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CHAPTER IX

Two serious questions concerning Beth’s rearing presented themselves to Eliza. After her experience with Rose, she knew that her foster-child would be forced to bear the insults and unkind remarks of every ill-bred person who chose to express themselves.

As for Rose, Eliza felt that she had quieted her only for such time as she was a visitor at the Wells home. The child was a sort of leader after a fashion of her own, and what she did the half dozen children near her age would do.

It meant simply this. Beth would be the subject of the caprice, ill-temper or ill-breeding of the children. The best thing was to put her with those who had kindness in their heart. She would be able to teach her for a year more. Then she would enter her in the schools at Farwell.

So far the matter was settled. The next question was one of finance. There were several dollars monthly tuition for pupils who did not reside in the borough. Eliza had so little to go on. She determined that she would be ready for the expense when it came. She would not deny Beth, but she could and would make sacrifices for herself. All winter, not a cent was spent needlessly. She sold her butter close, and studied her chicken manual and fed her hens so scientifically and kept the coops so warm and comfortable that the fowls were under the impression that spring had come and took to laying at once; this when eggs were forty cents a dozen.

When Beth was ten years old, she entered the B grammar grade at Farwell. So far Eliza had kept in touch with her work and had taught her all she knew. She had a tug at her heart strings that first morning in September when she walked into town with Beth. It seemed to her that there had come a parting of the ways when each must walk a little more alone.

Beth was radiant with new tan shoes and stockings. Her white dress was fresh from the iron. Eliza felt not a little conscience-stricken whenever she bade her little girl wear this particular dress. It had been made from the linen sheets which Eliza’s grandmother had woven and bleached. Eliza loved family traditions. She had thought a long time before she put her shears into these heirlooms. But she concluded at last that the welfare and advancement of the living were to be considered before the traditions of the past.

It was a beautiful morning when they started forth on the road to knowledge. The way from the Wells homestead led down a gradual slope. Here one could go by way of the public road, or take a little foot-path which wound in and out through the woods and at length came in just at the edge of Farwell.

Eliza and Beth had given themselves plenty of time. The foot-path was enticing. They took it. Eliza walked slowly, pausing now and then to look at the scene about her, or to pluck a bit of golden-rod or wild aster. Beth was flitting from flower to flower like a butterfly. Yet in the midst of her excitement and haste, she stepped carefully on the tips of her shoes so that she would not scuff them. Tan shoes were not to be had for the asking.

The slope of the hill stretched to a ravine through which ran a little stream. In spring, it was something worth while; but the heat of summer had dried it up, so that now there was barely enough of it to make a gurgling sound. Once there had been fields along the stream. An apple orchard had stretched over the hillside. The trees were still there, to be sure, but they had degenerated until the fruit was hard, small and bitter.

Portions of an old rail fence were to be seen, and close under the one solitary forest-oak which some generous hand had left standing, was a small house built of square timbers. Wild ampelopsis were clambering over it everywhere. A broad stone chimney built for an outlet to the grate within was standing as intact as the day its rough stones were laid.

No one had ever lived here since Eliza could remember. The windows and doors had been boarded up for years. Nature had softened the colors and vines and bending branches of oak had made it a beautiful place. The Oliver place, people called it; but nothing remained of the Oliver family but the name of this place. They had come and gone, and that was all the Shintown folk could tell of them.

Eliza stopped and looked at the place, as she did every time she passed it. It had always been attractive to her, even when she was a child. It was mellowed in color; it stood aloof from all life, and suggested sentiment and romance.

Beth had run on ahead. Seeing that Eliza was not following, she ran back and stood beside her. There was a moment’s silence, until her mind grasped what was holding her companion’s attention.

“Isn’t it simply lovely?” she exclaimed. “It would be simply ‘kertish’ for a play-house. When Helen brings her cousin over to spend Saturday, I’ll bring them down here to make a play-house.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Eliza. “The place may be full of snakes. Old houses like that are often dens of rattlers.”

“We could kill them, couldn’t we?” asked Beth.

“We’ll not risk it,” said Eliza. “Just stay away. Then I’ll feel sure that you are on the safe side.”

It was barely eight o’clock when Eliza and her charge entered the school building. Miss Harmon had charge of the B grammar grade. Providence was being good to Beth when she put her in this woman’s charge. She was a fine teacher. Her school-room held more than books. Children were built up, strengthened and made happy. She believed firmly that one can be happy only by being of some use in the world. She considered it sinful to be depressed and blue; for such an attitude of mind showed lack of faith in God. She had a part in every good work in town. She knew every one and had a kindly word of greeting for each one, from drunken, worthless Jerry Hennesey to the Judge who stood as a beacon light of morality and high thinking.

“And Beth is to be with me this year?” she said after greeting her visitors. “I am glad of that. We’ll have a lovely time.”

“I shall miss her,” said Eliza. “I’ve been teaching her up to this time. Of course I had to do some studying, but I enjoyed it. I’m sorry to give it up.”

“Why give it up? Why not continue as you have begun?”

“It would be useless. Two years more and she’ll take up Latin and Algebra. I’ve never had them. I know nothing of Botany. I know the wild flowers here about, but nothing about the science.”

“You know the finest part if you know the flowers,” was the reply. “What matters it if Beth begins Latin! If you keep side by side with her, could you not begin too?”

“I’m too old. Why, Miss Harmon, I’m thirty – ”

“Don’t, please. I don’t wish to know. Years are not counted any more. Why, you and I are babies yet with a lot of glorious things to learn. Mind is not subject to years. It can keep working as long as there is a body to hold it.”

This was a new idea to Eliza. Somewhere hidden in her brain had been this same thought; but she had pushed it back from the light. It had been so different from what every one else thought, that she had believed it must be wrong. She listened to Miss Harmon talk along this same line. She had little to say; but she did a great deal of thinking.

“Youth can always dwell in the heart and the mind. We can find joy in living, spontaneity in action, and delight in study as long as we live.”

She paused and then laughed softly while a flush stole over her cheeks. “I am going to be personal, Miss Wells, just to prove to you that I know what I’m talking about. I’m ten years older than you – you have been thinking all the while that I’m much younger. Do you know why? I have never let myself think I was too old to learn anything. I’ve kept my mind and muscles flexible and they cannot get stiff.”

“I know you are right,” said Eliza at last. “I used to think a good deal on that line, but I never could talk of it to any one. It seemed as though no one thought as I did. They always acted as though I was just a little peculiar.”

“They called Galileo crazy; Plato was sneered at because he taught the immortality of the soul when every one else believed something else. We can’t depend upon our friends for some things. Each one of us must be a Columbus and discover for himself the unfathomed country of his own soul. There is no knowing how big and glorious a possession we may have.”

The gong sounded here and the children came trooping in. Miss Eliza arose to leave. The teacher came with her to the door.

“You will come again and see how Beth is getting along? Don’t give up your studies. You’ll regret it if you do. Some time when I have leisure I would like to talk with you about our Club. I know you would be interested and would like to join.”

Eliza went her way. Already the horizon had broadened. A Columbus to her own soul! She grasped what that might mean. No one could tell her own possibilities, her own capabilities, until she cast aside prejudice, servitude to customs which were accepted only because they had been in existence for centuries, and started forth to express the sweetness and strength of her own life.

Eliza hurried along with buoyant step. Her feet were light and her hopes high. Her white dress had been mended, but it was the perfection of daintiness. She was good to look at as she went her way, a graceful, gracious, smiling woman.

“Slow up, or there’ll be a head-on collision,” cried a merry voice. “I declare I’m always ‘flagging’ people to prevent a wreck.”

Eliza brought herself to a sudden stop. Doctor Dullmer, smiling and gracious, stood before her.

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t see you. I was preoccupied,” she stammered.

“I believe you. Thoughts in the clouds and heels on the pavements. But I’m not surprised. That’s the way I’m being treated these days. Handsome, attractive young women don’t care to notice a fat, seedy old doctor.”

Eliza laughed at his jest. “It doesn’t matter though how I’m treated. I’ll not forsake my friends. To prove it, I’ll walk down to the crossroads with you. It is unseemly that a young girl like you should be roaming the streets alone at this hour.” His expression was quite grave and his voice as serious as though he were diagnosing a case.

Doctor Dullmer had a thousand subjects to talk upon. He flitted like a bee from one to another, taking out a bit of honey everywhere. When they came to the corner of Champlain Avenue and Sixth Street, which was the beginning of the State Road, Doctor Dullmer pointed across the river to where the base of the mountains spread out into a broad level plain, fully a hundred yards higher than the valley in which Farwell lay. The view from this elevation must have been magnificent, for it extended so that the river swept about it and one could see for miles east and west. Every little village was in sight, and beyond lay the magnificent heights of the Alleghanies.

“Notice those workmen over there. That means something. That means that we are going to be society. Next summer we take to swallow-tailed coats and low-cut vests. We are getting on. We will have a summer hotel there, and the fashionables will come and tell us what beautiful mountains we have. As though we didn’t know that the instant we were able to peep from beneath our perambulator blankets to look at them.”

He turned to gaze quizzically at Eliza.

“You’ll have to do like the rest of them. You’ll be cutting off the collar of your frock and putting a tail to your skirt. That’s the fashionable caper for women, they tell me – . Here’s my turning-off place.” He was gone before Eliza could speak.

She stood a moment looking at the swarm of workmen excavating. She had heard rumors of a summer hotel being built. It was really true then!

She smiled as she recalled the doctor’s words about evening gowns and trains. How ridiculous!

Very strange things happen. Before many years had passed, Eliza was really trailing after her a robe of – . But this is anticipating. Why speak of it now, when she herself never suspected all the strange occurrences which would follow from the hotel’s bringing its influx of guests.

CHAPTER X

Before the year had passed, Beth had learned many things which were not in books. The first was that school and clothes cost money. She gave no hint to Adee that she had grown wise in this respect. What was the use of discussing matters and worrying oneself when no good could come of it? She could keep her eyes open and look about her, to see in what way she could help her foster-mother. She saw, for the first time, a great deal. Adee’s shoes were patched and her gloves shiny. Having her eyes opened, Beth saw a great deal. At the first opening of spring, she had had new shoes and a new school-dress. The walk was hard on footwear. A pair of shoes had lasted her but a month.

She looked at her new shoes and decided that they must last her until the last of summer. Thereafter when she set out for school, she slipped around to the front stoop, and when she set forth again, she had a bundle under her arm. A month passed. Beth had come home from school. Adee had met her at the foot of the slope. By some strange chance, Adee’s eyes fell upon the shoes the little girl was wearing.

“It’s wonderful how your shoes are lasting. They are not even scuffed and you have worn them five weeks. That has been about as long as a pair lasts you.”

“Yes,” said Beth. Her face grew crimson, and she turned her eyes away that she might not meet Adee’s glance.

“Did you bring home a library book?” asked Eliza, reaching forth for the books under Beth’s arm. “I hope it is something worth while. We can read it aloud.” For the first time, she saw the other bundle under Beth’s arm.

“What is it, Beth?” she asked.

Beth burst into tears. Then with a sudden impulse she opened the bundle and forced it into Eliza’s hands. It was nothing at all formidable – nothing to shed tears over.

“Your old shoes! What are you crying about them for, and what ever possessed you to carry them with you? Were they too valuable to leave at home?”

“I’m crying because I didn’t wish you to know about it, and now you’ve found out.” Beth dried her tears. “I saw how many shoes I was wearing out, and that I always had new ones and you had old patched ones. I thought I’d save. I put on these old ones when I get out of sight of the house and just at the edge of town I put on the good ones again. I’ve always looked nice in school, Adee, and I didn’t wear out the good shoes on the rough road.”

“It’s all right,” said Adee. “But what did you do with your old shoes while you were in school? I do hope you did not set them up on your desk as a decoration.”

Beth knew her own Adee, and accepted this remark as a humorous sort of pleasantry. She laughed, “You know I did not. I hid them under an old log alongside the road. You’re not vexed, Adee?”

Eliza put her arm around the child and drew her close to her as they walked up the hill. “No, I think I’m pleased. Indeed, I am quite sure I am. I’m glad that you think of some one else. But don’t worry about your shoes, I want you to look well in school. If you stand well in your class, and behave yourself nicely, I shall be satisfied. Somehow, I think this is all a little girl need do.”

“It’s all right though to save my shoes this way?”

“Yes, if you wish to. I’ll leave that to you. You may do as you please. It will save me buying a new pair for some time.”

So Beth continued this. Her shoes lasted through the school term which closed the last of May.

The high school at Farwell was only a district one of the third class. There was a three years’ course, and the average age for graduation was sixteen. Beth entered when she was twelve – or, rather when Eliza thought she was that age. She may have been eleven or thirteen for all either of them knew.

The freshman class was made up of pupils from three grammar grades from different sections of the town, so that at least two-thirds of her class-mates were strangers to Beth. She and Helen had been put in different divisions, and Beth found herself virtually alone as far as any friends were concerned.

Several days passed before the girl back of her spoke to her. Beth already knew her name, having seen it on the wall slate. It was Tilly Jones. She was a fat, fair-haired girl – the senior of Beth by several years. She was rather stupid about books, and her movements slow and ponderous. Her father was an ignorant, uneducated man, yet with a certain skill about molding, so that he was able to make the sand pattern by simply having the blue-print before him, and taking no measurements. He was a genius in this one line. He was a valuable man in the foundry and made “big money.” Tilly had ribbons and furbelows. Her fat, pudgy fingers were covered with rings; she wore a bracelet and a necklace.

Friday morning, she leaned forward and asked, “What are you going to wear this afternoon?”

“Wear? Why, this – ” replied Beth.

“But it’s Friday afternoon,” was the reply. Beth could see no reason why this day of the week would make any difference. Tilly enlightened her. “Literary society, you know. Everybody fixed up for that. I’m going to wear a net gown over a blue lining. It looks just like silk. You’d never tell until you touched it. My mother paid Miss Foster six dollars to make it. My dress cost almost twenty dollars.”

Beth had nothing to say to this. She could not have said it, had she the words in her mouth, for the teacher had moved down the aisle and had her eyes upon the corner from which the sound of whispering came.

At noon Tilly came up to her in the cloak-room and explained the customs of the school. She had failed in her examinations, consequently this was her second year in the freshman class and she knew all about the “ins” and “outs.”

“Everybody who is anything dresses up for Friday afternoon,” she said.

“I can’t,” said Beth. “I don’t go home for dinner. I bring my lunch.”

“It’s too bad. You’ll feel so embarrassed. Your hair ribbons are old ones, too. This is the first time I’ve worn mine. They cost fifty cents a yard.”

She talked for some minutes, at the end of which Beth knew how much every article she wore cost. They were interrupted by the appearance of two other classmates. Beth knew them only by name. Carrie Laire was slight, with dark hair and eyes. Sally Monroe was very fair. She was slender and wiry. Her hair was drawn loosely and hung in a thick braid down her back.

“I’m the chairman of the Program Committee,” began Sally. “Do you recite or write poetry? I want you to be on the program for two weeks from to-day. You can select your own work. You see, I cannot tell what each one does best.”

“I’ll write a story,” said Beth. “A fairy-tale; will that do?”

“It would be lovely. You’re a perfect dear to help me out.” She was writing Beth’s name in her note-book.

“Don’t you live in town?” asked Carrie Laire. Beth told her where she lived.

“Is Miss Wells your aunt?” was the next question. Beth had never thought of that.

“No, she isn’t,” she replied and was about to move away, but Carrie followed her. The question had made Beth uneasy. Adee was not her aunt. Why did she live with her then, and why did she not have a home with brothers and sisters like other girls?

“Is your father dead?” Carrie continued. “I suppose he must be, and your mother too, or you wouldn’t be living with some one who isn’t even your aunt.”

Sally overheard the questions. She had always been in Carrie’s classes and knew how prone that young lady was to ask impertinent questions about matters which were really none of her business. She came to the rescue now.

“I’m glad you can write fairy-stories, Beth. It is so hard to get anyone to do anything of that sort. The girls will recite and sing, but essays and stories make them nervous.” Slipping her arm within Beth’s she led her away, ignoring alike Carrie’s presence and her impertinent questions.

“I’ll bring my lunch with me, too,” continued Sally. “I believe you and I could get along very well. Let us eat together. I haven’t any particular friend. Mabel Reynolds was, but she is away. I’d dearly love to have you for a friend.”

“I’d love to be your dearest friend. I never had a real intimate friend, except Helen Reed, and she’s in the other division.”

In the joy of these friendly overtures, Beth forgot Carrie and her questions.

Just before the afternoon session, Tilly came in breathless. Her fat body was palpitating like jelly. She wore a net dress made over a lining of blue near-silk. Her ribbons were new and crisp; her shoes and stockings white.

“I’ve heard a piece of news,” she began the instant her eyes fell upon the girls. “There’s a whole party planning to motor over from Point Breeze to visit school. They’ll be here for our program. They’re swells everyone of them. Mrs. Laurens is one of them. I’ve seen her. They’ve been all the summer at the Point Breeze Hotel. Her room costs twenty dollars a week. I’m glad I’m dressed up. I’m awful sorry for you, Beth. If I were you I’d sit back so they wouldn’t see me. They may never notice that you’re in the room. It’s a good thing that I sit in front of you and that I could go home and dress. I’m glad I wore this sash. My mother bought it in New York. It’s imported. She paid ten dollars for it.”

“Perhaps the visitors will be looking at your sash and not see us,” said Beth dryly. “Thank you for your suggestion; but I’ll not sit back away from your view. If Mrs. Laurens and her friends do not like my looks, they can turn their eyes some other way. It is my school and my seat and my dress. If anything about it doesn’t suit them, they know what they can do.”

It was rather a fiery speech for Beth. Sally squeezed her arm to give her a sort of moral support. Harvey Lackard, the freckle-faced boy with the crimson topknot, chuckled aloud.

“Give it to her, Beth,” he encouraged. “I never knew you had so much spunk. You don’t strike often, but when you do, you give it to them under the belt.”

Tilly took no offense. She had a good disposition even though the price mark was attached to everything she said. She turned toward Harvey and smiled blandly.

Carrie Laire was quite as excited as Tilly.

“Did you know that Mrs. Laurens is coming and Judge Creswell and Colonel Evans? Why, but I’m all worked up over it. I have a piano solo, and I just know I’ll break down. Do you know any of them? You may thank your stars that you’re not on the program. Judge Creswell is awful famous. Have you any judge in your family? What did your father do?”

Just an instant, Beth’s face flushed. She did not wish to make an enemy of Carrie, yet she could not put up with these questions. She stiffened her quivering lip and said lightly, “Are you merely curious, Carrie, or do you wish the information?” Her companion turned to look at her. Beth continued, “I’ll take a tablet and write out all the information about me that you may ever need – age, height, weight, and everything else.”

“Why, Beth Wells, you are just as hateful as you can be. You know that I only ask you because I’m interested in you, and then you turn on me and say such sharp things.”

The conversation was interrupted by the gong. The girls moved slowly toward the assembly room, and were taking their time, when Miss Hanscom rapped sharply with her ruler. She was a rigid disciplinarian, who could not discriminate between the magnitude of offense. She had been in the Farwell schools for five years. Her work had been strenuous. She had fought her own way, against heavy odds. The result was that she was hard in manner, self-sufficient and not a little aggressive.

Pupils always spoke of how well she had taught them, but not one had ever said that she had awakened sympathy. She was nervous now and spoke sharply, for from her window she had seen two touring cars slow up at the curb, and she knew that visitors were “upon them.”