Kitabı oku: «Clever Betsy», sayfa 14
Some of Mercury’s fleetness was lent to the visitor’s heavy sandals as she considered the number of neighbors she could see on her way home; and before bed-time that night, it was known in Fairport that the Bruce family had given to Captain Salter’s bride a complete dinner-service of solid silver, a watch studded with diamonds, and Oriental rugs for every room in the cottage!
CHAPTER XXVIII
GOOD-BY, SUMMER
One errand which Irving Bruce performed in Boston besides buying Betsy’s wedding present, was to seek out a poor relation of his step-mother’s in her suburban home, and carry her back with him to Fairport.
He wired: “Miss Frost is returning with me.”
And such was Mrs. Bruce’s loneliness, and worry, and desire to hide from her friends, that never did poor relation receive a more cordial welcome.
Miss Frost, a bird-like little person with a high apologetic voice, was bewildered with joyful excitement.
“I haven’t a thing to wear, my dear, not a thing!” she cried to her hostess on her arrival; “but Irving was so perfectly lovely, he wouldn’t let me wait for anything; and he told me how you’ve let that valuable Betsy go to this faithful lover of years, so like you, always to think of others, and Irving says you’re tired, so that really perhaps I can take some care of you, and it will be such a joy to feel that I’m not useless in this beautiful, beautiful spot, and you never could look anything but pretty, Laura, but I do think you show the natural fatigue of travel,” etc., etc.
This combination of flattery and confidence bound up some of Mrs. Bruce’s wounds. She did make the newcomer useful, not only in the actual labor of housekeeping, but as an excuse for not going where she did not wish to be.
But meanwhile she lived a life within herself which her cousin never suspected. Daily the battle between love and pride was renewed. Robert Nixon remained with them, and through him, more than through Irving, she learned of Rosalie’s continued vogue.
She declined the sailing party which went out with Captain Salter, and Miss Frost was with difficulty persuaded to go in her place.
Upon her return, blown and dishevelled, but joyful, Mrs. Bruce met her cousin with veiled eagerness.
“Did they think it very strange of me not to come, Lavinia?”
“Why of course they were disappointed,” chirped the little woman, endeavoring to tuck up the flying strands of her gray hair; “but when I told them how you felt it a duty to rest absolutely for a week, they understood. I told them how I disliked to leave you alone, but that you never could think of yourself, and were determined I should have the pleasure, and so I came; and oh, Laura, it was the most lovely sail; I did wish every minute for you!”
Mrs. Bruce in her chastened state drank in the praise which she knew was sincere.
“Lavinia Frost is really a much more agreeable person to have about than Betsy,” she thought.
Those clear eyes of Betsy’s which had always seemed to read her through and through, appeared to her mental vision now as she mounted the stairs after her cousin, and followed her to her room, remaining with her while the visitor repaired the ravages of wind and wave.
“Do you think Mrs. Nixon enjoyed the excursion?” asked Mrs. Bruce.
Miss Frost raised her hands and dilated her eyes expressively. “I’m afraid not! She’s not a good sailor; but the young people – Oh, what a good time they did have, Laura!”
A little contracting pain, grown familiar, seized the listener.
“Go on. Tell me about it,” she replied quietly.
“Well, you know how amusing Mr. Nixon always is,” began Miss Frost, spreading cold cream over her sunburn; “(so like you, dear Laura, to give me this cream). He and Miss Maynard – such an elegant girl, Miss Maynard – and dear Irving, and that lovely creature Miss Vincent, all four sang together.”
“Did they? Did they sing well?”
“Yes, indeed; but you know they’re so full of fun they couldn’t stick to anything serious, and Miss Vincent sang some coon songs. O Laura, that girl is wonderfully talented. She made Mr. Derwent laugh as hard as the boys. Splendid-looking man, Mr. Derwent. I really – I expect I’m a silly old thing, but I couldn’t help weaving romances out in that boat, those four delightful young people were so tempting to the imagination.”
“Really?” asked Mrs. Bruce. “How did you pair them off in your own mind?”
“I didn’t have to pair them off,” twittered the little woman. “Irving was beside that charming young creature with the gold crown, – you know the way that broad soft braid goes around her head, – he was beside her all the time. I just hoped she appreciated his attentions; but do you know I watched them closely, and I never saw her look at him once! She was pleasant and gay all the time, – but I just said to myself, can – it – be possible that that girl is more attracted by our droll Nixie than by that prince? I’ve often heard you say you dreaded Irving’s falling in love; you’ve always been so like brother and sister, it isn’t to be wondered at; but when Mr. Nixon told me what a good angel you’d been to that talented girl, I thought I could see that you had your little plans!”
Lavinia Frost closed one eye, and nodded knowingly at her cousin, whose flushed face disclosed nothing.
“I told him that was the way you’d gone through life. I told him about the stove you gave me for my living-room, and now what a grand outing you were giving me here, and so thoughtfully letting me feel myself of some use. O Laura, it’s a splendid thing to be rich and powerful, but it’s better still to have that big heart and soul that uses the power to spread blessings along the paths of others less fortunate!”
Mrs. Bruce kept silent. Miss Frost washed the cream from her hands and began winding up her sparse hair.
“It’s awfully thin, you see. Not much more than nine hairs, Laura,” she laughed, “three behind to braid, and one on each side to puff. I don’t want,” she continued after a silence, “to see anything you don’t wish me to, but I could– not – help – thinking that Irving admired that girl extremely; and though I know you’re above such considerations, I couldn’t help being glad she was well-connected as well as beautiful. One of the Derwent family. Think of it! Mr. Nixon told me so, and it was plain to see that Mr. Derwent thinks the world of her. Such an elegant man! And what do you suppose he said to me, Laura? As we were leaving the boat he said with such a charming bow – perfectly charming! He said, ‘I think in some way you have been given the wrong name, Miss Frost. I think it should be Miss Spring!” Lavinia gave a joyous but apologetic giggle. “Wasn’t that a perfectly lovely thing for him to say?”
Mrs. Bruce regarded the speaker thoughtfully.
“Lavinia,” she said, “how should you like to stay with me?”
“Stay with you – my dear?” The little woman stood stock-still, the dress skirt she was about to put on, in her hand.
“Yes, – keep house for me in Boston.”
“Why, Lavinia, it would be heaven– but, how can I!”
“Why can’t you? It is only to give up a few rooms in somebody else’s house. You’re quite alone.”
“I suppose I am,” replied Lavinia slowly, “but somehow I never realize it.”
What a wealth of implication lay in the simple words! Mrs. Bruce could not appreciate that, but she persisted in her plan, which had been gradually taking form for days.
A capable, useful, refined admirer was what her beaten and dependent soul yearned for.
Tears dimmed Lavinia’s eyes when at last she accepted the offer.
“Laura!” she exclaimed, with touching sincerity, “you have been planning this beautiful thing for me! That is why Irving brought me here. Dear Irving, always so courteous, he has been, to your relatives! Dear Laura, when do you ever take time to think of yourself!”
One day in the second week in September, Betsy stood by a window in her cottage and saw Rosalie, in hat and street dress, enter the garden. She watched the girl unnoticed, and saw her turn and look seaward. Clouds were scudding along the sky, and swallows circling against the strong breeze. Presently Rosalie came up the path.
Betsy threw open the door. “Welcome home!” she said, and embraced her.
“I’m the most fortunate girl in the world,” declared Rosalie.
Betsy took the bag she carried. “Let me show you your room,” she said.
With happy pride she led the guest up the narrow stairs, and ushered her into a comfortable little bower, hung in white dimity.
Rosalie turned, and gave her hostess another hug. “Why should you be so good to me?” she exclaimed.
“Because you’re all the little girl I’ve got,” returned Betsy. “See what a nice cozy corner that makes for your trunk!”
Rosalie regarded her affectionately. “I have the greatest news for you,” she said. “I can only stay two days.”
“Answers to the advertisement, eh?” asked Betsy with interest.
“Better than that! How wonderfully good people are! Mr. Derwent actually went to Portland weeks ago, and managed somehow, so that yesterday I received a summons from the Moore School to come and take up my work there. It seems that some of the faculty have heard me at the inn, and it’s settled, practically.”
“All the better, child. Cap’n Salter and I’d never get tired o’ havin’ you here, but you wouldn’t be satisfied with an idle winter in Fairport. Come in my room and sit down for a chat. I’m doin’ some mendin’, and we can settle all the affairs o’ the nation.”
Rosalie followed into the front room, and seated herself by a low window looking out on the gray billows.
“Good-by, summer,” she said, as if to herself.
Betsy glanced at her and sat down by the bed where were scattered articles of clothing.
“The swallows are making them ready to fly,
Wheeling out on a windy sky – ”
sang the girl softly.
“Well,” said Betsy, “when you take ’count o’ stock, what sort of a summer has it been?”
“Wonderful.”
“That may be,” returned Betsy, “but how about the net result. Would you like to live it over again?”
“Yes, indeed!” was the fervent reply. “No, Betsy! What am I talking about! No, I wouldn’t. I might not do so well again.”
“How do you mean?” asked the other, beginning to make a lattice-work across the vacant toe of a man’s sock. “Do you mean professionally?”
“Not altogether,” answered the girl slowly.
“Oh, you mean socially too, eh?”
“Yes.”
Silence, while the breakers struck and burst on the rock at the left of the cottage.
“Whom have you over here?” Rosalie rose and moved to the dresser where a flexible leather case stood in a semi-circle. “Captain Salter?” She picked up the case. “Irving!” she added in a different tone, and studied the six pictures with down-drooped face.
“See the envelope standin’ there against the glass? You can open it. It came with my silver.”
Rosalie obeyed. “Oh!” she said softly.
Presently Betsy spoke again: “I’ve heard a lot about how popular you’ve been all summer. Says I to myself, there’s safety in numbers, says I.”
“Yes,” agreed Rosalie, “there’s safety in numbers.”
She returned the card to its envelope.
“Take the pictures over to the window if you’d like to,” said Betsy, mending busily.
“No, thank you,” returned the girl; and placing the case as she had found it, she came back to her seat.
“The Nixon party got off all right, I s’pose,” said Betsy. “Mr. Nixon came over to say good-by. Did you know Mr. Derwent took supper with the cap’n and me one night?”
“Yes. He is greatly taken with Captain Salter.”
“We had a real good time,” said Betsy, “and he praised the supper.”
“There are no suppers as good as yours. Nixie and I had made him hungry telling him about the dinner we had with you that day.”
“And my boy never broke bread with me once,” said Betsy sadly. “I couldn’t ask him away from Mrs. Bruce.”
“Betsy,” asked Rosalie wistfully, “whatever did happen?”
Betsy shook her head. “Nothin’ you need worry about, child.”
“But that’s just what troubles me. I’ve always believed it was about me.”
“Rosalie,” – Betsy lifted her eyes from her work for a minute, – “do you know it says in the Bible that God makes the wrath o’ man to praise him? or somethin’ like that? I’ve thought of it often since I’ve been livin’ here. There had to be some kind of an explosion for Hiram to get his rights. I see now he’s only got his rights.”
“But one thing is very strange,” said Rosalie. “The few times I’ve spoken with Mrs. Bruce this summer, she has been quite polite to me. Do you know about this cousin who is with her, this cunning little Miss Frost, more like a canary-bird than any one I ever saw? Well, she adores Mrs. Bruce, and do you know it has seemed to me that Mrs. Bruce is trying to live up to it. Wouldn’t that be strange?”
Betsy dropped her work and regarded the speaker.
“Miss Lavinia Frost, – I know her well. She don’t seem to wear spectacles, but she’s got a pair on all the time. Rose-color. Mrs. Bruce went out to her rooms once and she didn’t like the looks of ’em, and she took one of her notions and fixed ’em up with a handsome stove, and an arm-chair, and some other nice things, and Miss Frost never could get over it.”
“Mrs. Bruce is going to keep her with her.”
“Fine!” exclaimed Betsy. “Nothin’ could be better.” She shook her head and resumed her work. “Here’s hopin’ Miss Frost’ll never lose those magnifyin’ spectacles!”
“You never saw any one admire another more sincerely. Why, she takes it for granted that Mrs. Bruce made me, and is in love with her work.”
Betsy dropped her hands.
“‘God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform!’”
she declared. “Rosalie,” she added gently, “I wouldn’t wonder one mite if Lavinia Frost livin’ with Mrs. Bruce would be the makin’ o’ her. What do we all want? We want love. Mrs. Bruce hasn’t drawn it to herself from the folks that’s lived closest to her. She’s had some sharp lessons, from what Mr. Irving says, and now, when the plough’s gone deep, and the soil’s softer, this cheerful little lover may be takin’ her just at the right time, and will make a big difference in her.”
“Why, I seem to see it begin,” returned Rosalie. “She’s so much more gentle, and Miss Frost chirps and twitters around her, and waits on her – ”
Betsy nodded. “That’s right,” she said with satisfaction. “That’s good. She loves bein’ made of. I b’lieve that’ll work well.”
There was another silence, which Betsy broke.
“I understand you’ve got somethin’ for me,” she said.
The girl looked around, puzzled.
“Why, – why no, Betsy.”
“Mr. Irving says so.”
Rosalie regarded her calmly, but the faint color deepened in her cheeks.
“I don’t know what he means.”
“Well, I don’t know who else should.” Betsy took a letter out of her pocket and tossed it across to her guest, who opened it, and read: —
Dear Betsy, – I’m feeling very important because they’ve wired for me from the bank. I can’t even run over to the cottage to see you, because I must make a train. I’ve asked Rosalie to give you a hug for me. Good-by.
Your devotedBoy.
“Oh, you mean that,” said Rosalie quietly, refolding the note.
“Of course I mean that. Do you suppose I want to be cheated out o’ his hugs?”
The girl smiled and shook her head. “I certainly haven’t any of them,” she said.
“But he found time to go over and say good-by to you, I notice.”
“Yes, he came. Mrs. Bruce and Miss Frost are to follow him in a day or two.”
“What do you think o’ the young man, now you’ve summered him?” asked Betsy quietly.
“If I didn’t think well of him I’d never dare to tell you so.”
“Perhaps not. Has he been specially attentive to any one o’ the girls at the inn?”
Rosalie twisted the curtain tassel and looked out at the sea.
“Yes,” she answered after some moments. “If I hadn’t known – if you hadn’t told me that – even if he were, the ending of the summer would end his remembrance, I might have been – well, pretty silly a good many times.”
Betsy looked up. “I hope I haven’t made a mistake, or spoiled any o’ your good times, dear.”
“No,” answered the girl. “I’ve been more than glad of all your warnings. Everybody has been so kind, and there have been so many people who wanted to do things for me, that it was made easy in one way. I could avoid him without it’s looking strange to him, or any one else.”
“Was there,” asked Betsy, “was there any other o’ the young men that you liked – just as well?”
Rosalie turned and gave her a look. There was the darkening of the eyes that Betsy remembered, and the lip was caught under the girl’s teeth.
Betsy fumbled with her darning-egg, dropped her eyes, and cleared her throat.
“That child won’t ever learn to be mejum!” she thought.
“You’ve worked and played pretty hard, I guess,” she said, presently. “You’re some thin, Rosalie. I’ve been noticin’ it lately. I hope you feel real good.”
“Never better,” was the reply. “I’m eager to go to work – real work. I hope I can make the girls like me.”
“Law, child, you’ll have to fight ’em off,” was the reply. “Did – did you and Mr. Irving part real friendly?”
“Oh, certainly. I must show you something he gave me a good while ago.”
The girl rose and went to her own room. Betsy laid down her work and gazed ahead. “Ain’t she made o’ the real stuff, though!” she thought. “I guess Irving Bruce has found out that porcelain’s pretty strong sometimes!”
Here Rosalie returned and put into her friend’s hands an exquisite white fan, whose carved sticks Betsy examined with admiration.
“If he’s given you this?” she said, looking up questioningly.
“He had to, I suppose,” returned the girl, “practically; he broke mine the first night we met at the inn. It was part of my outfit. I couldn’t object to his making it good.”
Betsy laughed at the prosaic tone, and looked back at the rich toy.
“He made it good, all right,” she remarked. “When you need another outfit you can pawn this.”
“It is very handsome,” said Rosalie, regarding her possession, while the downcast eyes darkened again under their drooping lids.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE NEW YEAR
Autumn with its crystalline days and frosty nights gave Betsy glorious views from her windows, but played havoc with her garden.
Hiram had long ago put up his boat, and now he began building a small launch that Irving Bruce had ordered for the following season.
With Thanksgiving Day came Rosalie. Hiram brought her home from the station in high satisfaction, and it seemed as if Betsy could never hear enough of her pleasant work in the school.
“I’m bein’ awful mean and selfish,” announced Betsy. “I haven’t asked one person to dinner with us. Seems if we couldn’t share our little girl with anybody else to-day.”
“Yes,” said Hiram, “seems if some special dispensation o’ common sense had been given Betsy, for our benefit, Rosalie. I’ll have ye know I keep an asylum. Never know any day I come home to dinner who I’ll find here. They get their Thanksgivin’ three hundred and sixty-four days a year. I maintain we deserve the sixty-fifth.”
“Don’t be such a goose, Hiram,” laughed his wife. “This is all ’cause Mrs. Pogram wanted to see you to-day, Rosalie. I told her you were comin’ for the whole Christmas vacation, and she should see you then.”
During dinner Rosalie told many things about the school and her work, and afterward the trio sat around an open fire while the first snow of the season flung its stars upon the window-panes.
“Do you hear from any o’ the Boston folks?” asked Betsy.
“Yes, I have, once or twice. I must show you some pictures I brought. They’re in my suit-case.”
Rosalie ran upstairs to the cold little white room.
“Do you know, Betsy,” said Hiram, as he sat in a corner where the smoke from his pipe curled up the chimney with that of the blazing logs, “do you know I used to think last summer Irvin’ Bruce was as set on Rosalie as I am on you. I minded my own business, but I wasn’t blind; and b’gosh I was surprised that he let her teach school this winter. D’ye s’pose she could ’a’ given him the mitten?”
“No, I don’t, Hiram. Pshaw! You know how young men tag after a pretty girl who can sing and dance and cut up and amuse ’em. When it comes to marryin’, folks like the Bruces want some one in their own set. Mr. Irving – ”
“Here they are,” said Rosalie, returning. “Irving Bruce had some of our kodaks enlarged. He said I might keep these, so I brought them. I knew Captain Salter would like to see himself as others see him.”
The Clever Betsy was indeed immortalized. There were pictures of her exterior and interior; and her captain held his pipe in his hand as he looked upon the excellent likenesses of himself and his passengers. Gay, smiling pictures they were, except for his own dark countenance; and in each photograph in which Irving Bruce appeared, he was next to Rosalie.
The captain gave his wife a look of which she was conscious, but which she refused to receive.
“Set be hanged,” he muttered to himself.
“What?” asked Rosalie. “Aren’t they good? I’m going to leave one of them with you and Betsy. Now, choose.”
“This one, then!” returned the captain.
In it Rosalie had one knee on the seat. Her wavy hair was flying in a halo, and she was laughing. Close behind her was Irving Bruce. He was standing, his arm outstretched in some gesture.
“That isn’t my choice,” said Betsy. “I’d rather have this.”
She picked up a photograph of the Clever Betsy under full sail. Gallantly she was breasting a high sea.
“Why in the world!” objected Hiram; and she caught his eyes with an expression he seldom saw.
“Don’t you want the children?” he began.
She smiled a little. “I’ve no objection to the children,” she answered, “but I want – the boat.”
Hiram gazed at her with slow comprehension, then he dropped the photographs and smoothed his wife’s hair as she bent over her choice.
“That’s right,” he said radiantly. “That’s your story, Rosalie,” handing a photograph to her. “This is ours.”
The girl looked at the pair, wondering, and wistful. She had not learned that the heart is never old.
“Tell us more news from Boston,” said Betsy when they were again settled around the fire, Rosalie on a low stool pressed close to her side.
“It is all pleasant. I had such an amusing letter from Nixie. He says Helen is swimming to the top of the social wave, that his mother is busier than a hen with one chicken, and that he himself sobs heavily in corners owing to her neglect. He says the Bruce household is serene, all but Miss Frost, who is too happy to be serene. If she has one drive a week with Mrs. Bruce in her electric, he says she talks about her cousin’s generosity the next six days. Nixie says Mrs. Bruce seems really ashamed to complain of anything – ”
“There,” interpolated Betsy gladly; “it’s workin’.”
“Yes,” said Rosalie, “such a cheery little woman is a sermon. It makes me think of some verses I have seen: —
“‘Just being happy is a fine thing to do;
Looking at the bright side, rather than the blue;
Sad or sunny musing, is largely in the choosing,
And just being happy is brave work and true.’”
“That’s gospel, that is,” remarked Hiram. “You learn that, Betsy, and say it to me every time you plan to have Mrs. Pogram to dinner.”
Rosalie went back to her school-work with good courage, refreshed by the visit to her friends. Early in December she received a formal but kind note from Mrs. Nixon asking her to spend the Christmas holidays with her.
She smiled as she read it. Mr. Derwent was behind the invitation, she knew, and Robert reinforced it by one of his hare-brained but hearty epistles, begging her to accept, and promising her a luridly enthralling experience.
She was glad she could tell them that her promise was given to Betsy for the holidays. There would be a strange pleasure, she thought, in seeing her summer playground in the embrace of winter. The starry Thanksgiving snow had vanished by morning; but now, Betsy said, the great rock near the cottage looked like a giant’s wedding-cake.
The weeks wore on, and the evergreen time drew near. On Christmas morning Rosalie wakened in her white room under the eaves of the Salter house. It had been furnished with an air-tight stove in honor of her visit, and Betsy came in early to make a roaring fire.
“Merry Christmas, Betsy!” cried the girl, sitting up.
“It will be, child,” returned Betsy, “with you for a treat.” She kissed her guest. “You look like Aurora,” she added, in irrepressible admiration of the girl’s soft coloring in the white couch. “I know, ’cause I saw her picture in Europe till I knew her as well as anybody in the family album. To think you might have waked up in the Nixon house this mornin’! You could ’a’ run around in automobiles, and danced, and had a real girl’s good time; and here you are, mewed up with two homespun folks like us, in a snow-bank, with the ocean for a front yard, black enough to bite you! I felt guilty when I waked up. Honestly, I did.”
“Well, stop it, Betsy. This is the one place in the world I want to be these holidays. Do you believe me?”
Betsy shook her head. “It seems too good to be true; but your eyes do look as if you meant it. Here’s a big can o’ hot water, dear, and when you come down, I’ll give you some buckwheat cakes as good as you ever tasted.”
Betsy had maligned the landscape. Rosalie looked out on spotless snow, but all the trees visible along the village street were cased in ice. Every twig sparkled as the sun gained dominion over the sullen sea, and shone on the dazzling, mammoth wedding-cake.
The week passed quickly and happily. Mrs. Pogram gave a dinner for the Salters and their guest, after Loomis and his fiancée had returned to Portland. Captain Salter made Rosalie recite to him the verses in praise of happiness, all the time he was marching to the function.
It was a season of content. Betsy could not doubt it as she looked at the deepening roses in the girl’s cheeks, and the way her eyes sparkled as she came into the house, stamping the snow from her boots, on the return from some errand with Hiram.
Mr. Beebe, learning of her presence, took the biggest sleigh from the inn stable and gave them a long exhilarating ride into the country, and an oyster supper when they returned.
On the last evening of the year Rosalie sat before the open fire with Betsy. Captain Salter had gone out on some errand in the village, and Rosalie, on her favorite little stool, leaned her head against Betsy’s knee and watched the leaping flames. How remote, on an evening like this, seemed the great world from this little cottage-by-the-sea!
“One has so much time here, to think, Betsy,” said the girl.
The other gave her one-sided smile. “Well, yes, – holidays, we do,” she rejoined.
“You are always busy,” admitted Rosalie. “How happy you and the captain are!”
“We think we couldn’t be happier,” returned Betsy. “It’s been a wonderful year for both you and me, Rosalie.”
“Yes, it has,” returned the girl dreamily. “A year ago to-night – No! I must forget all that.”
Betsy patted her shoulder. “Yesterday is dead,” she said quietly.
Rosalie’s eyes lifted slowly to the other’s face.
“Not all the yesterdays,” she said, and looked back at the fire.
Betsy continued to pat her. The good woman reflected concerning Irving Bruce with an effort at self-control and fairness; but a great longing that this girl should have her heart’s desire passed over her like a wave.
A crunching of the snow sounded without. If Rosalie had been intending to confide in her, the chance was lost. For the first time Betsy regretted to hear her husband’s step.
“There’s Captain Salter,” said Rosalie.
The door opened. “Come in and get dry,” said Betsy, without looking around. She felt compunction for her momentary disloyalty.
“Thanks, I don’t care if I do.”
The women both started and turned. Irving Bruce stood there, his broad shoulders sparkling with snow. He set down his suit-case and stamped his feet. “You’ll have to build a porte-cochère, Betsy. The hack dumped me at the back fence.”
The firelight fell on Rosalie as she stood, flushing.
“Mr. Irving, dear!” cried Betsy, flying at him, considerations of hostess and friend stumbling over one another in the sudden chaos of her mind. “What does this mean?”
“I just thought I’d run down and see the New Year in with you. Where are your manners, Rosalie? You might say you’re glad to see me.”
Betsy saw his eyes and rejoiced.
“Of course I am,” returned the girl, “but we country people aren’t used to shocks.”
He left his fur-lined overcoat in Betsy’s arms, unconscious that he was burdening her; and she clasped it to her breast as if it had been part of himself. Her boy and her girl! Her boy and her girl! And they were standing there, their hands clasping, and their eyes meeting.
Irving had not taken the uninteresting journey from Boston, and ploughed through the Fairport snow to see the New Year in with her. He had not broken away from the holiday gayeties of which Betsy had experience, to visit herself and Hiram in their snow-drift. Betsy’s heart exulted, and her cheeks were red.
“Sit up to the fire, Mr. Irving. I’m goin’ to make you some coffee,” she said.
“I didn’t ask if you had any room for me, but a blizzard seems to be starting. I can’t go to the inn, now.”
“I guess I can put you somewhere. If you don’t like the accommodations you can sit up all night. There’s plenty o’ logs in the wood-box.”
“I rather think I should like that. Have to see the New Year in, anyway. No use making two bites of a cherry.”
Just as the coffee was being poured, Captain Salter came in. “My, but that smells good!” he said; then, perceiving the new-comer – “Irvin’ Bruce, is that you?” he roared jovially. “Well, you’re a good one. You’ll be disappointed though. I haven’t got the boat far enough along yet for you to tell anything about it. I know you said you’d run up here, but I calc’lated to let you know when.”
“Too bad,” returned Irving. “I hope you don’t mind my coming, though.”
“Tickled to death, tickled to death,” responded Hiram, receiving his coffee from his wife’s hand and with it a look which made him blink once or twice in doubt.
“See the New Year in? Yes indeed,” he cried in answer to Irving’s explanation of his presence. “That’s just what we’ll do. I haven’t set up in years; but we’ll just sit around this fire, and tell yarns – ”
“Hiram Salter,” said his wife, “if you think for one minute that we’re goin’ to do any such thing, I don’t. I’ve got to get up and get the breakfast, and you’ve got to get up and build fires. As if we couldn’t trust the New Year to come in respectably; and if you can’t, why, Rosalie and Mr. Irving will attend to it.”
