A KEEN DISAPPOINTMENT
"I'M just as bad as he is, every bit," sobbed poor little Betty. "Uncle
Dick would say so. I'm in his house, much as I hate it, and I hadn't
any right to call him names--only he is so hateful! Oh, dear, I wonder
if I shall ever get away from here!"
She cried herself into a headache, and had no heart to open the parcel
of groceries or to go down to ask Mrs. Peabody for something to eat,
though indeed the girl knew she stood small chance of securing as much
as a cracker after the dinner hour.
Suddenly some one put a soothing hand on her hot forehead, and, opening
her swollen eyes, Betty saw Mrs. Peabody standing beside the bed.
"You poor lamb!" said the woman compassionately. "You mustn't go on
like this, dear. You'll make yourself sick. I'm going to close the
blinds and shut out the sun; then I'll get a cold cloth for your head.
You'd feel better if you had something to eat, though. You mustn't go
without your meals, child."
"I've got some crackers and bouillon cubes," replied Betty wearily. "I
suppose Mr. Peabody wouldn't mind if I used a little hot water from the
tea kettle?"
She bit her tongue with vexation at the sarcasm, but Mrs. Peabody
apparently saw no implication.
"The kitchen fire's gone out, but the kettle's still hot," she
answered. "I'll step down and get you a cup. I have just ninety cobs
to get supper on, or I'd build up a fresh fire for you. Joe counts the
cobs; he wants they should last till the first of July."
"Oh, how do you stand it?" burst from Betty. "I should think you'd go
crazy. Don't you ever want to scream?"
Mrs. Peabody stopped in the doorway.
"I used to care," she admitted apathetically. "Not any more. You can
get used to anything. Besides, it's no use, Betty; you'll find that
out. Flinging yourself against a stone wall only bruises you--the wall
doesn't even feel you trying."
"Bring up two cups," called Betty, as Mrs. Peabody started down stairs.
"I'll bet she flung herself against the stone wall till all the spirit
and life was crushed out of her," mused the girl, lying flat on her
back, her eyes fixed on the fly-specked ceiling. "Poor soul, it must be
awful to have to give up even trying."
Mrs. Peabody came back with two cracked china cups and saucers, and a
tea kettle half full of passably hot water. Betty forgot her throbbing
head as she bustled about, spreading white paper napkins on the
bed--there was no table and only one chair in the room--and arranging
her crackers and a package of saltines which she deftly spread with
potted ham.
"We'll have a make-believe party," she declared tactfully, dropping a
couple of soup cubes in each cup and adding the hot water. "I'm sure
you're hungry; you jump up so much at the table, you don't half eat
your meals."
Mrs. Peabody raised her eyes--faded eyes but still honest.
"I've no more pride left," she said quietly.
"Goodness!" exclaimed Betty, "I bought you something this morning, and
haven't given it to you."
Mrs. Peabody was as pleased as a child with the pretty bottle of toilet
water, and Betty extracted a promise from her that she would use it for
her headaches, and not "save" it.
"If I was going to stay," thought Betty, stowing her packages of
goodies under the bed as the most convenient place presenting itself,
"I might be able to make things a little pleasanter for Mrs. Peabody. I
do wonder when Uncle Dick will write."
She had allowed four days as the shortest time in which her uncle could
possibly get an answer to her, so she was agreeably delighted when, on
going out to the mailbox at the head of the lane the third morning, she
found a letter addressed to her and postmarked "Philadelphia." There
was no other mail in the box. The Peabodys did not even subscribe for a
weekly paper.
"Bob!" shouted Betty, hurdling a fence and bearing down upon that youth
as he hoed corn in a near by field. "Bob, here's a letter from Uncle
Dick! He's answered so soon, I'm sure he says I can come to him. Won't
that be great?"
Bob nodded grimly and went on with his work while Betty eagerly
tore open her envelope. After she had read the first few lines the
brightness went out of her face, and when she looked up at Bob she was
crying.
"What's the matter, is he sick?" asked the boy in alarm.
"He hasn't had my letter at all!" wept Betty. "He never got it! This
was written the same day I wrote him, and he says he's going out to
the oil wells and won't be in touch with civilization for some weeks
to come. His lawyer in Philadelphia is to hold his mail, and send the
checks for my board. And he thinks I'm having a good time with his old
friend Agatha and encloses a check for ten dollars for me to spend.
Oh, Bob!" and the unhappy Betty flung her arms around the neck of the
astonished Bob and cried as though her heart would break.
"There, there!" Bob patted her awkwardly, in his excitement hitting
her with the hoe handle, but neither of them knew that. "There, Betty,
maybe things won't be as bad as you think. You can go to Glenside and
get books from the library--they've got a right nice little library.
It would be nice if you had a bicycle or something to go on, but you
haven't."
"Uncle's sending me a riding habit," said Betty, wiping her eyes. "And
a whole bundle of books and a parcel of magazines. He says he never yet
saw a farm with enough reading material on the parlor table. I will be
glad to have something to read."
"Sure. And Sundays I can borrow a magazine," and Bob's eyes shone with
anticipated enjoyment. "Sunday's the one day I have any time to myself
and there's never much to do."
Betty slipped the letter into her blouse pocket. She was bitterly
disappointed to think that she must stay at Bramble Farm, and she did
not relish the idea of having to confess to the Peabodys that her plans
for leaving them had been rather premature.
"I say," Bob looked up from his hoeing, the shrewd light in his eyes
that made him appear older than his thirteen years. "I say, Betty, if
you're wise, you won't say anything about this letter up at the house.
Old Peabody doesn't know you've written to your uncle, and he'll think
you changed your mind. I half believe he thinks you were only speaking
in a fit of temper, anyway. If you tell him you can't reach your uncle
by letter, and have to stay here for the next few weeks whether you
will or no, he'll think he has you right where he wants you. He can't
help taking advantage of every one."
"Doesn't any one ever come to call?" Betty asked a day or two later,
following Bob out to the pasture to help him salt the sheep.
It was a Sunday morning, and even Mr. Peabody so far respected the
Sabbath that he exacted only half as much as usual from his help.
The milking, of course, had to be done, and the stock fed, but that
accomplished, after breakfast, Wapley and Lieson, the hired men, had
set off to walk to Glenside to spend their week's wages as they saw
fit. They had long ago, after wordy battles, learned the futility of
trying to borrow a horse from Mr. Peabody.
Bob had finished his usual chores, and after salting the sheep would be
practically free for the day. He and Betty had planned to take their
books out into the orchard and enjoy the peaceful sunniness of the
lovely June weather.
"Come to call?" repeated Bob, letting down the bars of the rocky
pasture. "What would they come to call for? No one would be civil to
'em, and Mrs. Peabody runs when she sees any one coming. She hasn't got
a decent dress; so I don't blame her much. Here, you sit down and I'll
call them."
Betty sat down on a flat rock and Bob spread out his salt on another.
The sheep knew his voice and came slowly toward him.
"Come on now, Betty, and let's have a whack at that magazine, the one
about out West," said Bob at last.
The promised package of books and magazines had arrived, and Betty had
generously placed them at the disposal of the household. Wapley and
Lieson had displayed a pathetic eagerness for "pictures," and sat up
after supper as long as the light lasted, turning over the illustrated
pages. Betty doubted if they could read.