AUNT BETTIE.
"Oh, dear!" yawned Grace Minton, "how I do hate stormy Saturdays!"
"So do I!" exclaimed Georgie Graham; "they are a perfect nuisance, and
we were going up to Aunt Bettie's this afternoon."
"Who's we?"
"Oh, 'her royal highness' for one, and your humble servant for another;
Sarah Brown, Flo Stevenson, and Rachel Drayton, _of_ course. By the way,
how terribly intimate those two have grown! I don't believe 'her
highness' relishes their being so dreadfully thick."
"What in the world makes you call Marion 'her highness'?" said Grace.
"Oh, because she _is_ so high and mighty; she walks round here sometimes
as if she were queen and we her subjects."
"No such thing, Georgie Graham!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, who came in just
as the last remark was made, and knew very well to whom it alluded; "she
doesn't trouble herself about us at all."
"That's just it; she thinks herself superior to us poor _plebeians_."
"Stuff and nonsense! You know you're jealous of her, and always have
been."
"Oh, no!" replied Georgie, who, no matter how much she might be
provoked, always spoke _to_ any one in a soft purring voice. "Oh, no!
I'm not jealous of her; there is no reason why I should be. But really,
Sarah, I don't see why you need take up the cudgel for her so fiercely;
she always snubs you every chance she gets."
Sarah tossed her head, blushing scarlet; for the remark certainly had a
good deal of truth in it, and was none the less cutting for being made
in a particularly mild tone.
"Well, at any rate," said Grace Minton, for the sake of changing the
subject, "I think Rachel Drayton is lovely."
"Lovely!" exclaimed Georgie, "she's a perfect stick! I don't see what
there is lovely about her, and for my part I wish she had never come
here."
"Seems to me the tune has changed," broke in Sarah. "I thought you were
one of the ones who were so down on Marion Berkley for saying the same
thing."
"Oh, that was before I had seen her," replied Georgie, not at all
disconcerted.
"In other words, you said it just so as to have an opportunity to differ
with Marion," retorted Sarah. "I really believe you hate her!"
"Sarah, how can you get so excited? it is so very unbecoming, you know,"
purred Georgie. Sarah flounced out of the room too indignant for speech,
and just as she was going through the hall met Marion, who was in an
unusually pleasant mood.
"See, Sarah, it is clearing off; we shall have a chance for our walk, I
guess, after all."
"Do you think so? It will be awful sloppy though, won't it?"
"No, I don't believe it will; besides who cares for that? We are not
made of sugar or salt."
"How many are going?" asked Sarah.
"I don't know exactly; let me see." And Marion counted off on her
fingers. "You for one, and I for another; that's two. Miss Drayton and
Florence are four. Grace Minton, if she wants to go, five; and Georgie
Graham six."
At the mention of the last name, Sarah gave her head a toss, which was
so very expressive that Marion could not help laughing, and exclaimed,
"Oh, yes! you know 'her royal highness' must allow some of the
_plebeians_ among her subjects to follow in her train."
Sarah laughed softly. "Did you hear?" she whispered.
Marion nodded, and just at that moment Georgie came out of the room
where she had been sitting. "What was that you said, Marion, about 'her
highness'?" she asked. "Did you think that the title applied to
yourself?"
"I shouldn't have thought of such a thing, Georgie, if I hadn't
overheard your remarks, and of course I could not but feel gratified at
the honorable distinction."
"How do you know it was meant for an honorable distinction?"
"How can I doubt it, Georgie, when it was bestowed upon me by such an
amiable young lady as yourself? Now if it had been Sarah, I might have
thought _she_ said it out of spite; but of course when Georgie Graham
said it, I knew it was intended as a tribute to my superiority;" and
Marion made a provokingly graceful courtesy.
"There is nothing like having a good opinion of one's self," replied
Georgie.
"But you see you are mistaken there, Georgie; it was you who seemed to
have such a high opinion of me. You know I didn't claim the
greatness,--it was 'thrust upon me;'" and Marion, satisfied with that
shaft, turned on her heel, and opening the front door went out on to
the piazza, followed by Sarah, who had been a silent but appreciative
witness of the scene.
Georgie Graham shut her teeth, muttering in anything but her usual soft
tones, and with an expression in her eyes which was anything but
pleasant to see, "Oh, how I hate you! But I'll be even with you yet!"
The shower which had so disconcerted the whole school was evidently
clearing off, and there was every prospect that the proposed plan of
walking to Aunt Bettie's directly after dinner might be carried into
execution.
Aunt Bettie, as all the school-girls called her, was a farmer's wife,
who supplied the school with eggs, butter, and cheese, and during the
summer with fresh vegetables and berries.
She lived about two or three miles from the school, on the same road,
and the girls often went to see her. She was fond of them all, although
she had her favorites, among whom was Marion; and she always kept a good
supply of doughnuts, for which she was quite famous, on hand for them
whenever they might come.
The sun kept his promise, and before dinner-time the girls were all out
on the piazza, getting up an appetite they said, although that was not
often wanting with any of them.
The party for Aunt Bettie's numbered eight,--Rose May and Fannie Thayer
having begged Marion to ask permission for them to go,--and they all set
out for their walk in high spirits. Although Marion treated Rachel with
a certain degree of politeness, she never spoke to her unless it was
absolutely necessary, and then always addressed her as Miss Drayton,
although every other girl in school had, by this time, become accustomed
to familiarly call her Rachel. Florence had done everything in her power
to draw Marion into their conversation at table, but seeing that she was
determined not to change her manner, she thought it best to take no
more notice of it, as by doing so it only made it the more apparent to
Rachel that Marion had no intention of becoming better acquainted with
her.
Rachel had been there but a short time, and already Marion began to feel
that Florence was turning from her for a new friend. This was not really
the case, and Florence, who knew Marion's feelings, was secretly very
much troubled.
She loved Marion as deeply and truly as ever; but she could not turn
away from that motherless girl, between whom and herself an instinctive
sympathy seem to have been established, arising from the loss which they
had each felt, and which naturally drew them closer to each other.
Florence had never known her mother, but the loss was none the less
great to her; she felt that there was a place in the heart that none but
a mother's love could ever have filled, and no matter how bright and
happy she might feel, there was at times a sense of utter loneliness
about her which she found hard to dispel.
Rachel seemed to turn to her as her only friend among that crowd of
strangers, and she could not refuse to give her her friendship in
return, even at the risk of seeing Marion for a time estranged from her;
for she trusted to Marion's better nature, hoping that in the future she
would not be misjudged, and that all might be made pleasant and happy
again.
And so to-day for the first time since they had been to school together,
Florence and Marion were taking their Saturday afternoon walk with
separate companions. Marion had Rose May by the hand, while she told
Sarah Brown to take care of little Fannie. Florence and Rachel were
directly in front of her, and she knew that they would have been happy
to have had her join in their conversation. In fact, they spoke so that
she could hear every word they said; but she occupied herself by
telling Rose a story of such remarkable length and interest as to
perfectly enchant the child, who exclaimed as they reached the
farm-house, "O Marion, you do tell the best stories; I really think you
_ought_ to write a book!" Marion laughed, but had no chance to answer,
for at that moment the door opened and Aunt Bettie appeared upon the
threshold.
"Wall, gals, I be glad to see ye; this is a sight good for old eyes!"
"Did you expect us, auntie?" asked Marion.
"Spect yer, child! why, I been a-lookin' for yer these three Saturdays
past! What you been a-doin' that's kept yer so long?"
"Well, nothing in particular; but you see the term has only just begun,
and we've hardly got settled."
"Oh, yes, honey, I know; I haint laid it up agin yer. But who's this new
one?--yer haint introduced me."
As Marion showed no inclination to perform the ceremony Florence
presented Rachel, remarking that she was a new scholar from the West.
But Aunt Bettie's keen eyes took in at a glance the deep mourning
apparel, and her kind heart at once divined its cause; and she exclaimed
with great heartiness as she took Rachel's hands in her own rough palms,
"Wall, child, you couldn't 'a come to a better place than Miss
Stiffback's, and you couldn't 'a got in with a better lot o' girls; take
em as they come, they're about as good a set as I knows on!"
"O Aunt Bettie!" exclaimed Florence; "flattering, as I live! I wouldn't
have believed it of you."
"Not a bit of it, child; just plain speakin', a thing that never hurt
anybody yet, according to my notion. But come in, gals; come in, you
must be tired after your long walk, and the tin box is most a-bustin'
its sides, I crammed it so full."
The girls laughed, for they all knew what the tin box contained, and
were only too ready to be called upon to empty it.
They all seated themselves in the large, old-fashioned kitchen, with its
low ceiling and tremendous open fireplace, surmounted by a narrow shelf,
on which was displayed a huge Bible, and a china shepherdess in a green
skirt and pink bodice, smiling tenderly over two glass lamps and a
Britannia teapot, at a china shepherd in a yellow jacket and sky-blue
smalls; being, I suppose, exact representations of the sheep-tenders of
that part of the country.
Aunt Bettie bustled in and out of the huge pantry, bringing out a large
tin box filled to the top with delicious brown, spicy doughnuts, and a
large earthen pitcher of new milk.
"There, gals," as she put a tray of tumblers on the table, "jest help
yerselves, and the more yer eat, why the better I shall be suited."
"Suppose we should go through the box and not leave any for Jabe; what
should you say to that?" asked Marion.
"Never you mind Jabe; trust him for getting his fill. Eat all yer want,
and then stuff the rest in yer pockets."
"Oh, that wouldn't do at all!" exclaimed Marion; "you don't know what a
fuss we had about those Julia Thayer carried home last year! Miss
Stiefbach didn't like it at all; she said it was bad enough bringing
boxes from home, but going round the neighborhood picking up cake was
disgraceful. She never knew exactly who took them to school, for Julia
kept mum; but I don't think it would do to try it again."
"Wall, I think that was too bad of Miss Stiffback; she knows nothin'
pleases me so much as to have you come here and eat my doughnuts, and if
you choose to carry some on 'em to school, what harm did it do? She
ought to remember that she was a gal once herself."
"Oh, mercy! auntie, I don't believe she ever was," ejaculated
Marion. "She was born Miss Stiefbach, and I wouldn't be at all
surprised if she wore the same stiff dresses, and had the same
I'm-a-little-better-than-any-body-else look when she was a baby."
"Wall, child, she's a good woman after all. You know there aint any of
us perfect; we all hev our faults; if it aint one thing it's another;
it's pretty much the same the world over."
"You do make the best doughnuts, Aunt Bettie, _I_ ever eat," declared
Fannie Thayer, who was leaning with both elbows on the table, a piece of
a doughnut in one hand, and a whole one in the other as a reserve force.
"Wall, child, I ginerally kalkerlate I ken match any one going on
doughnuts; but 't seemed to me these weren't 's good as common. I had
something on my mind that worrited me when I was mixin' 'em, and I
'spose I wasn't quite as keerful as usual."
"If _you_ don't call these good, _I_ do!" ejaculated Miss Fannie. "Why,
I just wish you could have seen some Julia made last summer. She took a
cooking-fit, and tried most everything; mother said she wasted more eggs
and butter than she was worth, and her _doughnuts_!--Ugh! heavy, greasy
things!"
"She must 'a let 'em soak fat!" exclaimed Aunt Bettie, who was always
interested in the cookery question; "that's the great trouble with
doughnuts; some folks think everything's in the mixin', but I say more'n
half depends on the fryin'. You must hev yer fat hot, and stand over 'em
all the time. I allers watch mine pretty close and turn 'em offen with a
fork, and then I hev a cullender ready to put 'em right in so't the fat
ken dreen off. I find it pays t' be pertickeler;" and Aunt Bettie
smoothed her apron, and leaned back in her chair with the air of one who
had said something of benefit to mankind in general.
"But where is Julia?" she asked after a short pause. "Why didn't she
come?"
"Oh, I forgot!" exclaimed Fannie; "she sent her love to you, and told me
to tell you not to let us eat up all your doughnuts this time, because
she'll be up before long and want some. She had a sore throat, and Miss
Stiefbach thought she had better not go out."
"I'm sorry for that," replied Aunt Bettie; "I hope she aint a-goin' to
be sick."
"Oh, no, it aint very bad. Julia thinks it's nothing but cankers; she
often has them."
"Wall, it's always best to be on the safe side, any way," said Aunt
Bettie; "you tell her she needn't be afraid about the doughnuts; I'll
have a fresh batch ready agin the time she comes."
The business of eating and drinking so occupied the girls' attention,
that they did not enter into conversation as readily as usual; and after
the first flush of excitement at meeting her young friends and
dispensing her hospitality was over, Aunt Bettie, too, subsided into a
quiet, subdued manner, which was quite foreign to her usual brisk
talkativeness.
She sat in her high-backed rocking-chair, looking at the girls over her
silver-bowed spectacles, with a sad, musing expression, as if the sight
of them called up some unhappy thought.
This unusual restraint on the part of their hostess communicated itself
in a certain degree to her visitors, though they did not themselves
remark the cause of their silence, and their visit was made shorter than
usual.
It was Marion who first made the move to go; and although Aunt Bettie
pressed them to remain she did not urge it with her accustomed
eagerness.
They had got just beyond the bend of the road which hid the old
farm-house from view, when Marion exclaimed, "You run on, Rose, with the
others; I believe I left my gloves on the table; don't wait for me, I'll
catch up with you;" and before Rose could beg to go back with her, she
had turned round and ran off up the road. She ran quickly, but
noiselessly along, and was back to the farm-house in a few moments, and
was surprised to find Aunt Bettie sitting on the door-step with her head
buried in her hands. Going up to her, she found her weeping as if her
heart would break.
"Aunt Bettie!" she said, in her gentlest tones, "Aunt Bettie! It's only
Marion. What is the matter? I thought you seemed worried about
something, and came back to see if I couldn't help you; can't I?"
"Oh, dear!" sobbed the poor woman. "It may be dreadful wicked of me, but
the sight of you young things, all lookin' so bright and happy, did make
me feel awful bad, for I couldn't help thinking o' my own darter
Jemimy."
"Why, what is the matter with her, auntie? Where is she?"
"The Lord knows, dear, I don't. Not a blessed word hev I heerd from her
it's going on eight weeks. I've writ, and Jabe he's writ, but we haint
had a sign of an answer, and I'm afraid she's dead, or perhaps wus;" and
the poor woman rocked herself back and forth, completely overcome by her
grief.
"But, auntie," said Marion, laying her hand gently on the good woman's
shoulder, "don't you see there are forty things that might have happened
to prevent your hearing from her? You know a girl that lives out can't
always find time to write as often as she would like. Besides, she may
have got a new place, and in that case might not have received your
letters."
"I thought o' that, child, and the last letter Jabe writ he directed to
the care of Miss Benson, the woman that keeps the intelligence office;
but that's two weeks an' more ago, and I haven't heerd a word. You see,
Miss Marion, there aint a better-hearted gal livin' than my Jemimy, but
she got kinder lonesome and discontented-like a livin' way off here, and
took it into her head she'd like the city better. She allus was a
high-sperrited gal, and 'twas dull for her here, that's a fact; but I
wish to the Lord I'd held my own and hadn't let her gone; for there's
awful places in them big cities, and my gal's pretty enough to make any
one look at her. I dunno, child, but I can't help feelin' somethin'
dreadful's happened to her."
"O auntie, you must not get discouraged so easily. I thought you were
one of the kind who always looked on the bright side of things," said
Marion in a cheerful tone.
"Wall, dear, I do ginerally; but this has just keeled me right over, and
I don't seem to know where I be. You see I haint got any one in the city
as I ken call upon to help me. I don't know a soul in the place I could
get to hunt her up. Sometimes I think I'll go down there; but where's
the use? I should be like a hen with her head cut off in such a great,
strange place as Boston."
"Well, auntie, I'll try my best to help you. I tell you what I'll do:
you give me Jemima's address, and I'll write to my mother, and get her
to look her up. She has to go to those offices very often after
servants, and like as not she might stumble right on her. Now cheer up,
auntie, for I feel just as if we should find her;" and Marion passed her
hand over Aunt Bettie's wrinkled forehead and gray hair as tenderly as
if she were her own mother.
Aunt Bettie looked at Marion with the tears still glistening in her
eyes, and a sad smile on her face, as she said:--
"Marion Berkley it aint every gal as would take so much trouble for an
old creetur like me, even if she noticed I was sad and worried. You've
comforted a poor, old woman who was most broken-hearted. May the Lord
bless you for it, an' I know he will."
Marion smiled up at the tender, old face that looked down at her, while
her own flushed with pleasure at the words of commendation.
It was a pity that there were no unobserved witnesses of the scene; for
Marion Berkley, cold and haughty, apparently indifferent alike to the
praise or blame of those around her, was a very different person from
this gentle girl. Her whole soul was shining through her eyes; all her
haughtiness, pride, and coldness had fallen from her, and she stood
almost like one transfigured, her face beaming with the light which
makes the plainest face seem almost divine,--that of pure, disinterested
sympathy for the sufferings and troubles of a fellow-being.
For a moment there was silence between the two, while the tears rolled
down both of their cheeks; but Marion dashed hers away, as she exclaimed
in a cheery voice:--
"Come, auntie, it is getting late, and I must be off; so get me the
address, please."
"To be sure, child! How thoughtless I be! I'll get it for yer right
away;" and Aunt Bettie went into the house with something of her usual
briskness, and returning, brought out a scrap of paper, on which was
written in a stiff, cramped, school-boy hand this direction:--
"MISS JEMIMA DOBBS,
_In Kare of Mis Benson_,
Number 22 Eest Crorfud Street,
Boston."
Marion could hardly repress a smile of amusement at the remarkable
orthography; but remembering that in Aunt Bettie's eyes it was a perfect
monument to the glory of her son Jabe, she made no comments, and folding
it up, tucked it carefully away in her purse. Then, with a bright,
encouraging smile, she said good-by to Aunt Bettie, and hurried off down
the road.
It was much later than she thought, and as the days were rapidly growing
shorter, it was quite dusk, and the girls were entirely out of sight and
hearing.
But her thoughts kept her company on her long walk, and all the way home
she was turning over in her mind the probabilities and improbabilities
of her mother's being able to find the young, unknown country girl in a
large city like Boston.
Miss Christine had begun to feel quite anxious about her by the time she
arrived, and Florence met her in the hall with a hearty caress, to which
she responded with her old warmth.
"Why, you dear, old thing!" exclaimed Florence; "what has kept you so
long? It must have been forlorn walking home at this hour."
"Oh, I did not mind it; I had something to think of," replied Marion, as
she pulled off her muddy rubbers before going upstairs. "I'll tell you
by and by; I must run up and get ready for supper."
That night, after they got to bed, Marion gave Florence a synopsis of
her conversation with Aunt Bettie, and told her of her plan of writing
to her mother for assistance.
"Well," said Florence, "I think it was real good of you to think of it.
What a queer girl you are! I knew we didn't have quite as jolly a time
as usual up there, but I never noticed there was anything the matter
with Aunt Bettie; and if I had I don't believe it would have occurred
to me to go back and comfort her. O Marion!"--and she threw her arm over
her friend's shoulder,--"how much good there is in you! Why won't you
let it all come out?"
"I don't think there was anything particularly good in that. You see
there was no virtue in my being kind to the poor, old thing, because I
could not help it. If there had been any hateful feelings to overcome,
or any wounded pride to interfere, I probably should not have done it."
"I'm not so sure of that, Marion. You do conquer yourself sometimes."
"Not often, dear," Marion replied, with a little, nervous, forced laugh.
"It is too much trouble. Good-night, I must go to sleep."
But it was long before sleep came to Marion. She laid perfectly still,
so as not to disturb Florence, but the small hours found her still
awake. She had been for some time thoroughly dissatisfied with herself,
and the thought that she had been of some comfort to any one was indeed
pleasant to her; but she would not attribute to herself credit that did
not belong to her.
It was just as she had said to Florence; she could not help being kind
to the poor old woman in her trouble; she had obeyed the promptings of
her naturally warm heart. It had been an impulsive action, not one in
which a disagreeable duty had been plainly pointed out for her to
follow; and she determinedly put aside all feeling of self-satisfaction.
She knew that if Rachel Drayton had made a similar appeal to her
kindness and sympathy, her heart would have been resolutely closed
against her, and she would not have spoken a single encouraging word.
This thought thrust itself upon her again and again. She tried to put it
from her, but it was no use; she could not evade it. She told herself
that she was ridiculously conscientious; that this girl had no claims
upon her; and that she had done all that Miss Christine asked of her;
treated Rachel politely and courteously; but she knew that her
politeness had been cold and formal, and her courtesy less kindly than
she would bestow upon a beggar at the door. But she said to herself,
Florence makes up for all my deficiencies. This bitter thought, in
various forms, had rankled in her breast day and night. She had often
said that nothing could ever make her jealous of Florence; their
affection had been too lasting, too much a part of themselves, for
either to suspect the other of inconstancy; and now she was the first to
doubt.
But the last words of Florence, as they talked that night, came back to
her, and she remembered the fond embrace and the earnestness of her
voice as she besought her to act her real self.
Should she doubt that generous heart, that had shown its love for her in
a thousand ways, because, when it was appealed to by a fatherless,
motherless girl, it had responded with all the warmth of its true,
generous nature?
No, she could not do it; she felt that it was only another reason for
loving her more, and tears of shame and sorrow filled her eyes, as,
bending over in the darkness, she pressed a kiss upon the lips of her
sleeping companion.
Her unjust suspicion of her friend vanquished and conquered forever, her
thoughts gradually wandered back to Aunt Bettie, and with her mind full
of plans and projects in her behalf, she at last fell asleep.