caused the first club meeting to be postponed until early in August; and
then, though August weather would not seem so good for out-of-door
expeditions, this one Wednesday dawned like a cool, clear June day, and
at three o'clock the fresh easterly wind had not ceased to blow and yet
had not brought in any seaward clouds. There were eleven boys and girls,
and Miss Barbara Leicester made twelve, while with the two Picknells the
club counted fourteen. The Fosters promised to come later in the summer,
but they did not feel in the least hurt because some of their friends
urged them to join in cheerful company this very day. It seemed to Betty
as if Nelly looked brighter and somehow unafraid, now that the first
miserable weeks had gone. It may have been that poor Nelly was
lighter-hearted already than she often had been in her father's
lifetime.
Betty and Mary Beck walked together, at first; but George Max asked Mary
to walk with him, so they parted. Betty liked Harry Foster better than
any other of the boys, and really missed him to-day. She was brimful of
plans about persuading her father to help Harry to study natural
history. While the club was getting ready to walk two by two, Betty
suddenly remembered that she was an odd one, and hastily took her place
between the Grants, insisting that they three must lead the procession.
The timid Grants were full of fun that day, for a wonder, and a merry
head to the procession they were with Betty, walking fast and walking
slowly, and leading the way by short cuts across-country with great
spirit. They called a halt to pick huckleberries, and they dared the
club to cross a wide brook on insecure stepping-stones. Everybody made
fun for everybody else whenever they saw an opportunity, and when they
reached the Picknell farm, quite warm and excited, they were announced
politely by George Max as "the Out-of-Breath Club." The shy Picknells
wore their best white Sunday dresses, and the long white farm-house with
its gambrel roof seemed a delightfully shady place as the club sat still
a while to cool and rest itself and drink some lemonade. Mrs. Picknell
was a thin, bright-eyed little woman, who had the reputation of being
the best housekeeper in town. She was particularly kind to Betty
Leicester, who was after all no more a stranger to her than were some of
the others who came. It was lovely to see that Mrs. Picknell and Julia
were so proud of Mary's gift drawing, and evidently managed that she
should have time for it. Mary had begun to go to Riverport every week
for a lesson.
"She heard that Mr. Clinturn, the famous artist, was spending the summer
there, and started out by herself one day to ask him to give her
lessons," Mrs. Picknell told Betty proudly. "He said at first that he
couldn't spare the time; but I had asked Mary to take two or three of
her sketches with her, and when he saw them he said that it would be a
pleasure to help her all that he could."
"I do think this picture of the old packet-boat coming up the river is
the prettiest of all. Oh, here's Aunt Barbara; do come and see this,
Aunty!" said Betty, with great enthusiasm. "It makes me think of the
afternoon I came to you."
Miss Leicester took out her eyeglasses and looked as she was bidden. "It
is a charming little water-color," she said, with delighted surprise.
"Did you really teach yourself until this summer?"
"I only had my play paint-box until last winter," said Mary Picknell. "I
am so glad you like it, Miss Leicester;" for Miss Leicester had many
really beautiful pictures of her own, and her praise was worth having.
Then Mr. Picknell took his stick from behind the door, and led the
company of guests out across the fields to a sloping rough piece of
pasture land, with a noisy brook at the bottom, where a terrible battle
had been fought in the old French and Indian war. He read them an
account of it from Mr. Parkman's history, and told all the neighborhood
traditions of the frightened settlers, and burnt houses, and murdered
children and very old people, and the terrible march of a few captives
through the winter woods to Canada. How his own great-great grandfather
and grandmother were driven away from home, and each believed the other
dead for three years, until the man escaped, and then went, hearing that
his wife was alive, to buy her freedom. They came to the farm again, and
were buried in the old burying-lot, side by side.
"There was a part of the story which you left out," Mrs. Picknell said.
"When they killed the little baby, the Indians told its poor mother not
to cry about it or they would kill her too; and when her tears would
fall, a kind-hearted squaw was quick enough to throw some water in the
poor woman's face, so that the men only laughed and thought it was a
taunt, and not done to hide tears at all."
"I have not heard these old town stories for years. We ought to thank
you heartily," said Miss Barbara, when the battle-ground had been shown
and the club had heard all the interesting things that were known about
the great fight. Then they came back by way of the old family
burying-place and read the quaint epitaphs, which Mr. Picknell himself
had cut deeper and kept from wearing away. It seemed that they never
could forget the old farm's history.
"I maintain that every old place in town ought to have its history
kept," said Mr. Picknell. "Now, you boys and girls, what do you know
about the places where you live? Why don't you make town clerks of
yourselves? Take the edges of almanacs, if you can't get courage to
begin a blank-book, and make notes of things, so that dates will be kept
for those who come after you. Most of you live where your
great-grandfathers did, and you ought to know about the old folks. Most
of what I've kept alive about this old farm I learned from my
great-grandmother, who lived to be a very old woman, and liked to tell
me stories in the long winter evenings, when I was a boy. Now we'll go
and see where the beavers used to build, down here where the salt water
makes up into the outlet of the brook. Plenty of their logs lay there
moss-covered, when I was a grown man."
Somehow the getting acquainted with each other in a new way was the best
part of the club, after all. It was quite another thing from even
sitting side by side in school, to walk these two or three miles
together. Betty Leicester had taught her Tideshead cronies something of
her own lucky secret of taking and making the pleasures that were close
at hand. It was great good fortune to get hold of a common wealth of
interest and association by means of the club; and as Mr. Picknell and
Miss Leicester talked about the founders and pioneers of the earliest
Tideshead farms, there was not a boy nor girl who did not have a sense
of pride in belonging to so valiant an old town. They could plan a dozen
expeditions to places of historic interest. There had been even witches
in Tideshead, and soldiers and scholars to find out about and remember.
There was no better way of learning American history (as Miss Leicester
said) than to study thoroughly the history of a single New England
village. As for newer towns in the West, they were all children of some
earlier settlements, and nobody could tell how far back a little careful
study would lead.
There was time for a good game of tennis after the stories were told,
and the play was watched with great excitement, but some of the club
girls strayed about the old house, part of which had been a
garrison-house. The doors stood open, and the sunshine fell pleasantly
across the floors of the old rooms. Usually they meant to go picnicking,
but to-day the Picknells had asked their friends to tea, and a delicious
country supper it was. Then they all sang, and Mary Beck's clear voice,
as usual, led all the rest. It was seven o'clock before the party was
over. The evening was cooler than August evenings usually are, and after
many leave-takings the club set off afoot toward the town.
"What a good time!" said Betty to the Grants and Aunt Barbara, for she
had claimed one Grant and let Aunt Barbara walk with the other; and
everybody said "What a good time!" at least twice, as they walked down
the lane to the road. There they stopped for a minute to sing another
verse of "Good-night, ladies," and indeed went away singing along the
road, until at last the steepness of the hill made them quiet. The
Picknells, in their doorway, listened as long as they could.
At the top of the long hill the club stopped for a minute, and kept very
still to hear the hermit-thrushes singing, and did not notice at first
that three persons were coming toward them, a tall man and a boy and
girl. Suddenly Betty's heart gave a great beat. The taller figure was
swinging a stick to and fro, in a way that she knew well; the boy was
Harry Foster, and the girl was Nelly. Surely--but the other? Oh, _yes_,
it was papa! "Oh, _papa_!" and Betty gave a strange little laugh and
flew before the rest of the club, who were still walking slowly and
sedately, and threw herself into her father's arms. Then Miss Leicester
hurried, too, and the rest of the club broke ranks, and felt for a
minute as if their peace of mind was troubled.
But Betty's papa was equal to this emergency. "This must be Becky, but
how grown!" he said to Mary Beck, holding out his hand cordially; "and
George Max, and the Grants, and--Frank Crane, is it? I used to play with
your father;" and so Mr. Leicester, pioneered by Betty, shook hands with
everybody and was made most welcome.
"You see that I know you all very well through Betty! So nobody believed
that I could come on the next train after my letter, and get here almost
as soon?" he said, holding Betty's hand tighter than ever, and looking
at her as if he wished to kiss her again. He did kiss her again, it
being his own Betty. They were very fond of each other, these two; but
some of their friends agreed with Aunt Barbara, who always said that her
nephew was much too young to have the responsibility of so tall a girl
as Betty Leicester.
Nobody noticed that Harry and Nelly Foster were there too, in the first
moment of excitement, and so the first awkwardness of taking up
every-day life again with their friends was passed over easily. As for
our Betty, she fairly danced along the road as they went homeward, and
could not bear to let go her hold of her father's hand. It was even more
dear and delightful than she had dreamed to have him back again.
XV.
THE STARLIGHT COMES IN.
THERE was a most joyful evening in the old Leicester house. Everybody
forgot to speak about Betty's going to bed, and even Aunt Mary was in
high spirits. It was wonderful how much good a little excitement did for
her, and Betty had learned that an effort to be entertaining always
brought the pleasant reward of saving Aunt Mary from a miserable,
tedious morning or afternoon. When she waked next morning, her first
thought was about papa, and her next that Aunt Mary was likely to have a
headache after sitting up so late. Betty herself was tired, and felt as
if it were the day after the fair; but when she hurried down to
breakfast she found Aunt Barbara alone, and was told that papa had risen
at four o'clock, and, as she expressed it to Aunt Mary a little later,
stolen his breakfast from Serena and gone down to Riverport on the
packet, the tide having served at that early hour.
"I heard a clacketing in the kitchen closet," said Serena, "and I just
got my skirt an' a cape on to me an' flew down to see what 't was. I
expected somebody was took with fits; an' there was y'r father with both
his hands full o' somethin' he'd collected to stay himself with, an' he
looked 's much o' a boy's ever he did, and I so remarked, an' he told me
he was goin' to Riverport. 'Want a little change, I s'pose?' says I, an'
he laughed good an' clipped it out o' the door and down towards the
landin'."
"I wonder what he's after now, Serena?" said Betty sagely, but Serena
shook her head absently. It was evident to Betty's mind that papa had
shaken off all thought of care, and was taking steps towards some
desired form of enjoyment. He had been disappointed the evening before
to find that there were hardly any boats to be had. Very likely he meant
to bring one up on the packet that afternoon; but Betty was disappointed
not to find him in the house, and thought that he might have called her
to go down on the packet with him. She felt as if she were going to
have a long and dull morning.
However, she found that Aunt Mary was awake and in a cheerful frame, so
she brought her boots in, and sat by the garden window while she put
some new buttons on with the delightful little clamps that save so many
difficult stitches. Aunt Mary was already dressed, though it was only
nine o'clock, and was seated before an open bureau drawer, which her
grandniece had learned to recognize as a good sign. Aunt Mary had
endless treasures of the past carefully tucked away in little bundles
and boxes, and she liked to look these over, and to show them to Betty,
and tell their history. She listened with great eagerness to Betty's
account of papa's departure.
"I was afraid that you would feel tired this morning," said the girl,
turning a bright face toward her aunt.
"I am sure I expected it myself," replied Aunt Mary plaintively, "but it
isn't neuralgia weather, perhaps. At any rate, I am none the worse."
"I believe that a good frolic is the very best thing for you," insisted
Betty, feeling very bold; but Aunt Mary received this news amiably,
though she made no reply. Betty had recovered by this time from her
sense of bitter wrong at her father's departure, and after she had
talked with Aunt Mary a little while about the grand success of the
Out-of-Door Club, she went her ways to find Becky.
Becky was in a very friendly mood, and admired Mr. Leicester, and
wondered too at ever having been afraid of him in other years, when she
used to see him walking sedately down the street.
"Papa is very sober sometimes when he is hard at work," explained Betty
with eagerness. "He gets very tired, and then--oh, I don't mean that
papa is ever aggravating, but for days and days I know that he is
working hard and can't stop to hear about my troubles, so I try not to
talk to him; but he always makes up for it after a while. I don't mind
now, but when I was a little girl and first went away from here I used
to be lonely, and even cry sometimes, and of course I didn't understand.
We get on beautifully now, and I like to read so much that I can always
cover up the dull times with a nice book."
"Do they last long,--the dull times?" asked Mary Beck in an unusually
sympathetic voice. Betty had spoken sadly, and it dawned upon her
friend's mind that life was not all a holiday even to Betty Leicester.
"Ever so long," answered Betty briskly; "but you see I have my mending
and housekeeping when we are in lodgings. We are masters of the
situation now, papa always says; but when I was too small to look after
him, we used to have to depend upon old lodging-house women, and they
made us miserable, though I love them all for the sake of the good ones
who will let you go into the kitchen yourself and make a cup of tea for
papa just right, and be honest and good, and cry when you go away
instead of slamming the door. Oh, I could tell you stories, Mary Eliza
Beck!" and Betty took one or two frisky steps along the sidewalk as if
she meant to dance. Mary Beck felt as if she were looking out of a very
small and high garret window at a vast and surprising world. She was not
sure that she should not like to keep house in country lodgings, though,
and order the dinner, and have a housekeeping purse, as Betty had done
these three or four years. They had often talked about these
experiences; but Becky's heart always faltered when she thought of being
alone in strange houses and walking alone in strange streets. Sometimes
Betty had delightful visits, and excellent town lodgings, and
diversified hotel life of the most entertaining sort. She seemed to be
thinking about all this and reflecting upon it deeply. "I wish that papa
and I were going to be here a year," she said. "I love Tideshead."
* * * * *
Mr. Leicester did not wait to come back with the packet boat, but
appeared by the stage from the railway station in good season for
dinner. He was very hungry, and looked well satisfied with his morning's
work, and he told Betty that she should know toward the end of the
afternoon the reason of his going to Riverport, so that there was
nothing to do but to wait. She was disappointed, because she had fancied
that he meant to bring home a new row-boat; perhaps, after all, he had
made some arrangements about it. Why, yes! it might be coming up by the
packet, and they would go out together that very evening. Betty could
hardly wait for the hour to come.
When dinner was over, papa was enticed up to see the cubby-house, while
the aunts took their nap. There was a little roast pig for dinner, and
Aunt Barbara had been disappointed to find that her guest had gone away,
as it was his favorite dinner; but his unexpected return made up for
everything, and they had a great deal of good fun. Papa was in the best
of spirits, and went out to speak to Serena about the batter pudding as
soon as Aunt Barbara rose from her chair.
"Now don't you tell me you don't get them batter puddings a sight better
in the dwellings of the rich and great," insisted Serena, with great
complacency. "Setting down to feast with lords and dukes, same's you do,
you must eat of the best the year round. We do season the sauce well, I
will allow. Miss Barbara, she always thinks it may need a drop more."
"Serena," said Betty's father solemnly, "I assure you that I have eaten
a slice of bacon between two tough pieces of hard tack for my dinner
many a day this summer, and I haven't had such a batter pudding since
the last one you made yourself."
"You don't tell me they're goin' out o' fashion," said Serena, much
shocked. "I know some ain't got the knack o' makin' 'em."
Betty stood by, enjoying the conversation. Serena always said proudly
that a great light of intellect would have been lost to the world if she
had not rescued Mr. Leicester from the duck-pond when he was a boy, and
they were indeed the best of friends. Serena's heart rejoiced when
anybody praised her cooking, and she turned away now toward the pantry
with a beaming smile, while the father and daughter went up to the
garret.
It was hot there at this time of day; still the great elms outside kept
the sun from shining directly on the roof, and a light breeze was
blowing in at the dormer window.
Mr. Leicester sat down in the high-backed wooden rocking-chair, and
looked about the quaint little place with evident pleasure. Betty was
perched on the window-sill. She had looked forward eagerly to this
moment.
"There is my old butterfly-net," he exclaimed, "and my minerals,
and--why, all the old traps! Where did you find them? I remember that
once I came up here and found everything cleared away but the
gun,--they were afraid to touch that."
"I looked in the boxes under the eaves," explained Betty. "Your little
Fourth of July cannon is there in the dark corner. I had it out at
first, but Becky tumbled over it three times, and once Aunt Mary heard
the noise and had a palpitation of the heart, so I pushed it back again
out of the way. I did so wish that you were here to fire it. I had
almost forgotten what fun the Fourth is. I wrote you all about it,
didn't I?"
"Some day we will come to Tideshead and have a great celebration, to
make up for losing that," said papa. "Betty, my child, I'm sleepy. I
don't know whether it is this rocking-chair or Serena's dinner."
"Perhaps it was getting up so early in the morning," suggested Betty.
"Go to sleep, papa. I'll say some of my new pieces of poetry. I learned
all you gave me, and some others beside."
"Not the 'Scholar Gypsy,' I suppose?"
"Yes, indeed," said Betty. "The last of it was hard, but all those
verses about the fields are lovely, and make me remember that spring
when we lived in Oxford. That was the only long one you gave me. I am
not sure that I can say it without the book. I always play that I am in
the 'high field corner' looking down at the meadows, and I can remember
the first pages beautifully."
Papa's eyes were already shut, and by the time Betty had said
"All the live murmur of a summer's day"
she found that he was fast asleep. She stole a glance at him now and
then, and a little pang went through her heart as she saw that his hair
was really growing gray. Aunt Mary and Aunt Barbara appeared to believe
that he was hardly more than a boy, but to Betty thirty-nine years was a
long lifetime, and indeed her father had achieved much more than most
men of his age. She was afraid of waking him and kept very still, so
that a sparrow lit on the window-sill and looked at her a moment or two
before he flew away again. She could even hear the pigeons walking on
the roof overhead and hopping on the shingles, with a tap, from the
little fence that went about the house-top. When Mr. Leicester waked he
still wished to hear the "Scholar Gypsy," which was accordingly begun
again, and repeated with only two or three stops. Sometimes they said a
verse together, and then they fell to talking about some of the people
whom they both loved in Oxford, and had a delightful hour together. At
first Betty had not liked to learn long poems, and thought her father
was stern and inconsiderate in choosing such old and sober ones; but she
was already beginning to see a reason for it, and was glad, if for
nothing else, to know the poems papa himself liked best, even if she did
not wholly understand them. It was easy now to remember a new one, for
she had learned so many. Aunt Barbara was much pleased with this
accomplishment, for she had learned a great many herself in her
lifetime. It seemed to be an old custom in the Leicester family, and
Betty thought one day that she could let this gift stand in the place of
singing as Becky could; one's own friends were not apt to care so much
for poetry, but older people liked to be "repeated" to. One night,
however, she had said Tennyson's ballad of "The Revenge" to Harry Foster
and Nelly as they came up the river, and they liked it surprisingly.
Papa reached for the old guitar presently and after mending the broken
strings he began to sing a delightful little Italian song, a great
favorite of Betty's. Then there was a step on the stairs, Aunt Barbara's
dignified head appeared behind the railing, and they called her to come
up and join them.
"I felt as if there must be ghosts walking in daylight when I heard the
old guitar," she said a little wistfully. When she was seated in the
rocking-chair and Betty's father had pulled forward a flowered tea-chest
for himself, he went on with his singing, and then played a Spanish
dancing tune, with a nod to Betty, so that she skipped at once to the
open garret-floor and took the pretty steps with much gayety. Aunt
Barbara smiled and kept time with her foot; then she left the prim
rocking-chair and began to follow the dance too, soberly chasing Betty
and receding and even twirling her about, until they were both out of
breath and came back to their places very warm and excited. They looked
strangely alike as they danced. Betty was almost as tall and only a
little more quick and graceful than her grandaunt.
"It is such fun to be just the same age as you and papa," insisted
Betty. "We do everything together now." She took on a pretty grown-up
air, and looked at Aunt Barbara admiringly. It was only this summer that
she had begun to understand how young grown people really are. Aunt Mary
seemed much older because she had stopped doing so many pleasant things.
This garret dance was a thing to remember. Betty liked Aunt Barbara
better every day, but it had never occurred to her that she knew that
particular Spanish dance. An army officer's wife had taught it to Betty
and some of her friends the summer she was in the Isle of Wight. Becky
had been brought up to be very doubtful about dancing, which was a great
pity, for she was apt to be stiff and awkward when she walked or tried
to move about in the room. Somehow she moved her feet as if they had
been made too heavy for her, but she learned a good deal from trying to
keep step as she walked with Betty, who was naturally light-footed.
Mr. Leicester put down the guitar at last, and said that he had an
errand to do, and that Betty had better come along.