you, Miss Betty," said Letty,
with an air of high festivity, and Betty went quickly downstairs. She
was brimful of gladness to see Mary Beck, and went straight toward her
in the shaded parlor to kiss her and tell her so.
Mary Beck was sitting on the edge of a chair, and was dressed as if she
were going to church, with a pair of tight shiny best gloves on and
shiny new boots, which hurt her feet if Betty had only known it. She
wore a hat that looked too small for her head, and had a queer, long,
waving bird-of-paradise feather in it, and a dress that was much too old
for her, and of a cold, smooth, gray color, trimmed with a shade of
satin that neither matched it nor made a contrast. She had grown to be
even taller than Betty, and she looked uncomfortable, and as if she had
been forced to come. That was a silly, limp shake of the hand with which
she returned Betty's warm grasp. Oh dear, it was evidently a dreadful
thing to go to make a call! It had been an anxious, discouraged
getting-ready, and Betty thought of the short, red-cheeked, friendly
little Becky whom she used to play with, and was grieved to the heart.
But she bravely pushed a chair close to the guest and sat down. She
could not get over the old feeling of affection.
"I thought you would be over here long ago. I ought to have gone to see
you. Why, you're more grown up than I am; isn't it too bad?" said Betty,
feeling afraid that one or the other of them might cry, they were both
blushing so deeply and the occasion was so solemn.
"Oh, do let's play in the shed-chamber all day to-morrow!"
And then they both laughed as hard as they could, and there was the dear
old Mary Beck after all, and a tough bit of ice was forever broken.
Betty threw open the parlor blinds, regardless of Serena's feelings
about flies, and the two friends spent a delightful hour together. The
call ended in Mary's being urged to go home to take off her best gown
and put on an every-day one, and away they went afterward for a long
walk.