Betty Leicester: A Story For Girls Page 11

  XI

  THE TWO FRIENDS.

  THE Leicester household had been so long drifting into a staid andceremonious fashion of life that this visit of Betty's threatened attimes to be disturbing. If Aunt Barbara's heart had not been kept young,under all her austere look and manners, Betty might have feltconstrained more than once, but there always was an excuse to give AuntMary, who sometimes complained of too much chattering on the front doorsteps, or too much scurrying up and down stairs from Betty's room. Itwas impossible to count the number of times that important secrets hadto be considered in the course of a week, or to understand why therewere so many flurries of excitement among the girls of Betty's set,while the general course of events in Tideshead flowed so smoothly. MissBarbara Leicester was always a frank and outspoken person, and the youngpeople were sure to hear her opinion whenever they asked for it; butshe herself seemed to grow younger, in these days, and Betty pleased herimmensely one day, when it was mentioned that a certain person who worecaps, and was what Betty called "poky," was about Miss Barbara's age:"Aunt Barbara, you are always the same age as anybody except a baby!"

  "I must acknowledge that I feel younger than my grandniece, sometimes,"said Aunt Barbara, with a funny little laugh; but Betty was puzzled toknow exactly what she meant.

  * * * * *

  In one corner of the upper story of the large old house there was adelightful little place by one of the dormer-windows. It lighted thecrooked stairway which came up to the open garret-floor, and the way tosome bedrooms which were finished off in a row. Betty remembered playingwith her dolls in this pleasant little corner on rainy days, yearsbefore, and revived its old name of the "cubby-house." Her father hadkept his guns and a collection of minerals there, in his boyhood. It wasover Betty's own room, and noises made there did not affect Aunt Mary'snerves, while it was a great relief from the dignity of the eastbedroom, or, still more, the lower rooms of the house, to betake one'sself with one's friend to this queer-shaped, brown-raftered littlecorner of the world. There was a great sea-chest under the eaves, and anastounding fireboard, with a picture of Apollo in his chariot. There wasa shelf with some old brown books that everybody had forgotten, an oldguitar, and a comfortable wooden rocking-chair, beside Betty's favoriteperch in the broad window-seat that looked out into the tops of thetrees. Her father's boyish trophies of rose-quartz and beryl crystalsand mica were still scattered along on the narrow ledges of the oldbeams, and hanging to a nail overhead were two dusty bunches ofpennyroyal, which had left a mild fragrance behind them as theywithered.

  Betty had added to this array a toppling light-stand from another partof the garret and a china mug which she kept full of fresh wild flowers.She pinned "London Graphic" pictures here and there, to make a littlebrightness, and there were some of her favorite artist's (Caldecott's)sketches of country squires and dames, reproduced in faint brightcolors, which looked delightfully in keeping with their surroundings. Asmidsummer came on the cubby-house grew too hot for comfort, but oneafternoon, when rain had been falling all the morning to cool the highroof, Mary Beck and Betty sat there together in great comfort and peace.See for yourself Mary in the rocking-chair, and Betty in thewindow-seat; they were deep in thought of girlish problems, and, asusual, taking nearly opposite sides. They had been discussing theirplans for the future. Mary Beck had confessed that she wished to learnto be a splendid singer and sing in a great church or even in publicconcerts. She knew that she could, if she were only well taught; butthere was nobody to give her lessons in Tideshead, and her mother wouldnot hear of her going to Riverport twice a week.

  "She says that I can keep up with my singing at home, and she wants meto go into the choir, and I can't bear it. I hate to hear 'we can'tafford it,' and I am sure to, if I set my heart on anything. Mother saysthat it will be time enough to learn to sing when I am through school.Oh, dear me!" and poor Mary looked disappointed and fretful.

  A disheartening picture of the present Becky on the concert-stageflashed through Betty's usually hopeful mind. She felt a heartache, asshe thought of her friend's unfitness and inevitable disappointment.Becky--plain, ungainly, honest Becky--felt it in her to do great things,yet she hardly knew what great things were. Persons of Betty's age nevercount upon having years of time in which to make themselves better.Everything must be finally decided by the state of things at the moment.Years of patient study were sure to develop the wonderful gift ofBecky's strong, sweet voice.

  "Why don't you sing in the choir, Becky?" asked Betty suddenly. "Itwould make the singing so much better. I should love to do it, if Icould, and it would help to make Sunday so pleasant for everybody, tohear you sing. Poor Miss Fedge's voice sounds funny, doesn't it? Sing mesomething now, Becky dear; sing 'Bonny Doon'!"

  But Becky took no notice of the request. "What do you mean to be,yourself?" she asked her companion, with great interest.

  "You know that I can't sing or paint or do any of those things,"answered Betty humbly. "I used to wish that I could write books when Igrew up, or at any rate help papa to write his. I am almost discouraged,though papa says I must keep on trying to do the things I really wish todo." And a bright flush covered Betty's eager face.

  "Oh, Becky dear!" she said suddenly. "You have something that I envy youmore than even your singing: just living at home in one place and havingyour mother and the boys. I am always wishing and wishing, and tellingmyself stories about living somewhere in the same house all the time,with papa, and having a real home and taking care of him. You don't knowhow good it would feel! Papa says the best we can do now is to make ahome wherever we are, for ourselves and others--but I think it is prettyhard, sometimes."

  "Well, I think the nicest thing would be to see the world, as you do,"insisted Mary Beck. "I just _hate_ dusting and keeping things to rights,and I never _shall_ learn to cook! I like to do fancy work pretty well.You would think Tideshead was perfectly awful, in winter!"

  "Why should it be?" asked Betty innocently. "Winter is house-time. Isave things to do in winter, and"--

  "Oh, you are so preachy, you are so good-natured, you believe all theprim things that grown people say!" exclaimed Becky. "What would you sayif you never went to Boston but once, and then had the toothache all thetime? You have been everywhere, and you think it's great fun to stay alittle while in poky old Tideshead, this one summer!"

  "Why, it is because I have seen so many other places that I know justhow pleasant Tideshead is."

  "Well, I want to see other places, too," maintained the dissatisfiedBecky.

  "Papa says that we ourselves are the places we live in," said Betty, asif it took a great deal of courage to tell Mary Beck so unwelcome atruth. "I like to remember just what he says, for sometimes, when Ihaven't understood at first, something will happen, may be a year after,to make it flash right into my mind. Once I heard a girl say London wasstupid; just think! _London!_"

  Mary Beck was rocking steadily, but Betty sat still, with her feet onthe window-seat and her hands clasped about her knees. She could lookdown into the green yard below, and watch some birds that werefluttering near by in the wet trees. The wind blew in very soft andsweet after the rain.

  "I used to think, when I was a little bit of a girl, that I would be amissionary, but I should perfectly hate it now!" said Mary, with greatvehemence. "I just hate to go to Sunday-school and be asked thequestions; it makes me prickle all over. I always feel sorry when I wakeup and find it is Sunday morning. I suppose you think that's heathen andhorrid."

  "I always have my Sunday lessons with papa; he reads to me, and gives mesomething to learn by heart,--a hymn or some lovely verses of poetry. Isuppose that his telling me what things in the Bible really mean keepsme from being 'prickly' when other people talk about it. What made youwish to be a missionary?" Betty inquired, with interest.

  "Oh, there used to be some who came here and talked in the vestry Sundayevenings about riding on donkeys and camels. Sometimes they would dressup in Syrian costumes, and
I used to look grandpa's 'Missionary Herald'all through, to find their names afterward. It was so nice to hear abouttheir travels and the natives; but that was a long while ago," and Beckyrocked angrily, so that the boards creaked underneath.

  "Last summer I used to go to such a dear old church, in the Isle ofWight," said Betty. "You could look out of the open door by our pew andsee the old churchyard, and look away over the green downs and the bluesea. You could see the red poppies in the fields, and hear the larks,too."

  "What kind of a church was it?" asked Mary, with suspicion. "Episcopal?"

  "Yes," answered Betty. "Church of England, people say there."

  "I heard somebody say once that your father was very lax in religiousmatters," said Becky seriously.

  "I'd rather be very lax and love my Sundays," said Betty severely. "Idon't think it makes any difference, really, about what one does inchurch. I want to be good, and it helps me to be in church and think andhear about it. Oh, dear! my foot's getting asleep," said Betty,beginning to pound it up and down. The two girls did not like to look ateach other; they were considering questions that were very hard to talkabout.

  "I suppose it's being good that made you run after Nelly Foster. Iwished that I had gone to see her more, when you went; but she used toact hatefully sometimes before you came. She used to cry in school,though," confessed Becky.

  "I didn't 'run after' her. You do call things such dreadful names, MaryBeck! There, I'm getting cross, my foot is all stinging."

  "Turn it just the other way," advised Mary eagerly. "Let me pound it foryou," and she briskly went to the rescue. Betty wondered afresh why sheliked this friend herself so much, and yet disliked so many things thatshe said and did.

  Serena always said that Betty had a won't-you-please-like-me sort of waywith her, and Mary Beck felt it more than ever as she returned to herrocking-chair and jogged on again, but she could not bend from her highsense of disapproval immediately. "What do you think the unjust stewardparable means, then?" she asked, not exactly returning to the fray, butwith an injured manner. "It is in the Sunday-school lesson to-morrow,and I can't understand it a bit,--I never could."

  "Nor I," said Betty, in a most cheerful tone. "See here, Becky, itdoesn't rain, and we can go and ask Mr. Grant to tell us about it."

  "Go ask the minister!" exclaimed Mary Beck, much shocked. "Why, wouldyou dare to?"

  "That's what ministers are for," answered Betty simply. "We can stay alittle while and see the girls, if he is busy. Come now, Becky," andBecky reluctantly came. She was to think a great many times afterward ofthat talk in the garret. She was beginning to doubt whether she hadreally succeeded in settling all the questions of life, at the age offifteen.

  The two friends went along arm-in-arm under the still-dripping trees.The parsonage was some distance up the long Tideshead street, and thesun was coming out as they stood on the doorsteps. The minister wasamazed when he found that these parishioners had come to have a talkwith him in the study, and to ask something directly at his willinghands. He preached the better for it, next day, and the two girlslistened the better. As for Mary Beck, the revelation to her honestheart of having a right in the minister, and the welcome convenience ofhis fund of knowledge and his desire to be of use to her personally, wasan immense surprise. Kind Mr. Grant had been a part of the dreadedSundays, a fixture of the day and the church and the pulpit, beforethat; he was, indirectly, a reproach, and, until this day, had neverseemed like other people exactly, or an every-day friend. Perhaps thegood man wondered if it were not his own fault, a little. He tried to bevery gay and friendly with his own girls at supper-time, and saidafterward that they must have Mary Beck and Betty Leicester to take teawith them some time during the next week.

  "But there are others in the parish who will feel hurt," urged Mrs.Grant anxiously; and Mr. Grant only answered that there must be a dozentea-parties, then, as if there were no such things as sponge-cake andceremony in the world!