if there were danger of missing a train, and Seth and Letty were sent
this way and that, and Serena gave as many last charges as if she meant
to be absent a fortnight, while Jonathan, already in the wagon, grumbled
at the delay and shouted to the horses if they so much as lifted a foot
at a fly. When they had fairly started he gave a chuckle of satisfaction
and said that he didn't expect when he was harnessing to get off until
much as an hour later, whereat Serena with unwonted levity called him a
"deceivin' old sarpent." The wind was blowing gently from the north,
and was cool enough to make one comfortable in a jacket, though Betty
could not be persuaded that hers was needed. Serena's shawl was pinned
neatly about her shoulders. She sat alone on the back seat of the wagon,
for Jonathan had said that it would ride better not to be too heavy
behind and therefore Betty was keeping him company in front, of which
scheme Serena had her own secret opinion. The piece-bags took up a large
part of the spare seat. Sister Sarah was lame and took great joy in
working the waste material of the Leicester house into rugs and rag
carpets, and it was one of Serena's joys to fill the round piece-bags
even to bursting.
Then there were the beans, and the bundles large and small, and Betty
was in charge of a package of newspapers and magazines and patent
medicine almanacs and interesting circulars of all sorts which Seth had
been saving for his mother.
Jonathan was a tall, thin man, with a shrewd clean-shaven face. He wore
a new straw hat that day, with a faded linen coat, and a much washed-out
plaid gingham cravat under his shirt collar. The best hat was worn on
Betty's account, and was evidently a little stiff and uncomfortable, for
he took it off once or twice and looked into the crown soberly and then
put it on again.
"Sorry you wore it, I s'pose?" observed Serena on one of these
occasions.
"Got to wear it some time," answered Jonathan gruffly, so that nobody
thought best to speak of the hat again even when a sudden puff of wind
blew it over into a field. Betty had been ready to put on one of her old
play-gowns, as she still called them, but upon reflection decided that
it would be hardly respectful when she had been invited to go visiting
with such kind and proper friends, and indeed Serena had given her a
hasty and complacent glance from head to foot when she came down dressed
in one of the prettiest of the London ginghams. Mrs. Duncan, Betty's
kind friend and adviser, had been sure that these ginghams would all
four be needed to clothe our heroine comfortably through the summer,
that is to judge from experience in other summers; but it made a
difference in the stress put upon ginghams, to be a year older.
The up-country road wound first among farms and within sight of the
river, then it took a sudden northward turn and there were not so many
white elder flowers by the way as there were junipers and young birches.
There were long reaches through the cool woods, and the road was always
rising to a higher part of the country, veritable up-country, among the
hills. From one high point where they stopped to let the horses rest a
minute there was a beautiful view of the low lands that lay toward the
sea, and the river which ran southward in shining lines. It would be
hard to say who most enjoyed the morning. The elder members of the party
seldom felt themselves free for a holiday, and Betty was always ready to
enjoy whatever came in her way; but there was a delicious novelty in
being asked to spend a day with Serena and Jonathan. They were hostess
and host, and Betty felt an unusual spirit of deference and gratitude
toward them; it seemed as if they were both quite conscious of a
different relationship toward Betty from that at home. It was wonderful
to see what cordial greetings most of the people gave them along the
road, and how many warm friends they seemed to possess. The farther
they went, the more struck by this was our Betty, who gave a little sigh
at some unworded thought about always being a newcomer and stranger. She
had begun to feel so recognized and at home in Tideshead that it was a
little hard now to find herself unknown again.
But Serena liked to tell her who every one was, and there was as much
friendly interest shown in Miss Betty Leicester as any heart could wish.
They had gone almost fourteen miles, and Betty was just nearing the end
of a long description of her experiences at the Queen's Jubilee, when
Jonathan said: "Now you can rec'lect just where you put the mark in. I
don't calc'late to lose none of it, but here we've got to stop top of
the hill an' see Seth's folks. You've got them papers an' things handy,
ain't you, Serena?"
Betty saw a yellow story-and-a-half house by the roadside with some
queer little sheds and outbuildings, and looked with great interest to
see if any one came to the window. "Seth's folks" meant nobody but his
mother, who lived alone as Betty knew, and there she was standing in
the door, a kind-faced, round-shouldered little creature, who had the
patient, half-apprehensive look of those women who live alone in lonely
places. She threw her big clean gingham apron over her head and came
forward just as Jonathan had got out of the wagon and Betty followed
him.
"There, bless ye!" said "Seth's folks." "I waked up this morning kind of
expecting that I should see somebody from down Seth's way. I expect he's
well's common?"
"Oh, yes," responded Jonathan. "We had to leave him to keep house. He
was full o' messages, but I can't seem to remember none on 'em now."
"No matter, so long I know's he's well," said the little woman, shaking
hands with Betty and looking at her delightedly. "Now I want you all to
come in and stop to dinner," but Serena could not even be persuaded to
"'light down" on account of her duty to sister Sarah. Betty carried in
the armful of reading matter and Mrs. Pond followed her, and while our
friend looked at the plain little house and fancied Seth practicing his
tunes, and saw the beautiful cone frame which he had helped his mother
to make, the hospitable little mother was getting some home-made
root-beer out of a big stone jug, and soon served it to her three guests
in pretty old-fashioned blue and white mugs. Betty thought she had never
tasted anything so delicious as the flavor of spice and pleasing
bitterness in the cold drink, and Jonathan smacked his lips loudly and
promised to call for more as he came back. Mrs. Pond took another good
long look at Betty before they parted. "I wasn't expectin' you to be so
much of a young lady, I do' know's you be quite growed up yet, though,"
she said. This was not the least of the pleasures of that day, and they
went on next to sister Sarah's, where Betty and Serena and the freight
were to be left while Jonathan went off about his business.
It almost seemed as if up-country existed for the sake of its market
town of Tideshead. Betty had been there once or twice in her childhood,
but her memories even of sister Sarah were rather indistinct. She had
taken a long nap once on the patchwork quilt in the bedroom, and had
waked to find four or five women hooking a large rug in the kitchen,
all talking together, which had made an impression upon her young mind.
It was strawberry-time too on that last visit. But sister Sarah
remembered a great deal more about it than this, and was delighted to
see Betty once more. There was the very rug on the floor, already
beginning to look worn. One could remember it by a white, or rather a
gray, rabbit under some large green leaves which made part of the
design. It was impossible to say how many rugs there were in the house,
as if life went on for the sole purpose of making hooked and braided
rugs. Those in the kitchen at Aunt Barbara's were evidently the work of
sister Sarah's industrious fingers. Serena might have left the place of
her birth the week before instead of nearly forty years, if one might
judge by the manner in which she hung her bonnet and shawl on a nail
behind the door and put her gray thread gloves into the table drawer.
Sister Sarah looked like a neat little nun, and limped painfully as she
went about the room. Sometimes she used a crutch, but she seemed as lame
with it as without it, and she was such a brisk little creature in
spirit, and was so little depressed by her misfortune that one felt it
would be unwelcome to express any pity. Betty knew that sometimes the
poor woman suffered a great deal of pain and could not move at all, and
that a neighbor who also lived alone came at those times and stayed with
her for a few weeks. "Sister Sarah ain't one mite lame in her mind,"
Serena said proudly one day, and Betty found this to be the truth. She
did not like to read, however, and told Betty that it was never anything
but a task, except to study geography, and she only had one old
geography, fairly worn to pieces, which she knew by heart, with all its
lists of towns and countries and rivers, the productions and boundaries
and capitals and climatic conditions and wild animals were at her
tongue's end for anybody who cared to hear them. "The old folks used to
think she'd better exercise her memory learning hymns, and Sister Sarah
favored geography," Serena once explained; "but she knows what other
folks knows, and has got a head crammed full o' learning. She never
forgets nothing, whilst I leak by the way, myself, and do' know whether
I know anything or not," she ended triumphantly.
Serena's mind was full of plans that day, and after resting a little
while and hearing the news, she asked Betty whether she would go with
her to a cousin's about a mile away by a pasture path, or whether she
would stay where she was. The path sounded very pleasant, but from the
tone of the invitation it seemed best to remain behind, so she quickly
decided and Serena set forth alone. It was only about eleven o'clock and
she meant to be back by twelve, and dinner was put off half an hour.
Then Serena would have the afternoon clear until it was time to go. The
cousin had seen trouble since the last visit, so it never would do to go
home without seeing her. Sister Sarah and Betty sat by the front windows
of the living-room, and Betty obeyed a parting charge to tell her
companion "about seeing the Queen and the times when she used to go and
see the Prince o' Wales's girls," so that the last of the morning was
soon gone.
"Such folks has their aches an' pains just like us," commented sister
Sarah at last. "I expected, though, they was more pompous-behaved than
you seem to describe. Well, they have to think o' their example, and so
does others, for that matter. I wonder'f'mongst all they've learned to
do, anybody ever showed 'em how to braid or hook 'em a nice mat. I
s'pose not, but with all their hired help an' all their rags that must
come of a year's wear, 't would be a shame for them to buy."
"I never saw any rugs just like these," said Betty, turning quickly to
look out of the window. "I don't believe people make them except in
America. But the princesses know how to do a good many things." It was
very funny to Betty to think of their hooking rugs for themselves,
however, but Serena's sister did not appear to suspect it.
"Land, won't I have a good time picking over those big full bags!" said
she, looking at Aunt Barbara's rag-bags with delight, and forgetting the
employments of royalty. "Your aunt's real generous, she is so! I sort
out everything into heaps on the spare floor and if I have too much
white I just reach for the dyepot. I do enjoy myself over them
piece-bags."
"I don't know what would become of Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary without
Serena," said Betty, "but I don't see how you can spare her all the
time."
"She wouldn't be spared by them," said sister Sarah, putting her head on
one side like a bird. "When I was first left alone after marm's decease,
folks thought she'd ought to come back, but I says No. She wouldn't be
contented now same's she was before she went, and I should get wuss and
wuss if I was waited on stiddy. 'No!' says I to every one, 'let me be
and let her be. She's free to come, and she's puttin' by her good
earnin's. I wept all night when she first went off to Tideshead,
seventeen year old, to be maid to Madam Leicester, but I knew from that
day she was set to go her way same's I was mine. But she's be'n a good
sister to me; we never passed an hour unfriendly, and 't ain't all can
say the same."
"No, indeed," said Betty cheerfully.
"Queen Victori' knows what it is to be alone," continued the little
sister. "I always read how she was a real mourner. Now I seem to enter
into her feelin's, bein' left by myself, though not a widow-woman."
Betty thought of the contrast between the Queen's life, with its
formality and crowded households, and its retinues and solemn pageantry
and this empty little New England farm-house on a long hillside that
sloped eastward. It was so funny to hear the Queen discussed and to find
her a familiar personage, just as one might in old England, where one
was always hearing about "our dear Queen." But to sister Sarah the Queen
was only another woman who lived alone, and had many responsibilities.
"I expect you're a regular little Britisher by this time, ain't you,
Miss Betty?"
"Indeed, I'm not," answered our friend with spirit. "Papa would be
ashamed of me. I'm a great American. What made you think so?" Sister
Sarah looked pleased, but did not have anything more to offer on the
subject. "We're all English to start with, but with the glory of America
added on," said Betty with girlish enthusiasm. "You can't take away our
English inheritance. I used to be always insisting upon that with the
girls, that Shakespeare and King Arthur were just as much ours as
theirs."
"I expect you know a sight o' things I never dreamt of," said sister
Sarah, "but to me what takes place in this neighborhood is just as
interesting as foreign parts. Folks is folks, I tell 'em. There ain't
but a few kinds, neither, but they're put into all sorts of places,
ain't they?"
Betty found that her hostess had a great many entertaining things to
say, but presently there was a fear expressed lest Serena might be
beguiled into staying too long at the cousin's, and so delay the dinner.
"Let me begin; oh please let me," said Betty, springing up. She had a
sudden delighted instinct that it would be charming to wait upon Serena
to-day and sister Sarah, and take her turn at making them comfortable.
As quick as thought she turned up her skirt and pinned it behind her and
said, "What next, if you please, ma'm," in a funny little tone copied
from that of a precise London damsel in Mrs. Duncan's employ, who always
amused the family very much.
Sister Sarah was fond of a joke, and to tell the truth this was one of
her aching days and she had been dreading to take so many steps. She saw
how pleased Betty was with her kind little plan.
"To lay the table and step lively," she answered, shaking with laughter.
And Betty followed her directions until the square dinner-table stood in
the middle of the floor, covered with a nice homespun linen cloth of
which the history had to be told; and the old blue crockery; and Betty
had cut just so many slices of bread, and brought just so many spiced
pears from the brown jar in the cellar-way, and found the nice little
square piece of cold corned beef which the hostess was so glad to have
on hand, and had looked at the potatoes two or three times where they
were baking in the stove oven in the shed-room where sister Sarah did
her summer cooking; all these and other things were done when Serena,
out of breath, and heated with hurrying, came in at the door.
"I'm going to finish since I have begun," said Betty proudly. "Now
please use this fan, Serena, and rest yourself, and I shall be ready in
a few minutes. I'm having a beautiful good time. Which pitcher shall I
take for the fresh water?" and out she went to the cool old well under
the apple-tree.
"Now was there ever such a darlin' gal," said sister Sarah, and Serena
nodded her head. "I dare say she does like to take holt. Miss Barb'ra
never was one that shirked at nothing," she had time to reply before
Betty came back and filled the tumblers and called the sisters to their
dinner.
"Sarah," said Serena decisively, as she saw how hard it was for sister
Sarah to move, "you've got to get Ann Sparks, ain't ye?"
And the lame woman answered Yes.
"I hate to give up, as you know, but one of my poor times is coming on,"
she said sadly.
The dinner was a great pleasure; Betty would do all the waiting, and
there was an unexpected dessert of a jelly cake which Serena had brought
with her, being mindful of her sister's fondness for it. Betty was
touched with the sisters' delight in being together, for in spite of
what Miss Sarah had said about their being contented apart, she knew
that the family had seen trouble in earlier times, and that Serena's
wages had been the main dependence while sister Sarah could not be happy
any where but in her own home.
There never were such delicious baked potatoes, and Betty humbly waited
until she was perfectly sure neither of the sisters wanted the last one
before she eagerly took it. It was delightful to be so hungry, as hungry
as one could be on shipboard! And when the gay little dinner was over
Betty made the hostess still play guest, and put on her apron again and
carried the plates to the shed kitchen, and found the dish pan and the
soap, and in spite of what anybody could say she washed them every one
and only let Serena wipe them and put them away. Serena entered into the
spirit of the thing and was so funny and nice--making believe to be
afraid they were not doing things right and that "sister Sarah would
turn to and do 'em over again, being amazing particular."
Then when the flies were whisked out by two efficient aprons, Betty left
the sisters to themselves for a good talk and rest, and wandered out
along the hillsides by the path Serena had taken, and there she sat and
thought and looked off at the green country and at the sky. A little
black and white dog came trotting along the path on some errand of his
own, and when he saw Betty he held up one paw and looked at her and then
came to be patted and to snuggle down by her side as if she were an old
friend. Betty was touched by this expression of confidence and sympathy,
as indeed she might be, and was sorry to say good-by to the little dog
when it was time to go back to the house. He licked her fingers
affectionately as she gave him a last patting, and seemed disappointed
because she left him so soon, as if he had gone trotting about the world
all his life to find her and now she was going away again. He did not
offer to follow her, but whenever she looked back there he was, sitting
quite still and watching.
Jonathan was already at the house, impatient to be on his way home, and
Serena's bonnet was just being taken down from its nail as Betty came
in. It seemed too bad to leave sister Sarah behind, but then she had all
the piece-bags for company, as Serena said.
XI
THE TWO FRIENDS.
THE Leicester household had been so long drifting into a staid and
ceremonious fashion of life that this visit of Betty's threatened at
times to be disturbing. If Aunt Barbara's heart had not been kept young,
under all her austere look and manners, Betty might have felt
constrained more than once, but there always was an excuse to give Aunt
Mary, who sometimes complained of too much chattering on the front door
steps, or too much scurrying up and down stairs from Betty's room. It
was impossible to count the number of times that important secrets had
to be considered in the course of a week, or to understand why there
were so many flurries of excitement among the girls of Betty's set,
while the general course of events in Tideshead flowed so smoothly. Miss
Barbara Leicester was always a frank and outspoken person, and the young
people were sure to hear her opinion whenever they asked for it; but
she herself seemed to grow younger, in these days, and Betty pleased her
immensely one day, when it was mentioned that a certain person who wore
caps, and was what Betty called "poky," was about Miss Barbara's age:
"Aunt Barbara, you are always the same age as anybody except a baby!"
"I must acknowledge that I feel younger than my grandniece, sometimes,"
said Aunt Barbara, with a funny little laugh; but Betty was puzzled to
know exactly what she meant.
* * * * *
In one corner of the upper story of the large old house there was a
delightful little place by one of the dormer-windows. It lighted the
crooked stairway which came up to the open garret-floor, and the way to
some bedrooms which were finished off in a row. Betty remembered playing
with her dolls in this pleasant little corner on rainy days, years
before, and revived its old name of the "cubby-house." Her father had
kept his guns and a collection of minerals there, in his boyhood. It was
over Betty's own room, and noises made there did not affect Aunt Mary's
nerves, while it was a great relief from the dignity of the east
bedroom, or, still more, the lower rooms of the house, to betake one's
self with one's friend to this queer-shaped, brown-raftered little
corner of the world. There was a great sea-chest under the eaves, and an
astounding fireboard, with a picture of Apollo in his chariot. There was
a shelf with some old brown books that everybody had forgotten, an old
guitar, and a comfortable wooden rocking-chair, beside Betty's favorite
perch in the broad window-seat that looked out into the tops of the
trees. Her father's boyish trophies of rose-quartz and beryl crystals
and mica were still scattered along on the narrow ledges of the old
beams, and hanging to a nail overhead were two dusty bunches of
pennyroyal, which had left a mild fragrance behind them as they
withered.
Betty had added to this array a toppling light-stand from another part
of the garret and a china mug which she kept full of fresh wild flowers.
She pinned "London Graphic" pictures here and there, to make a little
brightness, and there were some of her favorite artist's (Caldecott's)
sketches of country squires and dames, reproduced in faint bright
colors, which looked delightfully in keeping with their surroundings. As
midsummer came on the cubby-house grew too hot for comfort, but one
afternoon, when rain had been falling all the morning to cool the high
roof, Mary Beck and Betty sat there together in great comfort and peace.
See for yourself Mary in the rocking-chair, and Betty in the
window-seat; they were deep in thought of girlish problems, and, as
usual, taking nearly opposite sides. They had been discussing their
plans for the future. Mary Beck had confessed that she wished to learn
to be a splendid singer and sing in a great church or even in public
concerts. She knew that she could, if she were only well taught; but
there was nobody to give her lessons in Tideshead, and her mother would
not hear of her going to Riverport twice a week.
"She says that I can keep up with my singing at home, and she wants me
to go into the choir, and I can't bear it. I hate to hear 'we can't
afford it,' and I am sure to, if I set my heart on anything. Mother says
that it will be time enough to learn to sing when I am through school.
Oh, dear me!" and poor Mary looked disappointed and fretful.
A disheartening picture of the present Becky on the concert-stage
flashed through Betty's usually hopeful mind. She felt a heartache, as
she thought of her friend's unfitness and inevitable disappointment.
Becky--plain, ungainly, honest Becky--felt it in her to do great things,
yet she hardly knew what great things were. Persons of Betty's age never
count upon having years of time in which to make themselves better.
Everything must be finally decided by the state of things at the moment.
Years of patient study were sure to develop the wonderful gift of
Becky's strong, sweet voice.
"Why don't you sing in the choir, Becky?" asked Betty suddenly. "It
would make the singing so much better. I should love to do it, if I
could, and it would help to make Sunday so pleasant for everybody, to
hear you sing. Poor Miss Fedge's voice sounds funny, doesn't it? Sing me
something now, Becky dear; sing 'Bonny Doon'!"
But Becky took no notice of the request. "What do you mean to be,
yourself?" she asked her companion, with great interest.
"You know that I can't sing or paint or do any of those things,"
answered Betty humbly. "I used to wish that I could write books when I
grew up, or at any rate help papa to write his. I am almost discouraged,
though papa says I must keep on trying to do the things I really wish to
do." And a bright flush covered Betty's eager face.