member already of this branch of the great secret society of girls.
"Oh, nothing; we hardly ever do anything," answered Mary Beck, with a
surprised and uneasy glance. "It is so slow in Tideshead, everybody
says."
"I suppose it is slow anywhere if we don't do anything about it,"
laughed Betty, so good-naturedly that Mary laughed too. "I like to play
out-of-doors just as well as ever I did, don't you?"
Mary Beck gave a somewhat doubtful answer. She had dreaded this
ceremonious call. She could not quite understand why Betty Leicester,
who had traveled abroad and done so many things and had, as people say,
such unusual advantages, should seem the same as ever, and only wear
that plain, comfortable-looking little gingham dress.
"When my other big trunk comes there are some presents I brought over
for you," confessed Betty shyly. "I have had to keep one of them a long
time because papa has always been saying every year that we were sure to
come to Tideshead, and then we haven't after all."
"He has been here two or three times," said Mary. "I saw him go by and I
wanted to run out and ask him about you, but I was afraid to"--
"Afraid of papa? What a funny thing! You never would be if you really
knew him," exclaimed Betty, with delighted assurance. She laughed
heartily and stopped to lean against a stone wall, and gave Mary Beck a
little push which was meant to express a great deal of affection and
amusement. Then she forgot everything in looking at the beautiful view
across the farms and the river and toward the great hills and mountains
beyond.
"I knew you would think it was pretty here," said Mary. "I have always
thought that when you came back I would bring you here first. I liked to
call this our tree," she said shyly, looking up into the great oak
branches. "It seems so strange to be here with you, at last, after all
the times I have thought about it"--
Betty was touched by this bit of real sentiment. She was thankful from
that moment that she was going to spend most of the summer in Tideshead.
Here was the best of good things,--a real friend, who had been waiting
for her all the time.
V.
AT BECKY'S HOUSE.
WHEN the happy Becky flew in to free herself from her Sunday clothes she
did not meet either member of her family, but on her return from the
walk she found her mother grimly getting the supper ready.
"Oh, I have had such a lovely time," cried Becky, brimful of the
pleasure of Betty's return. "She is just the same as she used to be,
exactly; only grown like everything. And I saw Miss Barbara Leicester,
and she was lovely and asked me to stay to tea, and Betty did too, but I
didn't know whether you would like it."
"I am going to have her come and take tea with us as soon as I can, but
I don't see how to manage it this week," said Mrs. Beck complainingly.
"I have so much to do every day that I dread having company. What made
you put on that spotted old dress? I don't know what she could have
thought, I'm sure. If you wanted to take off your best one, why didn't
you put on your satine?"
"Oh, I don't know, mother!" answered Becky fretfully. "Betty had on a
gingham dress, and she said I couldn't get over the fences in my best
one, and I didn't think it made any difference."
"Well, no matter," said Mrs. Beck sighing, "they saw you dressed up
decently at first. I think you girls are too old to climb fences and be
tomboys, for my part. When I was growing up, young ladies were expected
to interest themselves in things at home."
The good cheer of the afternoon served Becky in good stead. She was
already helping her mother with the table, and was sorry in a more
understanding way than ever before for the sad-looking little woman in
black, who got so few real pleasures out of life. "Betty Leicester says
that we can have this one summer more any way before we are really grown
up," she suggested, and Mrs. Beck smiled and hoped they would enjoy it,
but they couldn't keep time back do what they might.
"Did she show you anything she brought home, Mary?"
"No, not a single thing; we were out-doors almost all the time after I
made the call, but she says she has brought me some presents."
"I wonder what they are?" said Mrs. Beck, much pleased. "There's one
thing about the Leicesters, they are all generous where they take a
liking. But then, they have got plenty to do with; everybody hasn't. You
might have stayed to tea, I suppose, if they wanted you, but I wouldn't
run after them."
"Why mother!" exclaimed honest Becky. "Betty Leicester and I always
played together; it isn't running after her to expect to be friends just
the same now. Betty always comes here oftenest; she said she was coming
right over."
"I want you to show proper pride," said the mistaken mother. It would
have been so much better to let the two girls go their own unsuspecting
ways. But poor little Mrs. Beck had suffered many sorrows and
disappointments, and had not learned yet that such lessons ought to make
one's life larger instead of smaller.
Mary's eyes were shining with delight in spite of her mother's plaintive
discouragements, and now as they both turned away from the plain little
supper-table, she took hold of her hand and held it fast as they went
out to the kitchen together. They very seldom indulged in any signs of
affection, but there was a very happy feeling roused by Betty
Leicester's coming. "Oh good! drop-cakes for tea!" and Mary capered a
little to show how pleased she was. "I wish I had asked her to come home
with me, she always used to eat so many of our drop-cakes when she was a
little girl; don't you remember, mother?"
"Yes; but you mustn't expect her to be the same now," answered Mrs.
Beck. "She is used to having things very different, and we can't do as
we could if father had lived."
"Grandpa says nobody has things as nice as you do," said Mary, trying to
make the sun shine again. "I know Betty will eat more drop-cakes than
ever, just because she can hold so many more. She'll be glad of that,
now you see, mother!" and Mrs. Beck gave a faint smile.
That very evening there were quick steps up the yard toward the side
door, and Betty opened the door and came in to the Becks' sitting-room.
She stopped a moment on the threshold, it all looked so familiar. Becky
had grown, as we know; that was the only change, and the old captain sat
reading his newspaper as usual, with a small lamp held close against it
in his right hand; Mrs. Beck was sewing, and on the wall hung the
picture of Daniel Webster and the portraits in watercolors of two of the
captain's former ships. Betty spoke to Captain Beck with an air of
intimacy and then went over to Becky's mother, who stood there with a
pale apprehensive look as if she thought there was no chance of
anybody's being glad to see _her_. However, Betty kissed her warmly and
said she was so glad to get back to Tideshead, and then displayed a
white paper bundle which she had held under her wrap. It looked like
presents!
"Aunt Barbara had to write some letters for the early mail and Aunt Mary
was resting, so I thought I would run over for a few minutes," said the
eager girl. "My big trunk came this afternoon, Becky."
"How is your Aunt Mary to-day?" asked Mrs. Beck ceremoniously, though a
light crept into her face which may have been a reflection from her
daughter's broad smile.
"Oh, she is just the same as ever," replied Betty sadly. "I believe she
isn't sleeping so well lately, but she looks a great deal better than
when I was a little girl. Aunt Barbara is always so anxious."
"They were surprised, I observed, when you and I came up the street
together last night; quite a voyage we had," said the captain.
"Some day I mean to go down and come back again in the old packet; can't
you go too, Becky?" said our friend. "Captain Beck'll be going again,
won't you, Captain Beck? I didn't look at the river half enough because
I was in such a hurry to get here."
"You're sunburnt, aren't you?" said Mrs. Beck, looking very friendly.
"I'm always brown in summer," acknowledged Betty frankly. "Hasn't Mary
grown like everything? I didn't known how tall I must look until I saw
her. I'm so glad that school is done; I was afraid it wouldn't be."
"She goes to the academy now, you know," said Mrs. Beck. "The term ended
abruptly because the principal's wife met with affliction and they had
to go out of town to her old home."
Betty, it must be confessed, had at this point an instinctive
remembrance of Mrs. Beck's love for dismal tales, so she hastened to
change the subject of conversation. Mrs. Beck was very kind-hearted when
any one was ill or in trouble. Betty herself had a grateful memory of
such devotion when she had a long childish illness once at Aunt
Barbara's, but Mary Beck's mother never seemed to take half the pleasure
in cheerful things and in well people who went about their every-day
affairs. It seemed a good chance now to open the little package of
presents. There were two pretty Roman cravats, and a carved Swiss box
with a quantity of French chocolate in it, and a nice cake of violet
soap, and a pretty ivory pin carved like an edelweiss, like one that
Betty herself wore; for the captain there was a photograph of Bergen
harbor in Norway, with all manner of strange vessels at the wharves.
Then for Mrs. Beck Betty had brought a pretty handkerchief with some
fine embroidery round the edge. It was a charming little heap of things.
"I have been getting them at different times and keeping them until I
came," said Betty.
Mary Beck was delighted, as well she might be, and yet it was very hard
to express any such feeling. Somehow the awkward feeling with which she
went to make the call that afternoon was again making her dreadfully
uncomfortable.
The old captain was friendly and smiling, and Mary and her mother said
"Thank you," a good many times, but Mrs. Beck took half the pleasure
away by a sigh and lament that her girl couldn't make any return.
"It's the best return to be so glad to see each other, Becky!" said
Betty Leicester, suddenly turning to her friend and blushing a good deal
as they kissed one another, while the old captain gave a satisfied
_humph_ and turned to his newspaper again.
Mrs. Beck was really much pleased, and yet was overwhelmed with a
suspicion that Betty thought her ungrateful. She was sorry that if there
were going to be a handkerchief it had not been one with a black border,
but after all this was a pretty one and very fine; it would be just
right for Mary by and by.
The old cat seemed to know the young visitor, and came presently purring
very loud and rubbing against Betty's gown, and was promptly lifted
into her lap for a little patting and cuddling before she must run back
again to the aunts. This cat had been known to Betty as a young kitten,
and she and Becky had sometimes dressed her with a neat white ruffle
about her neck to which they added a doll's dress. She was one of the
limp obliging kittens which make such capital playmates, and the two
girls laughed a great deal now as they reminded each other of certain
frolics that had taken place. Once Mrs. Beck had entertained the
Maternal Meeting in her staid best parlor, and the Busy B's, as the
captain sometimes called them, had dressed the kitten and encouraged her
to enter the room at a most serious moment in the proceedings. Even Mrs.
Beck laughed about it now, though she was very angry at the time. Her
heart seemed to warm more and more, and by the time our friend had gone
she was in really good spirits. Becky must keep the cake of soap in her
upper drawer, she said; nothing gave such a nice clean smell to things.
It seemed to her it was a strange present, but it was nice to have it,
and all the things were pretty; it wasn't likely that any of them were
very expensive.
"Oh mother!" pleaded Becky affectionately; "and then, just think! you
said last night perhaps she hadn't brought me anything, and it had been
out of sight out of mind with her!" Mary was truly fond of her friend,
but she could not help looking at life sometimes from her mother's
carping point of view. It was good for her to be so pleased and happy as
she was that evening, and she looked at her new treasures again and
prudently counted the seventeen little chocolates in their gay papers
twice over before she treated herself to any. She could keep their
little cases even after the chocolates were gone.
Mrs. Beck mended and sewed on buttons long after the captain and Mary
had gone to bed. She could not help feeling happier for Betty
Leicester's coming. She knew that she had been a little grumpy to the
child; but Betty had luckily not been discomforted by it, and had even
thought, as she ran across the street in the dark evening and up the
long front walk, that Becky's mother was not half so disapproving as she
used to be.
VI.
THE GARDEN TEA.
THERE was a gnarled old pear-tree of great age and size that grew near
Betty Leicester's east window. By leaning out a little she could touch
the nearest bough. Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary said that it was a most
beautiful thing to see it in bloom in the spring; and the family cats
were fond of climbing up and leaping across to the window-sill, while
there were usually some birds perching in it when the coast was clear of
pussies.
One day Betty was looking over from Mary Beck's and saw that the east
window and the pear-tree branch were in plain sight; so the two girls
invented a system of signals: one white handkerchief meant _come over_,
and two meant _no_, but a single one in answer was for _yes_. A yellow
handkerchief on the bough proposed a walk; and so the code went on, and
was found capable of imparting much secret information. Sometimes the
exchange of these signals took a far longer time than it did to run
across from house to house, and at any rate in the first fortnight Mary
and Betty spent the greater part of their waking hours together. Still
the signal service, as they proudly called it, was of great use.
One morning, when Mary had been summoned, Betty came rushing to meet
her.
"Aunt Barbara is going to let me have a tea-party. What do you think of
that?" she cried.
Mary Beck looked pleased, and then a doubting look crept over her face.
"I don't know any of the boys and girls very well except you," Betty
explained, "and Aunt Barbara likes the idea of having them come. Aunt
Mary thinks that she can't come down, for the excitement would be too
much for her, but I am going to tease her again as soon as I have time.
It is to be a summer-house tea at six o'clock; it is lovely in the
garden then. Just as soon as I have helped Serena a little longer, you
and I will go to invite everybody. Serena is letting me beat eggs."
It was a great astonishment that Betty should take the serious occasion
so lightly. Mary Beck would have planned it at least a week beforehand,
and have worried and worked and been in despair; but here was Betty as
gay as possible, and as for Aunt Barbara and Serena and Letty, they were
gay too. It was entirely mysterious.
"I have sent word by Jonathan to the Picknell girls; he had an errand on
that road. They looked so old and scared in church last Sunday that I
kept thinking that they ought to have a good time. They don't come in to
the village much, do they?" inquired Betty with great interest.
"Hardly ever, except Sundays," answered Mary Beck. "They turn red if you
only look at them, but they are always talking together when they go by.
One of them can draw beautifully. Oh, of course I go to school with
them, but I don't know them very well."
"I hope they'll come, don't you?" said Betty, whisking away at the eggs.
"I don't know when I've ever been where I could have a little party. I
can have two or three girls to luncheon or tea almost any time,
especially in London, but that's different. Who else now, Becky? Let's
see if we choose the same ones."
"Mary and Julia Picknell, and Mary and Ellen Grant, and Lizzie French,
and George Max, and Frank Crane, and my cousin Jim Beck,--Dan's too
little. They would be eight, and you and I make ten--oh, that's too
many!"
"Dear me, no!" said Betty lightly. "I thought of the Fosters, too"--
"We don't have much to do with the Fosters," said Mary Beck. "I don't
see why that Nelly Foster started up and came to see you. I never go
inside her house now. Everybody despises her father"--
"I think that Nelly is a dear-looking girl," insisted Betty. "I like her
ever so much."
"They acted so stuck-up after Mr. Foster was put in jail," Mary went on.
"People pitied them at first and were carrying about a subscription-paper,
but Mrs. Foster wouldn't take anything, and said that they were going to
support themselves. People don't like Mrs. Foster very well."
"Aunt Barbara respects her very much. She says that few women would
show the courage she has shown. Perhaps she hasn't a nice way of
speaking, but Aunt Barbara said that I must ask Harry and Nelly, when we
were talking about to-night." Betty could not help a tone of triumph;
she and Becky had fought a little about the Fosters before this.
"Harry is just like a wild Indian," said Mary Beck; "he goes fishing and
trapping almost all the time. He won't know what to do at a party. I
believe he makes ever so much money with his fish, and pays bills with
it." Becky relented a little now. "Oh, dear, I haven't anything nice
enough to wear," she added suddenly. "We never have parties in
Tideshead, except at the vestry in the winter; and they're so poky."
"Oh, wear anything; it's going to be hot, that's all," said industrious
Betty, in her business-like checked apron; and it now first dawned upon
Becky's honest mind that it was not worth while to make one's self
utterly miserable about one's clothes.
The two girls went scurrying away like squirrels presently to invite the
guests. Nelly Foster looked delighted at the thought of such a
pleasure.
"But I don't know what Harry will say," she added, doubtfully.
"Please ask him to be sure to come," urged Betty. "I should be so
disappointed, and Aunt Barbara asked me to say that she depended upon
him, for she knows him better than she does almost any of the young
people." Nelly looked radiant at this, but Mary Beck was much offended.
"I go to your Aunt Barbara's oftener than anybody," she said jealously,
as they came away.
"She asked me to say that, and I did," maintained Betty. "Don't be
cross, Becky, it's going to be such a jolly tea-party. Why, here's
Jonathan back again already. Oh, good! the Picknells are happy to come."
The rest of the guests were quickly made sure of, and Betty and
reluctant Mary went back to the house. It made Betty a little
disheartened to find that her friend took every proposition on the wrong
side; she seemed to think most things about a tea-party were impossible,
and that all were difficult, and she saw lions in the way at every turn.
It struck Betty, who was used to taking social events easily, that
there was no pleasuring at all in the old village, though people were
always saying how gay and delightful it _used_ to be and how many guests
_used_ to come to town in the summer.
The old Leicester garden was a lovely place on a summer evening. Aunt
Barbara had been surprised when Betty insisted that she wished to have
supper there instead of in the dining-room; but Betty had known too many
out-of-door feasts in foreign countries not to remember how charming
they were and how small any dining-room seems in summer by contrast. And
after a few minutes' thought, Aunt Barbara, too, who had been in France
long before, asked Serena and Letty to spread the table under the large
cherry-tree near the arbor; and there it stood presently, with its white
cloth, and pink roses in two china bowls, all ready for the sandwiches
and bread and butter and strawberries and sponge-cake, and chocolate to
drink out of the prettiest cups in Tideshead. It was all simple and gay
and charming, the little feast; and full of grievous self-consciousness
as the shyest guest might have been when first met by Betty at the
doorstep, the pleasure of the party itself proved most contagious, and
all fears were forgotten. Everybody met on common ground for once,
without any thought of self. It came with surprise to more than one
girl's mind that a party was really so little trouble. It was such a
pity that somebody did not have one every week.
Aunt Barbara was very good to Harry Foster, who seemed at first much
older and soberer than the rest; but Betty demanded his services when
she was going to pass the sandwiches again, and Letty had gone to the
house for another pot of chocolate. "I will take the bread and butter;
won't you please pass these?" she said. And away they went to the rest
of the company, who were scattered along the arbor benches by twos and
threes.
"I saw you in your boat when I first came up the river," Betty found
time to say. "I didn't know who you were then, though I was sure you
were one of the boys whom I used to play with. Some time when Nelly is
going down couldn't you take me too? I can row."
"Nelly would go if you would. I never thought to ask her. I always wish
there were somebody else to see how pleasant it is"--and then a voice
interrupted to ask what Harry was catching now.
"Bass," said Harry, with brightening face. "I do so well that I am
sending them down to Riverport every day that the packet goes, and I
wish that I had somebody to help me. You don't know what a rich old
river it is!"
"Why, if here isn't Aunt Mary!" cried Betty. Sure enough, the eager
voices and the laughter had attracted another guest. And Aunt Barbara
sprang up joyfully and called for a shawl and footstool from the house;
but Betty didn't wait for them, and brought Aunt Mary to the arbor
bench. Nobody knew when the poor lady had been in her own garden before,
but here she was at last, and had her supper with the rest. The good
doctor would have been delighted enough if he had seen the sight.
Nothing had ever tasted so good as that out-of-door supper. The white
June moon came up, and its bright light made the day longer; and when
everybody had eaten a last piece of sponge-cake, and the heap of
strawberries on a great round India dish had been leveled, what should
be heard but sounds of a violin. Betty had discovered that Seth
Pond,--the clumsy, good-natured Seth of all people!--had, as he said,
"ears for music," and had taught himself to play.
So they had a country-dance on the green, girls and boys and Aunt
Barbara, who had been a famous dancer in her youth; and those who didn't
know the steps of "Money Musk" and the Virginia reel were put in the
middle of the line, and had plenty of time to learn before their turns
came. Afterward Seth played "Bonny Doon," and "Nelly was a Lady," and
"Johnny Comes Marching Home," and "Annie Laurie," and half a dozen other
songs, and everybody sang, but, to Betty's delight, Mary Beck's voice
led all the rest.
The moon was high in the sky when the guests went away. It seemed like a
new world to some young folks who were there, and everybody was
surprised because everybody else looked so pretty and was so
surprisingly gay. Yet, here it was, the same old Tideshead after all!
"Aunt Barbara," said Betty, as that aunt sat on the side of Betty's
four-post bed,--"Aunt Barbara, don't say good-night just yet. I must
talk about one or two things before I forget them in the morning. Mary
Picknell asked me ever so many questions about some of the pictures, but
she knows more about them than I do, and I thought I would ask her to
come some day so that you could tell her everything. She ought to be an
artist. Didn't you see how she kept looking at the pictures? And then
Harry Foster knows a lovely place down the river for a picnic, and can
borrow boats enough beside his own to take us all there, only it's a
secret yet. Harry said that it was a beautiful point of land, with large
trees, and that there was a lane that came across the fields from the
road, so that you could be driven down to meet us, if you disliked the
boats."
"I am very fond of going on the water," said Aunt Barbara, with great
spirit. "I knew that point, and those oak-trees, long before either of
you were born. It was very polite of Harry to think of my coming with
the young folks. Yes, we'll think about the picnic, certainly, but you
must go to sleep now, Betty."
"Aunt Barbara must have been such a nice girl," thinks Betty, as the
door shuts. "And if we go, Harry must take her in his boat. It is
strange that Mary Beck should not like the Fosters, just because their
father was a scamp."