much time in the woods, but somehow he always learned his lessons too,"
said Nelly proudly; "and now his fishing brings in so much money that I
don't know how we shall live when winter comes. We are so anxious about
winter. Oh, Betty, it is easy to tell you, but I can't bear to have
other people even look at me;" and she burst into tears and hid her face
in her hands.
"Let us go out-doors, just down through the garden and across into the
woods a little while," pleaded Betty. "Do, Nelly, dear!" and presently
they were on their way. The fresh summer air and the sunshine were much
better than the close-shaded room, where Nelly was startled by every
sound about the house, and they soon lost their first feeling of
constraint as they sat under a pine-tree whipping two of Miss Barbara
Leicester's new tea-napkins. Betty had many things to say about her
English life and her friends. Mary Beck never cared to hear much about
England, and it was always delightful to have an interested listener. At
last the sewing was finished, and Nelly proposed that they should go a
little way farther, and come out on the river bank. Harry would be
coming up about this time with his fare of fish, if he had had good
luck. It would be fun to shout to him as he went by.
They pushed on together through the open pasture, where the sweet-fern
and bayberry bushes grew tall and thick; there was another strip of
woods between them and the river, and just this side was a deserted
house, which had not been lived in for many years and was gray and
crumbling. The fields that belonged to it had been made part of a great
sheep pasture, and two or three sheep were standing by the half-opened
door, as if they were quite at home there in windy or wet weather. Betty
had seen the old house before, and thought it was most picturesque. She
now proposed that they should have a picnic party by and by, and make a
fire in the old fireplace; but Nelly Foster thought there would be great
danger of burning the house down.
"Suppose we go and look in?" pleaded Betty. "Mary Beck and I saw it not
long after I came, but she thought it was going to rain, so that we
didn't stop. I like to go into an empty old ruin, and make up stories
about it, and wonder who used to live there. Don't stop to pick these
blackberries; you know they aren't half ripe," she teased Nelly; and so
they went over to the old house, frightening away the sheep as they
crossed the doorstep boldly. It was all in ruins; the roof was broken
about the chimney, so that the sun shone through upon the floor, and the
light-red bricks were softened and sifting down. In one corner there was
a heap of withes for mending fences, which had been pulled about by the
sheep, and there were some mud nests of swallows high against the walls,
but the birds seemed to have already left them. This room had been the
kitchen, and behind it was a dark, small place which must have been a
bedroom when people lived there, dismal as it looked now.
"I am going to look in here and all about the place," said Betty
cheerfully, and stepped in to see what she could find.
"Oh, go back, Nelly!" she screamed, in a great fright, the next moment;
and they fled out of the house into the warm sunshine. They had had time
to see that a man was lying on the floor as if he were dead. Betty's
heart was beating so that she could hardly speak.
"We must get somebody to come," she panted, trying to stop Nelly. "Was
it somebody dead?"
But Nelly sank down as pale as ashes into the sweet-fern bushes, and
looked at her strangely. "Oh, Betty Leicester, it will kill mother, it
will kill her! I believe it was my father; what shall I do?"
"Your father," faltered Betty,--"your father? We must go and tell." Then
she remembered that he was a hunted man, a fugitive from justice.
They looked fearfully at the house; the sheep had come back and stood
again near the doorway. There was something more horrible than the two
girls had ever known in the silence of the place. It would have been
less awful if there had been a face at the broken door or windows.
"Henry--we must try to stop Henry," said poor pale Nelly, and they
hurried toward the river shore. They could not help looking anxiously
behind them as they passed the belt of pine; a terrible fear possessed
them as they ran. "He is afraid that somebody will see him. I wonder if
he will come home to-night."
"He must be ill there," said Betty, but she did not dare to say anything
else. What an unendurable thing to be afraid and ashamed of one's own
father!
They looked down the river with eager eyes. Yes, there was Harry
Foster's boat coming up slowly, with the three-cornered sail spread to
catch the light breeze. Nelly gave a long sigh and sank down on the
turf, and covered her face as she cried bitterly. Betty thought, with
cowardly longing, of the quiet and safety of Aunt Mary's room, and the
brown-covered volume of "Walton's Lives." Then she summoned all her
courage. These two might never have sorer need of a friend than in this
summer afternoon.
Henry Foster's boat sailed but slowly. It was heavily laden, and the
wind was so light that from time to time he urged it with the oars. He
did not see the two girls waiting on the bank until he was close to
them, for the sun was in his eyes and his thoughts were busy. His
father's escape from jail was worse than any sorrow yet; nobody knew
what might come of it. Harry felt very old and careworn for a boy of
seventeen. He had determined to go to see Miss Barbara Leicester that
evening, and to talk over his troubles with her. He had been able to
save a little money, and he feared that it might be demanded. He had
already paid off the smaller debts that were owed in the village; but he
knew his father too well not to be afraid of getting some menacing
letters presently. If his father had only fled the country! But how
could that be done without money? He would not work his passage; Harry
was certain enough of that. Would it not be better to let him have the
money and go to the farthest limit to which it could carry him?
Something made the young man shade his eyes with his hand and look
toward the shore; then he took the oars and pulled quickly in. That was
surely his sister Nelly, and the girl beside her, who wore a grayish
dress with a white blouse waist, was Betty Leicester. It was just like
kind-hearted little Betty to have teased poor Nelly out into the woods.
He would carry them home in his boat; he could rub it clean with some
handfuls of hemlock twigs or river grass. Then he saw how strangely they
looked, as he pushed the boat in and pulled it far ashore. What in the
world had happened?
Nelly tried to speak again and again, but her voice could not make
itself heard. "Oh, don't cry any more, Nelly, dear," said Betty,
trembling from head to foot, and very pale. "We went into the old house
up there by the pasture, and found--Nelly said it was your father, and
we thought he was very ill."
"I'll take you both home, then," said Harry Foster, speaking quickly and
with a hard voice. "Get in, both of you,--this is the shortest
way,--then I'll come back by myself."
"Oh, no, no!" sobbed Nelly. "He looked as if he were dying, Harry; he
was lying on the floor. We will go, too; he couldn't hurt us, could he?"
And the three turned back into the woods. Betty's heart almost failed
her. She felt like a soldier going into battle. Oh, could she muster
bravery enough to go into that house again? Yet she loved her father so
much that doing this for another girl's father was a great comfort, in
all her fear.
The young man hurried ahead when they came near the house, and it was
only a few minutes before he reappeared.
"You must go and tell mother to come as quick as she can, and hurry to
find the doctor and tell him; he will know what to do. Father has been
dreadfully hurt somehow. Perhaps Miss Leicester will let Jonathan come
to help us get him home." Harry Foster's face looked old and strange; he
never would seem like a boy any more, Betty thought, with a heart full
of sympathy. She hurried away with Nelly; they could not bring help fast
enough.
* * * * *
After the great excitement was over, Betty felt very tired and unhappy.
That night she could be comforted only by Aunt Barbara's taking her into
her own bed, and being more affectionate and sympathetic than ever
before, even talking late, like a girl, about the Out-of-Door Club
plans. In spite of this attempt to return to every-day thoughts, Betty
waked next morning to much annoyance and trouble. She felt as if the sad
affairs of yesterday related only to the poor Fosters and herself, but
as she went down the street, early, she was stopped and questioned by
eager groups of people who were trying to find out something more about
the discovery of Mr. Foster in the old house. It proved that he had
leaped from a high window, hurting himself badly by the fall, when he
made his escape from prison, and that he had been wandering in the woods
for days. The officers had come at once, and there was a group of men
outside the Fosters' house. This had a terrible look to Betty. Everybody
said that the doctor believed there was only a slight chance for Mr.
Foster's life, and that they were not going to try to take him back to
jail. He had been delirious all night. One or two kindly disposed
persons said that they pitied his poor family more than ever, but most
of the neighbors insisted that "it served Foster just right." Betty did
her errand as quickly as possible, and hastily brushed by some curious
friends who tried to detain her. She felt as if it were unkind and
disloyal to speak of her neighbor's trouble to everybody, and the
excitement and public concern of the little village astonished her very
much. She did not know, until then, how the joy or trouble of one home
could affect the town as if it were one household. Everybody spoke very
kindly to her, and most people called her "Betty," and seemed to know
her very well, whether they had ever spoken to her before or not. The
women were standing at their front doors or their gates, to hear
whatever could be told, and our friend looked down the long street and
felt that it was like running the gauntlet to get home again. Just then
she met the doctor, looking gray and troubled, as if he had been awake
all night, but when he saw Betty his face brightened.
"Well done, my little lady," he said, in a cheerful voice, which made
her feel steady again, and then he put his hand on Betty's shoulder and
looked at her very kindly.
"Oh, doctor! may I walk along with you a little way?" she faltered.
"Everybody asks me to tell"--
"Yes, yes, I know all about it," said the doctor; and he turned and took
Betty's hand as if she were a child, and they walked away together. It
was well known in Tideshead that Dr. Prince did not like to be
questioned about his patients.
"I was wondering whether I ought to go to see Nelly," said Betty, as
they came near the house. "I haven't seen her since I came home with her
yesterday. I--didn't quite dare to go in as I came by."
"Wait until to-morrow, perhaps," said the doctor. "The poor man will be
gone then, and you will be a greater comfort. Go over through the
garden. You can climb the fences, I dare say," and he looked at Betty
with a queer little smile. Perhaps he had seen her sometimes crossing
the fields with Mary Beck.
"Do you mean that he is going to die to-day?" asked Betty, with great
awe. "Ought I to go then?"
"Love may go where common kindness is shut out," said Dr. Prince. "You
have done a great deal to make those poor children happy, this summer.
They had been treated in a very narrow-minded way. It was not like
Tideshead, I must say," he added, "but people are shy sometimes, and
Mrs. Foster herself could not bear to see the pity in her neighbors'
faces. It will be easier for her now."
"I keep thinking, what if it were my own papa?" said Betty softly. "He
couldn't be so wicked, but he might be ill, and I not there."
"Dear me, no!" said the doctor heartily, and giving Betty's hand a tight
grasp and a little swing to and fro. "I suppose he's having a capital
good time up among his glaciers. I wish that I were with him for a
month's holiday;" and at this Betty was quite cheerful again.
Now they stopped at Betty's own gate. "You must take your Aunt Mary in
hand a little, before you go away. There's nothing serious the matter
now, only lack of exercise and thinking too much about herself."
"She did come to my tea-party in the garden," responded Betty, with a
faint smile, "and I think sometimes she almost gets enough courage to go
to walk. She didn't sleep at all last night, Serena said this morning."
"You see, she doesn't need sleep," explained Dr. Prince, quite
professionally. "We are all made to run about the world and to work.
Your aunt is always making blood and muscle with such a good appetite,
and then she never uses them, and nature is clever at revenges. Let her
hunt the fields, as you do, and she would sleep like a top. I call it a
disease of _too-wellness_, and I only know how to doctor sick people.
Now there's a lesson for you to reflect upon," and the busy doctor went
hurrying back to where he had left his horse standing, when he first
caught sight of Betty's white and anxious face.
As she entered the house Aunt Barbara was just coming out. "I am going
to see poor Mrs. Foster, my dear, or to ask for her at the door," she
said, and Serena and Letty and Jonathan all came forward to ask whether
Betty knew any later news. Seth Pond had been loitering up the street
most of the morning, with feelings of great excitement, but he presently
came back with instructions from Aunt Barbara to weed the long
box-borders behind the house, which he somewhat unwillingly obeyed.
A few days later the excitement was at an end, the sad funeral was over,
and on Sunday the Fosters were at church in their appealing black
clothes. Everybody had been as kind as they knew how to be, but there
were no faces so welcome to the sad family as our little Betty's and the
doctor's.
"It comes of simply following her instinct to be kind and do right,"
said the doctor to Aunt Barbara, next day. "The child doesn't think
twice about it, as most of us do. We Tideshead people are terribly
afraid of one another, and have to go through just so much before we can
take the next step. There's no way to get right things done but to
simply _do_ them. But it isn't so much what your Betty does as what she
is."
"She has grown into my old heart," said Aunt Barbara. "I cannot bear to
think of her going away and taking the sunshine with her!--and yet she
has her faults, of course," added the sensible old lady.
"Oh, by the way!" said Dr. Prince, turning back. "My wife told me to ask
you to come over to tea to-night and bring the little girl; I nearly
forgot to give the message."
"I shall be very happy to come," answered Miss Leicester, and the doctor
nodded and went his busy way. Betty was very fond of going to drive with
him, and he looked about the neighborhood as he drove along, hoping to
catch sight of her; but Betty was at that moment deeply engaged in
helping Letty shell some peas for dinner, at the other side of the
house, in the garden doorway of the kitchen. She had spent an hour
before that with Mrs. Beck, while they tried together with more or less
success to trim a new sailor hat for Mary Beck like one of Betty's own.
Mrs. Beck was as friendly as possible in these days, but whenever the
Fosters were mentioned her face grew dark. She did not like Mrs. Foster;
she did not exactly blame her for all that had happened, but she did not
pity her either, or feel a true compassion for such a troubled neighbor.
Betty never could understand it. At any rate, she had been saved by her
unsettled life from taking a great interest in her own or other people's
dislikes.
That evening, just as the tea-party was in full progress, somebody came
for Dr. Prince; and when he returned from his study he announced that he
must go at once down the river road to see one of his patients who was
worse. Perhaps he saw an eager look in Betty's eyes, for he asked
gravely if Miss Leicester had a niece to lend, it being a moonlight
evening and not too long a drive. Aunt Barbara made no objection, and
our friend went skipping off to the doctor's stable in high glee.
"Oh, that's nice!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad that you're going to take
Pepper; she's such a dear little horse."
"Pepper is getting old," said the doctor, "but she really likes to go
out in the evening. You can see how fast she will scurry home. Get me a
whip from the rack, will you, child? I am anxious to be off."
Mrs. Prince and Aunt Barbara were busy talking in the parlor, and were
taking great pleasure in their social occasion, but Betty was so glad
that she need not stay to listen, instead of going down the town street
and out among the quiet farms behind brisk old Pepper. The wise, kind
doctor at her side was silent as he thought about his patient, yet he
felt much pleasure in Betty's companionship. They could smell the new
marsh hay and hear the tree-toads; it was a most beautiful summer night.
Betty felt very grateful and happy, she did not exactly know why; it was
not altogether the effect of Mrs. Prince's tea and cakes, or even
because she was driving with the doctor, but the restlessness and
uncertainty that make so great a part of a girl's life seemed to have
gone away out of her heart. Instead of the excitement there was a
pleasant quietness and sense of security, no matter what might be going
to happen.
Presently the doctor appeared to have thought enough about his patient.
"You don't feel chilly, do you?" he asked kindly. "I find it damp and
cold, sometimes, after a hot day, crossing this low land."
"Oh, no, I'm as warm as toast," answered Betty. "Whom are you going to
see, Dr. Prince? Old Mr. Duff?"
"No, he is out-of-doors again. I saw him in the hayfield this morning.
You haven't been keeping up with my practice as well as usual, of late,"
said the doctor, laughing a little. "I am going to see a girl about your
own age. I am afraid that I am going to lose her, too."
"Is it that pretty Lizzie Edwards who sits behind the Becks' pew? I
heard that she had a fever. I saw her the last Sunday that she was at
church." Betty's heart was filled with dismay, and the doctor did not
speak again. They were near the house now, and could see some lights
flitting about; and as they stopped the sick girl's father stole
silently from behind the bushes and began to fasten the horse, so that
Dr. Prince could go in directly. Betty could hear the ominous word
"_sinking_," as they whispered together; then she was left alone. It
seemed so sad that this other girl should be near the door of death, and
so close to the great change that must come to every one. Betty had
never known so direct a consciousness of the inevitableness of death,
but she was full of life herself, and so eager and ready for whatever
might be coming. What if this other girl had felt so, too? She watched
the upper windows where the dim light shone, and now and then a shadow
crossed the curtain. Everything out-of-doors was quiet and sweet; the
moon went higher and higher, and the wind rustled among the apple-trees.
Some white petunias in a little plot near by looked strangely white, and
Betty thought that perhaps the other girl had planted them, and there
they were growing on. Now she was going to die. Betty wondered what it
would be like, and if the other girl knew, and if she minded so very
much. After a few minutes she found herself saying an eager prayer that
the doctor might still cure her, and keep her alive. If she must die,
Betty hoped that she herself might do some of the things that Lizzie
Edwards would have done, and take her place. When old people had to go,
who had done all they wished to do, and got tired, and could not help
thinking about having a new life, that was one thing; but to go now and
leave all your hopes and plans behind,--indeed, it seemed too hard. But
Betty had a sense of the difference between what things could be helped
and what were in God's hands, and when she had said her prayer she
waited again hopefully for a long time in the moonlight.
At last there seemed to be more movement in the house and she could hear
voices; then she heard somebody sobbing, and the light in the upper room
went quickly out.
The doctor came after a few minutes more, which seemed very long and
miserable. Pepper had fallen asleep, good old horse! and Betty did not
dare to ask any questions.
"Well, well," said the doctor, in a surprisingly cheerful voice, "I
forgot all about you, Miss Betty Leicester. I hope that you're not cold
this time, and I don't know what the aunts will have to say about us; it
is nearly eleven o'clock."
"I'm not cold, but I did get frightened," acknowledged Betty faintly;
then she felt surprisingly light-hearted. Dr. Prince could not be in
such good spirits if he had just seen his poor young patient die!
"We got here just in time," he said, tucking the light blanket closer
about Betty. "We've pulled the child through, but she was almost gone
when I first saw her; there was just a spark of life left,--a spark of
life," repeated the doctor.
"Who was it crying?" Betty asked.
"The mother," said the doctor. "I had just told her that she was going
to keep the little girl. Why, here's a good sound sassafras lozenge in
my pocket. Now we'll have a handsome entertainment."
Betty, who had just felt as if she were going to cry for nobody knew how
long, began to laugh instead, as Dr. Prince broke his unexpected lozenge
into honest halves and presented her solemnly with one of them. There
was never such a good sassafras lozenge before or since, and Pepper
trotted steadily home to her stall and the last end of her supper. "Only
think, if the doctor hadn't known just what to do," said Betty later to
Aunt Barbara, "and how he goes all the time to people's houses! Every
day we see him going by to do things to help people. This might have
been a freezing, blowing night, and he would have gone just the same."
"Dear child, run up to your bed now," said Aunt Barbara, kissing her
good-night; for Betty was very wide awake, and still had so many things
to say. She never would forget that drive at night. She had been taught
a great lesson of the good doctor's helpfulness, but Aunt Barbara had
learned it long ago.
XIV.
THE OUT-OF-DOOR CLUB.
THE Out-of-Door Club in Tideshead was slow in getting under way, but it
was a great success at last. Its first expedition was to the Picknell
farm, to see the place where there had been a great battle with the
French and Indians, in old times, and the relics of a beaver-dam were to
be inspected besides. Mr. Picknell came to talk about the plan with Miss
Barbara Leicester, who was going to drive out to the farm in the
afternoon, and then walk back with the club, as besought by Betty. She
was highly pleased with the eagerness of her young neighbors, who had
discovered in her an unsuspected sympathy and good-fellowship at the
time of Betty's June tea-party. It had been a pity to make believe old
in all these late years, and to become more and more a stranger to the
young people. Perhaps, if the club proved a success, it would be a good
thing to have winter meetings too, and read together.
Somehow Miss Barbara had never before known exactly what to do for the
young folks. She could have a little supper for them in the evening, and
ask them to come and read with her; or perhaps she might propose to read
some good story to them, and some poetry. They ought to know something
of the great poets. Miss Mary Leicester was taken up with the important
business of her own invalidism, but it might be a very good thing for
her to take some part in such pleasant plans. Under all Aunt Barbara's
shyness and habit of formality Betty had discovered her warm and
generous heart. They had become fast friends, and, to tell the truth,
Aunt Mary was beginning to have an uneasy and wistful consciousness that
she was causing herself to be left out of many pleasures.