The reception parlors were massed with ferns, palms and roses. The soft
strains of an orchestra floated through the rooms. There were men in
full dress and women in soft-tinted gowns, moving about like a swarm of
gay butterflies. The receiving line was made up of a dozen women. Miss
Ellis stood at the head, next to her was Mrs. Laurens who was an officer
in the National Federation of the Club. Then came Eliza. They had barely
time to take their places before the guests began making their way from
the dressing-rooms on the floor above. A colored man, in full evening
dress, stood in the doorway and called out the names of those entering.
The head of the line shook hands, introduced the person to the next in
line, and so each one passed on. There were so many that the names
became but a jumble to Eliza. "Dr. James Smith, Mrs. Ellington Roche,
Miss Brown," and so on. She smiled, shook hands and handed the guest on
to the next. She was performing her duties in a mechanical sort of way,
forgetting name and person the instant he had passed before her.
Suddenly she started and became very much alert. Mrs. Laurens was
addressing her personally. "Miss Wells, permit me to introduce Dr.
William Barnes Hillis, the scientist. He has asked to be introduced. I
am surprised that you have not met before. Dr. Hillis has been in your
neighborhood for a year, living the life of a hermit in order that he
might finish his new book and win new laurels."
Eliza extended her hand. Speech failed her. She looked up into the
laughing eyes of the "tramp." He was dressed in conventional evening
dress.
"Miss Wells, I am delighted to meet you." His smile was radiant. Eliza
could not even smile. She stood quite still and looked at him.
"Beth was right about how fine you would look." He spoke so low that no
one else might hear, and then moved along the line.
The greater number of guests had arrived. There was time for a word
between the hostesses. Mrs. Laurens turned to Eliza. "I'm sure you will
like Hillis--I presume I should say Dr. Hillis. He is authority on plant
life and has delved deep into all kindred sciences. He shut himself up
somewhere in the wilds the last year in order to devote his time to
writing. He dropped in upon us last night and demanded that I give him a
card to the reception. He told me something else. He's going to make a
tour of the eastern countries. I think he starts early in the fall. He's
not going alone. He told me that the prospective Mrs. Hillis would be
here tonight, and defied me to discover her."
"Yes--how--interesting--romantic." Eliza did not recognize her own
voice. It was hollow, stilted, false.
The last guest had been bidden welcome. The hostesses moved from the
reception line, and mingled with those they were entertaining.
In a room adjoining, the young girls were serving fruit punch from a
side-table. Helen and Sallie were ladling it from a bowl hidden among
flowers and ferns. Beth and Carrie Laire were hidden amid masses of cut
roses. As the guests came to them, they pinned a rose upon them.
Mrs. Laurens came up with a group of four.
"Roses presenting roses," said one of the gentlemen as Carrie pinned the
flower on his coat. Beth's face had been turned away. She was selecting
a fine half-blown rose for Mrs. Laurens. She turned to present it. Her
hands with their peculiar old-fashioned rings were brought into
evidence.
"Will you have a rose?" Mrs. Laurens did not answer. She stood as though
transfixed, her eyes upon Beth's hands.
Suddenly she seized them tight into her own. "Your rings! Your rings!
Where did you get them? They are mine. I'd give worlds to know of them.
They're mine! They're mine!"
Her voice rang out clear and strong. Everyone in the great room heard.
Poor Beth was frightened so that she could not speak. People came
crowding closer. Eliza and Dr. Hillis, fearing that something had
happened to Beth, hurried forward. There stood Mrs. Laurens clutching
Beth's hands and crying out, "The rings! The rings are mine. I must know
where you got them, child."
Dr. Hillis was the first to understand. He came to them. "You and Beth
come with me into this little private parlor. We can explain better
there." Taking them by the arm, he led them away. "Come with us," he
said to Eliza. She followed. The door closed upon them, and there the
explanation was given.
Very simple of course it was. Mrs. Laurens was Beth's mother, to be
sure. It was as clear as could be when one knew it.
When Beth was a baby, Mrs. Laurens had taken her to Florida where Mr.
Laurens had undertaken heavy contracts. She had with her Bena Benson, a
Swedish servant who had been with the family for years and who dearly
loved Beth.
Mr. Laurens was taken ill during the winter and was in the hospital. A
few weeks later, his wife was taken with the same low-running fever. The
physician forbade their being moved north to their home. The little
child could not be left in a hotel in a servant's care. There was a risk
in staying in the infected region. The only thing to be done was to send
the child and nurse north to friends.
Mrs. Laurens wore several rings which had come down to her from her
mother's people. She was ill in the hospital. Fearing that the rings
might be lost, she instructed Bena to take them home with her. At
Baltimore, the Swedish woman had become confused. She asked for
information as to the best way to "Yamestown," as she called it. Her
pronunciation was foreign. Instead of selling her a ticket and checking
her baggage to the right destination, the man in his hurry misunderstood
and sent her hundreds of miles out of her way. She had realized her
mistake when the train reached Farwell. She had left the train there and
was walking to the Lehigh station in the hope of returning to Baltimore.
Weeks had passed before Mr. and Mrs. Laurens heard of her. They were too
ill to be conscious of the lapse of time. When they began the search all
trace was lost, even the newspaper accounts had gone astray.
----
So Miss Eliza lost Beth after all. I think not. We can never really lose
those we love and those who love us. They are always ours.
She slipped away, leaving the mother and daughter together. She could
not face the people in the drawing-room. She slipped into the open
corridor, where the palms hid her from view and the lights were low.
Here she stood leaning against the heavy columns which supported the
ceiling.
"She was glad--so glad for Beth," she told herself. She repeated it
mechanically as though she would force herself to believe that she
really was glad.
"I'm glad--for Beth. I'm glad for Beth that she has a real mother." It
was her lips only which said it. How could she go back to the lonely
house? How could she sit down to her meals alone? How could she live
without her little girl?
She tried bravely to keep back the tears, but they gathered in her eyes
and fell down her cheeks. She choked back a sob. She could not reenter
the room and face the people. She would go home alone. Alone--she could
not do that. She would hang to that pillar all night rather than that.
She could not, she would not go home alone.
"You are troubled, Adee." It was Dr. Hillis who addressed her. She
controlled herself and said with what brightness she could, "Not
troubled; lonely. Beth has found her mother. I am glad. That is, I am
trying hard to be glad; but I cannot help the thought that I will be
alone."
"For that matter, so will I. Strange thing about this being alone. Just
about the time one gets used to it, one finds that he simply cannot
stand another day of it. I have been alone all my life, but I never
realized it until the day I was ill and Beth came down to see me."
He paused. There was nothing at all that Adee could say to this. Silence
was the only thing. Eliza felt that he was looking at her, keenly, but
she did not raise her eyes.
"You will not be lonely long. You know what I read in the coals. Fall
weather is fine for going about abroad; going where you want to and not
leaving until you are ready. What do you think, Adee? Could you let me
take Beth's place? Will you let the dream in the coals come true?"
"I'll not let you take Beth's place," she spoke slowly. "You must take
your own place." She held out her hand. "But I can't possibly be ready
very early in the fall."
So it ended like a fairy story. Nay, for it was far better than a fairy
tale. All stories of human life are.
Beth, or Ermann, as her name really was, divided her time between Eliza
and her own mother. It would have been a hard matter to decide which she
loved most.
The prophecy concerning Adee which Dr. Hillis had read in the embers at
the old Oliver Place came true. He and Adee were married and went
abroad, where he was received with ovations because of the fine
scientific work he had done. Adee was feted and feasted and entertained
in palaces. Beth was not with her, of course. Strange to relate, Adee
was not lonely. Sometimes her husband would tease her about her "tramp"
friends. They would laugh heartily over the matter. All the best things
of life had come to Adee because she had sacrificed her ease and denied
herself to take care of a helpless little child. She might have sent
Beth to a foundling asylum. How narrow, little and petty her life would
have always been, had she done this.
Mrs. Laurens had suffered; but good came through it after all. After
losing trace of her own little child she had devoted her money and time
to making happy other motherless children. Through her own suffering,
she herself was strengthened and developed, and hundreds of children
were made comfortable.
Beth, or Ermann, finished a college course and then offered her services
to the Fresh Air Society. She takes charge of babies who are motherless,
or whose mothers are not responsible. She realizes what her life might
have been if Adee had sent her away, and tries to give the little ones
in her care the same love and tenderness that she knew.
So wonderful good came from suffering, because those who suffered were
strong, and fulfilled their duty nobly.
So ends the tale of Beth, or Ermann, just as you choose to think of her.
But in her own thoughts, she thinks of herself as "That little girl of
Miss Liza's," and so the old residents of the valley speak of her.