rapid journey northward, and Betty said once that it seemed months since
she left England instead of a few weeks, everybody was so friendly and
pleasant. Tideshead was most delightful to a girl who had been used to
seeing strange places and to knowing nobody but papa at first, and only
getting acquainted by degrees with the lodgings people and the shops,
and perhaps with some new or old friends of papa's who lived out of the
town. Once or twice she had stayed for many weeks in rough places in the
north of Scotland, going from village to village and finding many queer
people, and sometimes being a little lonely when her father was away on
his scientific quests. Mr. Leicester insisted that Betty learned more
than she would from books in seeing the country and the people, and
Betty herself liked it much better than if she had been kept steadily at
her lessons. The most doleful time that she could remember was once when
papa had gone to the south of Italy late in spring and had left her at a
French convent school until his return. However, there were delightful
things to remember, especially about some of the good sisters whom Betty
learned to love dearly, and it may be imagined how brimful of stories
she was, after all these queer and pleasant experiences, and how short
she made the evenings to Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary by recounting them.
It was no use for the ladies to worry any more about Betty's being
spoiled by such an erratic course of education, as they often used to
worry while she was away. They had blamed Betty's father for letting her
go about with him so much, but there did not seem to be any great harm
wrought after all. She knew a great many things that she never would
have known if she had stayed at school. Still, she had a great many
things to learn, and the summer in Tideshead would help to teach her
those. She was really a home-loving girl, our Betty Leicester, and the
best part of any new town was always the familiar homelike place that
she and papa at once made in it with their "kits," as Betty called their
traveling array of books and a few little pictures, and papa's special
kits and collections of the time being. Aunt Barbara could never know
upon how many different rooms her little framed photograph had looked.
She had grown older since it was taken, but when she said so Betty
insisted that it was a picture of herself and would always look exactly
like her. Betty had grown so attached to it that it was still displayed
on the dressing-table of the east bedroom, even though the original was
hourly to be seen.
In this summer quiet of the old town it seemed impossible that papa
should not come hurrying home, as he used in their long London winters,
to demand an instant start for some distant place. When the traveling
kit was first bestowed in the lower drawer of one of the deep bureaus,
Betty felt as if it might have to come out again next day, but there it
stayed, and was abandoned to neglect unless its owner needed the tumbler
in its stiff leather box for a picnic, or thought of a particular spool
that might be found in the traveling work-bag. But with all the quiet
and security of her surroundings, sometimes her thoughts followed papa
most wistfully, or she wondered what her friends were doing on the other
side of the sea. It was very queer to be obliged to talk about entirely
new and different things, and Tideshead affairs alone, and not to have
anybody near who knew the same every-day life that had stopped when she
came to Tideshead, and so letters were most welcome. Indeed, they made a
great part of the summer's pleasure. Suppose we read a handful as if we
had picked them from Betty's pocket:--
INTERLAKEN, _July 2._
MY DEAR BETTY,--It was very good of you to write
me so soon. You would be sure that I was eager to
hear from you, and to know whether you had a good
voyage and found yourself contented in Tideshead.
I am sure that your grandaunts are even more glad
to have you than I was sorry to let you go. But we
must have a summer here together one of these
days; you would be sure to like Interlaken. It
seems to me pleasanter and quainter than ever;
that is, if one takes the trouble to step a little
one side of the torrent of tourists. Our rooms in
the old _pension_ are well lighted and aired, and
two of my windows give on the valley toward the
Jungfrau and the high green mountain slopes. Every
morning since we have been here I have looked out
to see a fresh dazzling whiteness of new snow that
has covered the Jungfrau in the night, and we
always say with a sigh every evening, as we look
up out of the shadowy valley and see the high peak
still flushed with red sunset light, that such
clear weather cannot possibly last another day.
There are some old Swiss chalets across the green,
and we hear pleasant sounds of every-day life now
and then; last night there was a festival of some
sort, and the young people sang very loud and very
late, jodeling famously and as if breath never
failed them. I suppose that the girls have already
written to you, and that you will have two full
descriptions of our scramble up to one of the
highest chalets which I can see now as I look up
from my writing-table, like a toy from a Nuernberg
box with a tiny patch of greenest grass beside it
and two or three tufts of trees. In truth it is a
good-sized, very old house, and the green square
is a large field. It is so steep that I wonder all
the small children have not rolled out of the door
and down to the valley one after the other, which
is indeed a foolish remark to have made.
I take great pleasure in my early morning walks,
in which you have so often kept me company, dear
child. I meet the little peasants coming down from
the hillsides to eight o'clock school in their
quaint long frocks like little old fairies, they
look so wise and sedate. Often I go to the village
of Unterseen, just beyond the great modern hotels,
but looking as if it belonged to another century
than ours. We have some friends, artists, who have
lodgings in one of the old houses, and when I go
to see them I envy them heartily. Here it is very
comfortable, but some of the people at _table
d'hote_ are very tiresome to see, noisy strangers,
who eat their dinners in most unpleasant fashion;
but I should not forget two delightful German
ladies from Hanover, who are taking their first
journey after many years, and are most simple and
enviable in their deep enjoyment of the Kursaal
and other pleasures easily to be had. But I must
not write too long about familiar pictures of
travel. I will not even tell you our enthusiastic
plan for a long journey afoot which will take nine
days even with the best of weather. Ada and Bessie
will be sure to keep a journal for your benefit
and their own. Are you really well, my dear Betty,
and busy, and do you find yourself making new
friends with your old friends and playmates? It
goes without saying that you are missing your
papa, but before one knows we shall all be at home
in London, as hurried and surprised as ever with
the interesting people and events that pass by.
Mr. Duncan is to join us for the walking tour, and
has planned at least one daring ascent with the
Alpine Club. I came upon his terrible shoes this
morning in one of his boxes and they made me quite
gloomy. Pray give my best regards to Miss
Leicester, and Miss Mary Leicester; they seem very
dear friends to me already, and when I come to
America I shall be seeing old friends for the
first time, which is always charming. I leave the
girls to write their own words to you, but
Standish desires her duty to Miss Betty, and says
that her winter coat is to be new-lined, if she
would kindly bear it in mind; the silk is badly
frayed, if Standish may say so! I do not think
from what I know of the American climate that you
will be needing it yet, but dear old Standish is
very thoughtful of all her charges. We had only a
flying note from your papa, written on his way
north, and shall be glad when you can send us news
of him. God bless you, my dear child, and make you
a blessing! I hope that you will do good and get
good in this quiet summer. Write to me often; I
feel as if you were almost my own girl. Yours most
tenderly,
MARY DUNCAN.
From papa, these:--
DEAREST BETTY,--This morning it is a wild country
all along the way, untamed and unhumanized for the
most part, and we go flying along through dark
forests and forlorn burnt lands from tiny station
to station. I am getting a good bit of writing
done with the only decent stylographic pen I ever
saw. I thought I had brought plenty of pencils,
but they were not in my small portmanteau, and
after going to the baggage-car and putting
everybody to great trouble to get out my large
one, they were not there either. Can any one
explain? I found the dear small copy of Florio's
"Montaigne" which you must have tucked in at the
last moment. I like to have it with me more than I
can say. You must have bought it that last morning
when I had to leave you to go to Cambridge. I do
so like to own such a Betty! Why do you still wish
that you had come with me? Tideshead is much the
best place in the world. I send my dear love to
the best of aunts, and you must assure Serena and
Jonathan and all my old friends of my kind
remembrance. I wish every day that our friend Mr.
Duncan could have come with me. The country seems
more and more wide and wonderful, and I am quite
unconscious now of the motion of the cars and feel
as fresh every morning and as sleepy every night
as possible; so don't worry about me, but pick me
a sprig of Aunt Barbara's sweetbrier roses now and
then, and try not to be displeasing to any one,
dear little girl. Your fond father,
THOMAS LEICESTER.
CANADIAN PACIFIC RAILWAY, _18th June._
DEAR BETTY,--The pencils all tumbled on the
car-floor out of my light overcoat pocket. I then
recalled somebody's command that I should put them
into the portmanteau at once, the day they came
home from the stationer's. I have found a
fortune-telling, second-sighted person in the car.
She has the section next to mine and has been
directed by a familiar spirit to go to Seattle.
She has a parrot with her, and they are both very
excitable and communicative. She just told me that
it is revealed to her that my youngest boy will
have a genius for sculpture. I miss you more than
usual to-day. You could help me with some copying,
and there is positively nothing interesting to see
out of the window; what there is of uninteresting
twirls itself about. We shall soon be reaching the
mountains, in fact, I have just caught my first
glimpse of them beyond these great plains. I must
really have some one to write for me next year,
but this winter we keep holiday, you and I, if we
get in for nothing new. It pleases me to write to
you and takes up the long day. You will have
finished "L'Allegro" by this time; suppose you
learn two of the "Sonnets" next. I wish you to
know your Milton as well as possible, but I am
sorry to have you take it while I am away. Take
Lowell's "Biglow Papers" and learn the Spring
poem. You will find nothing better to have in your
mind in the Tideshead June weather. And so good-by
for this day.
T. LEICESTER.
MR DEAR BETTY,--Your letter is very good, and I am
more glad than ever that you chose to go to
Tideshead. You will learn so much from Aunt
Barbara that I wish my girl to know and to be. And
you must remember, in Aunt Mary's self-pitying
moments, all her sympathy and her true love for us
both, and remember that she has in her character
something that makes her the dearest being in the
world to such a woman as Aunt Barbara. She is a
person, in fact they both are, to be liked and
appreciated more and more. You and your Mary Beck
interest me very much, Are you sure that it is
wise to call her Becky? I thought that she was a
new girl, but a nickname is indeed hard to drop. I
remember her, a good little red-cheeked child.
Let me say this: You have indeed lived a wider
sort of life, but I fear that I have made you
spread your young self over too great a space,
while your Becky has stepped patiently to and fro
in a smaller one. You each have your advantages
and disadvantages, so be "very observant and
respectful of your neighbor," as that good old
Scottish preacher prayed for us in Kelso. Be sure
that you don't "feel superior," as your Miss
Murdon used to say. It is a great thing to know
Tideshead well. Remember Selborne and how famous
that town came to be!
Yours fondly,
T. L.
INTERLAKEN, _July 11th._
DEAR BETTY,--Ada and I mean to take turns in
writing to you,--one letter on Sunday and one in
the middle of the week; for if we write together
we shall tell you exactly the same things. So, you
see, this is my turn. We do so wish for you and
think that you cannot possibly be having so much
fun in Tideshead as if you had come with us. We
see such droll people in traveling; they do not
look as if they were going anywhere, but as if
they were lost and trying hard to find their way
back, poor dears! There was an old woman sitting
near us on a bench with a stupid-looking young
man, to hear the band play, and when it stopped
she said to him: "Now we've only got three tunes
more, and _they_ will soon be done." We wondered
why she couldn't go and do something else if she
hated them so much. Ada and I play a game every
morning when we walk in the town: We take sides
and one has the Germans and one the English, and
then see which of us can count the most. Of course
we don't always know them apart, and then we
squabble for little families that pass by, and Ada
is _sure_ they are Germans,--you know how sure Ada
always is if she feels a little doubtful!--but
yesterday there were Cook's tourists as thick as
ants and so she had no chance at all. Miss Winter
writes that she will be ready to join us the first
of August, which will be delightful, and mamma
won't have us to worry about. She said yesterday
that we were much less wild without you and Miss
Winter, and we told her that it was because life
was quite _triste_. She wishes to go to some far
little villages quite off the usual line of
travel, with papa, and does not yet know whether
to go now and take us, or wait and leave us with
Miss Winter. I promised to be _triste_ if she
would let us go. _Triste_ is my word for
everything. Do you still wear out two or three
dozen _hates_ a day? Ada said this morning that
you would _hate_ so many hard little green pears
for breakfast; but we are coming to plum-time now,
and they are so good and sweet. Every morning such
a nice Swiss maiden called Marie (they are all
Maries, I believe) comes and bumps the corner of
her tray against our door and smiles a very wide
smile and says "Das fruehstueck" in exactly the same
tone as she comes in, and we have such delectable
breakfasts of crisp little rolls and Swiss honey
and very weak and hot-milky _cafe au lait_. I
don't believe Miss Winter will let us have honey
every day, but mamma doesn't mind. I think she
gives orders for a very small dish of it, because
Ada and I have requested more until we are
disheartened. Mamma says that while we run up so
many hillsides here we may eat what we please. Oh,
and one thing more: no end of dry little mountain
strawberries, sometimes they taste like
strawberries and sometimes they don't; but this is
enough about what one eats in Interlaken. I have
filled my four pages and Ada is calling me to
walk. We are going on with our botany. Are you? I
send a better edelweiss which I plucked myself. I
must let Ada tell you next time about that day.
She is the best at a description, but I love you
more than ever and I am always your fond and
faithful
BESSIE DUNCAN.
P. S. I forgot to say that Ada has made such
clever sketches. Papa says that they quite
surprise him, and we just long to show them to
Miss Winter. There is one of a little girl whom we
saw making lace at Lauterbrunnen. The Drummonds of
Park Lane drove by us yesterday; we couldn't hear
the name of their hotel, though they called it
out, but we are sure to find them. They looked,
however, as if they were on a journey, the
carriage was so dusty. It was so nice to see the
girls again.
IX.
BETTY'S REFLECTIONS.
AS Betty shut the gate behind her one day and walked down the main
street of Tideshead she felt more than ever as if the past four years
had been a dream, and as if she were exactly the same girl who had paid
that last visit when she was eleven years old. Yet she seemed to herself
to have clearer eyes than before; her years of travel had taught her to
observe, the best gift that traveling can bestow. She saw new beauties
in the gardens and the queer-shaped porches over the front doors, and
noticed particularly the cupolas of one or two barns that were clear and
sharp in their good outlines. More than all, she was astonished at the
beauty of the old trees. Tideshead was not a forest of maples, like many
other New England towns, but there were oaks along the village streets,
and ash-trees, and willows, beside great elms in stately rows, and
silver poplars, and mountain ashes, and even some fruit-trees along the
roadsides outside the village. Betty remembered a story that she had
often heard with great interest about one of the old Tideshead ministers
who had been much beloved, and whose influence was still felt. Every
year he had brought ten trees from the woods and planted them either on
the streets or in his neighbor's yards; one year he chose one sort of
tree and the next another, and at last, when he grew older and could not
go far afield in his search he asked his friends for fruit-trees and
planted them for the benefit of wayfarers. These had made a delightful
memorial of the good old man, but many of the trees had fallen by this
time, and though everybody said that they ought to be replaced, and
complained of such shiftless neglect, as usual what was everybody's
business was nobody's business, and Tideshead looked as if it were sorry
to be forgotten. Betty had been used to the thrifty English and French
care of woodlands, and felt as if it were a great pity not to take
better care of the precious legacy. Aunt Barbara sometimes sent Jonathan
and Seth Pond to care for the trees that needed pruning or covering at
the roots, but hardly any one else in Tideshead did anything but chop
them up and clear them away when they blew down.
It seemed very strange that all the old houses were so handsome and all
the new ones so ugly. A stranger might wonder, why, with the good
proportions, and even a touch of simple elegance that the house builders
of the last century almost always gave, their successors seemed to have
no idea of either, and to take no lessons from the good models before
their eyes. "Makeshifts o' splendor," sensible old Serena called some of
the new houses which had run much to cheap decoration and irregular
roofs and fancy colors of paint. But the old minister's elms and willows
hung their green boughs before some of these architectural failures as
if to kindly screen them from the passers-by. They looked like
imitations of houses, one or two of them, and as if they were put down
to fill spaces, and not meant to live in, as the old plain-roofed and
wide-roomed dwellings are. The sober old village looked here and there
as if it were a placid elderly lady upon whom a child had put it's own
gay raiment. People do not consider the becomingness of a building to
its surroundings as they should, but Betty did not make this clear to
herself exactly, though she was sorry at the change in the familiar
streets. She was more delighted than she knew because she felt so
complete a sense of belongingness; as if she were indeed made of the
very dust of Tideshead, and were a part of it. It was much better than
getting used to new places, though even in the dullest ones she had
known there was some charm and some attaching quality ever to be
remembered. She liked dearly to think of some of the places where she
and papa had made their home, but after all there was the temporary
feeling about every one. She could bear transplanting from most of them
with equanimity, no matter how deep her roots had seemed to strike.
After she had posted her letters there was a question of what to do
next. She had really come out for a walk, but Mary Beck's mother had a
dressmaker that day and Becky was not at liberty; and Nelly Foster was
busy, too. The Grants were away for a few days on a visit; it was a
lonely morning with our friend, who felt a hearty wish for one of her
usual companions. She strayed out toward the fields and seated herself
in the shade of Becky's favorite tree, looking off toward the hills. The
country was very green and fresh-looking after a long rain, and the
farmers were out cutting the later hay in the lower meadows. She could
hear the mowing-machines like the whirr of great locusts, and the men's
voices as they shouted to each other and the horses. On the field side
of the fence, in the field corner, she and Becky had made a comfortable
seat by putting a piece of board across the angle of the two fences, and
there was a black cherry-tree thicket near, so that the two girls could
not be seen from the road as they sat there. As Betty perched herself
here alone she could look along the road, but not be discovered easily.
She wished for Becky more than ever after the first few minutes, but her
thoughts were very busy. She had had a misunderstanding with both the
aunts that morning, and was still moved by a little pity for herself.
They had grown used to their own orderly habits, and it seemed to be no
trouble to them to keep their possessions in order, and Betty had found
them standing before an open bureau drawer in her room quite aghast with
the general disarray, and also with the buttonless and be-ripped
condition of different articles of her underclothing. They had laughed
good-naturedly and were not so hard upon Betty as they meant to be, when
they saw her shame-stricken face, and Betty herself tried to laugh. She
did not mind Aunt Barbara's seeing the things so much as Aunt Mary's
aggravating assumption that it was a perfectly hopeless case, and
nothing could be done about it.
"Nobody knows how or where they were washed," Aunt Barbara said in her
brisk way; and though she looked very stern, Betty knew that she meant
it partly for an excuse.
"You certainly ought to have been looking them over in this rainy
weather," complained Aunt Mary. "A young lady of your age is expected to
keep her clothing in exquisite order."
Betty hated being called a young lady of her age.
"I hope that you take better care of your father's wardrobe than this:
why, there isn't a whole thing here, and they are most expensive new
things, one can see; unmended and spoiled." Aunt Mary held up a pretty
underwaist and sighed deeply.
"Mrs. Duncan chose them with me; one doesn't have to give so much for
such things in London," explained Betty somewhat hotly. "It is no use to
pick out ugly things to wear."
"Dear, dear!" said Aunt Barbara, "don't fret about it, either of you!
We'll look them over by and by, Betty, and see what can be done;" and
she shut the drawer upon the pathetic relics. "You must be ready to meet
your responsibilities better than this," she said sharply to her niece,
but Betty was already hurrying out of the door. She did not mind Aunt
Barbara, but Aunt Mary in the distressing silk wrapper that belonged to
cross days was too much for one to bear. They had no business to be
looking over her bureau drawer; then Betty was sorry for having been so
ill-natured about it. Letty had told her, earlier, that some of her
clothes could not be worn again until they were mended, and Aunt Barbara
had, no doubt, been consulted also, and was wondering what was best to
be done. Betty's great pride had been in being able to take care of
papa, and she had almost boasted of her skill, and of her management of
housekeeping affairs when they were in lodgings. She was too old now to
be treated like a child, and hated being what Serena called "stood
over."
Betty's temper was usually very good, and such provocations could not
make her miserable very long. As she sat under the oak-tree she even
laughed at the remembrance of Aunt Mary's expression of perfect
hopelessness as she held up the underwaist. Aunt Barbara's favorite
maxim that there was "nothing so inconvenient as disorder" seemed to
have deeper reason and wisdom than ever. Betty considered the propriety
of throwing away all her subterfuges of pins, so that a proper stitch
must be inevitably taken when it was needed. Pins in underclothes are
not always comfortable, but our heroine was apt to be in a hurry, and to
suffer the consequences in more ways than one. She made some brave
resolutions now, and promised herself to look over her belongings, and
to mend all that could be mended and throw away the remainder rags that
very day after dinner. Betty was fond of making good resolutions, and
it seemed to help her much about keeping them if she wrote them down.
She had learned lately from Aunt Barbara, who complained of forgetting
things over night, to make little lists of things to be done, and it
appeared a good deal easier to mark off the items on the list one by
one, than to carry them in one's mind and wonder what should be done
next. Our friend liked to make notes about life in general and her own
responsibilities, and had many serious thoughts now that she was growing
older.
She made her lead pencil as pointed as possible with a knife newly
sharpened by Jonathan, and wrote at the end of her slip of paper, which
had come out much crumpled from her pocket: "Look over my clothes and
every one of my stockings, and put them in as good order as possible."
Then she smoothed out another larger piece of paper on her knee and read
it. One day she had copied some scattered sentences from a book, and
prefaced them with some things that her father often had said: "Learn
the right way to do things. Do everything that you can for yourself. Try
to make yourself fit to live with other people. Try to avoid making
other people wait upon you. Remember that every person stands in a
different place from every other and so sees life from a different point
of view. Remember that nobody likes to be proved in the wrong, and be
careful in what manner you say things to people that they do not wish to
hear."