"LORD BETTERSON'S."
On a sort of headland jutting out from the high timber region into the
low prairie of the river bottom, stood a house, known far and near as
"Lord Betterson's," or, as it was sometimes derisively called, "Lord
Betterson's Castle," the house being about as much a castle as the owner
was a lord.
The main road of the settlement ran between it and the woods; while on
the side of the river the land swept down in a lovely slope to the
valley, which flowed away in a wider and more magnificent stream of
living green. It was really a fine site, shaded by five or six young
oaks left standing in the spacious door-yard.
The trouble was, that the house had been projected on somewhat too grand
a scale for the time and country and, what was worse, for the owner's
resources. He had never been able to finish it; and now its
weather-browned clapboards, unpainted front pillars, and general shabby,
ill-kept appearance, set off the style of architecture in a way to make
beholders smile.
"Lord Betterson took a bigger mouthful than he could swaller, when he
sot out to build his castle here," said his neighbor, Peakslow.
The proprietor's name--it may as well be explained--was Elisha Lord
Betterson. It was thus he always wrote it, in a large round hand, with a
bold flourish. Now the common people never will submit to call a man
_Elisha_. The furthest they can possibly go will be _'Lisha_, or
_'Lishy_; and, ten to one, the tendency to monosyllables will result in
_'Lishe_. There had been a feeble attempt among the vulgar to
familiarize the public mind with _'Lishe Betterson_; but the name would
not stick to a person of so much dignity of character. It was useless to
argue that his dignity was mere pomposity; or that a man who, in
building a fine house, broke down before he got the priming on, was
unworthy of respect; still no one could look at him, or call up his
image, and say, conscientiously, "'Lishe Betterson." He who, in this
unsettled state of things, taking a hint from the middle name,
pronounced boldly aloud, "LORD BETTERSON," was a public benefactor.
"Lord Betterson" and "Lord Betterson's Castle" had been popular ever
since.
The house, with its door-posts of unpainted pine darkly soiled by the
contact of unwashed childish hands, and its unfinished rooms, some of
them lathed, but unplastered (showing just the point at which the
owner's resources failed), looked even more shabby within than without.
This may have been partly because the house-keeper was sick. She must
have been sick, if that was she, the pale, drooping figure, sitting
wrapped in an old red shawl, that summer afternoon. She looked not only
sick, but exceedingly discouraged. And no wonder.
[Illustration: "LORD BETTERSON."]
At her right hand was an empty cradle; and she held a puny infant in her
arms, trying to still its cries. At her left was a lounge, on which lay
the helpless form of an invalid child, a girl about eleven years old.
The room was comfortless. An old, high-colored piece of carpeting half
covered the rough floor; its originally gaudy pattern, out of which all
but the red had faded, bearing witness to some past stage of family
gentility, and serving to set off the surrounding wretchedness.
Tipped back in a chair against the rough and broken laths, his knees as
high as his chin, was a big slovenly boy of about seventeen, looking
lazily out from under an old ragged hat-rim, pushed over his eyes.
Another big, slovenly boy, a year or two younger, sat on the doorstep,
whittling quite as much for his own amusement as for that of a little
five-year-old ragamuffin outside.
Not much comfort for the poor woman and the sick girl shone from these
two indifferent faces. Indeed, the only ray of good cheer visible in
that disorderly room gleamed from the bright eyes of a little girl not
more than nine or ten years old,--so small, in truth, that she had to
stand on a stool by the table, where she was washing a pan of dishes.
"O boys!" said the woman in a feeble, complaining tone, "do, one of you,
go to the spring and bring some fresh water for your poor, sick sister."
"It's Rufe's turn to go for water," said the boy on the doorstep.
"'T ain't my turn, either," muttered the boy tipped back against the
laths. "Besides, I've got to milk the cow soon as Link brings the cattle
home. Hear the bell yet, Wad?"
"Never mind, Cecie!" cried the little dish-washer, cheerily. "I'll bring
you some water as soon as I have done these dishes." And, holding her
wet hands behind her, she ran to give the young invalid a kiss in the
mean while.
Cecie returned a warm smile of love and thanks, and said she was in no
hurry. Then the child, stopping only to give a bright look and a
pleasant word to the baby, ran back to her dishes.
"I should think you would be ashamed, you two great boys!" said the
woman, "to sit round the house and let that child Lilian wait upon you,
get your suppers, wash your dishes, and then go to the spring for water
for your poor suffering sister!"
"I'm going to petition the Legislature," said Wad, "to have that spring
moved up into our back yard; it's too far to go for water. There come
the cattle, Rufe."
"Tell Chokie to go and head 'em into the barnyard," yawned Rufe, from
his chair. "I wonder nobody ever invented a milking-machine. Wish I had
one. Just turn a crank, you know."
"You'll be wanting a machine to breathe with, next," said the little
dish-washer.
"Y-a-as," drawled Rufe. "I think a breathing machine would be popular in
this family. Children cry for it. Get me the milk-pail, Lill; that's a
nice girl!"
"Do get it yourself, Rufus," said the mother. "You'll want your little
sister to milk for you, soon."
"I think it belongs to girls to milk," said Rufe. "There's Sal
Wiggett,--ain't she smart at it, though? She can milk your head off! Is
that a wagon coming, Wad?"
"Yes!" cried Wad, jumping to his feet with unusual alacrity. "A wagon
without a horse, a fellow pulling in the shafts, and Link pushing
behind; coming right into the front yard!"
Rufe also started up at this announcement, and went to the door.
"Hallo!" he said, "had a break-down? What's that in the hind part of
your wagon? Deer! a deer and a fawn! Where did you shoot 'em? Where's
your horse?"
"Look out, Rufe!" screamed the small boy from behind, rushing forward.
"Touch one of these deer, and the dog'll have ye! We've got two deer,
but we've lost our horse,--scamp rode him away,--and we want--"
"We do, do we?" interrupted Wad, mockingly. "How many deer did _you_
shoot, Link?"
"Well, I helped get the buggy over, anyway! And that's the savagest dog
ever was! And--say! will mother let us take the old mare to drive over
to North Mills this evening?"