THE KEY TO BETSY’S HEART

A frolic would follow

Frontispiece

THE KEY TO BETSY’S HEART

BY SARAH NOBLE IVES

ILLUSTRATED

New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1916 All rights reserved

Copyright, 1916, By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

Set up and electrotyped. Published, September, 1916.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[1]

THE KEY TO BETSY’S HEART

CHAPTER I THE COMING OF BETSY

“She needed all the heartening she could get.”

BETSY sat staring through the window of the first hack she had ever been in,—also it was the first she had ever seen. She was wondering, wondering, as she rolled along up two-mile drive that lay between the station and the[2] Hill-Top, what would happen next. Things had moved pretty swiftly in the past few weeks, and Betsy had been simply a bewildered leaf floating on the whirling tide of destiny.

To begin with, her father had disappeared;—run away from the little farm on the New Hampshire hillside. Tired of the stones and the drudgery—tired, too, of the wife, who, through neglect, hard work and lack of good food, had grown to be a fretful invalid—he had disappeared like a coward, in the night, no one knew where.

There were days after that when Betsy had gone hungry, for there was no money in the house, and but little food, and at last had come a day when the mother had fallen weakly on the floor. Betsy had run, frightened, down to old Mrs. Webb’s house for help, and Mrs. Webb had told the neighbors, and they had all come from every direction, surprised by the alarming news. It was planting season, and for some time no one had happened to call at the little red house over in Wixon’s Hollow, off the main road.

Then there had been a great bustling about. Betsy’s mother was put to bed, a doctor had come, there was food in the house once more, and a[3] kindly neighbor took charge of affairs. But it was too late. In a few days all was over.

But soon another leaf had been turned in Betsy’s book of life by a letter from a distant relative, known vaguely to Betsy as “Aunt Kate Johns.” Betsy was invited to come and stay a year with her.

Betsy had cried a little in secret over this, because it was something unknown and consequently something fearful. But one must take what comes,—so the poor little belongings were packed in a “carpet-bag,” and Betsy took her first railway journey all alone. It would have been a marvelous undertaking, but Betsy’s eyes were still blinded with the tears of her loss.

And now here she was, and what would come next?

She had never seen “Uncle Ben,” and Aunt Kate had been simply a vision of lovely color and soft silken draperies. Once or twice she had whirled into the little red house, and away again. Well, after all, it would be something new. Betsy plucked up her courage and dried her last tear as the hack turned in at a gate.

Up a wide avenue went the hack, under stately[4] trees and between wonderful flower-beds and sunny reaches of grass and dandelions. The dandelions looked homely and dear, but the prim magnificence of the great, park-like place awed Betsy too much for other emotions. Uncle Ben and Aunt Kate would probably be as stiff and unlovable as that trimmed hedge over there. She braced herself for the worst.

Now they drove past a great stone building, full of winking eyes, which were really windows peering into the sunset through a riot of vines. That was the “Hospital,” no doubt, of which Uncle Ben was superintendent. It looked huge and mysterious, and out of the unknown future Betsy felt a chill of loneliness creep over her. The driver stopped at last before a pretty brick house standing by itself in the park. It was all nooks and gables, and around two sides of it ran a porch delightfully shaded by honeysuckle. Betsy did not know honeysuckle, but its sweet smell hung heavy over her, and somehow it heartened her as she mounted the steps.

She needed all the heartening she could get, for Betsy had never before been beyond her own New Hampshire valley. She wavered a little,[5] and there was a queer, wooden-y feeling in her legs as she lifted her hand and rapped on the dark expanse of the door—she knew nothing of doorbells or knockers, and did not even look for them.

Almost immediately the door swung open, and a trim maid said:

“Is this Miss Betsy? Come right in. Mrs. Johns is sick with a headache, but she heard the carriage, and sent me to bring you up to her. Give me your bag, Miss.”

Betsy gave up the carpet-bag doubtfully.

“You mustn’t bang it. I’ve got two fresh eggs in it for Aunt Kate.”

Up a broad winding stair Betsy followed the maid, and into a room all delicate green and gold, with painted iris growing on the walls, up from a thick carpet that was almost like the grassy lawn. From a low couch came a soft voice.

“Come here, Betsy.”

The little figure stood stiffly before the couch,—a thin, small wisp of a maid, with brown hair of the silky kind that never stays “put”; the natural sallowness of her complexion was deepened by the tan of out-of-door life; the little hands were reddened and roughened with dishwashing[6] and scrubbing,—for Betsy had mothered her mother ever since she was big enough to bring in kindlings from the wood-pile. A faded black frock, fashioned hurriedly from an old skirt of her mother’s, made a pitiful attempt at mourning.

Most unpromising she was, at the first glance, and Aunt Kate’s heart sank, until her eyes met the two brown ones,—so deep and soft that she gave a start. Pools of liquid darkness they were, and out of them shone a soul to be trusted. Aunt Kate held out two arms, lace-covered and delicate, to enfold the small waif.

But Betsy did not accept the invitation. She stood there, crossing her ankles, and not knowing what to do with her hands. Caresses she had never known. In a voice shrill with the excitement of the interview, she said:

“I’ve brought you two eggs,—they’re fresh. Speckly and Banty done ’em for you.”

Out of her poverty the child had come with gifts! Aunt Kate’s eyes dimmed a little, and her hand closed gently over the little red one that hung limply at Betsy’s side.

“Did you bring them to me? I am so glad. I love fresh eggs.”

Most unpromising she was, at the first glance

[7]Betsy pointed to the maid. “She’s got my carpet-bag. Where’d you put it?”

“In your room, Miss Betsy.”

“My room? Have I got a room?”

“Show her, Treesa.”

Treesa led the way, and Betsy was soon back with an egg in each hand.

“They’re all right. I didn’t let no man nor nothin’ touch that bag coming down. Here they are. They aren’t real cold yet, hardly. I shooed Speckly off the nest to get this biggest one just before the stage came for me.”

“Thank you, dear. They’re fine. This weeny one is just like a big pearl. I hope you are going to be happy here with us.”

“I dunno. I never had much time for it.”

The sharp little nine-year-old voice had the edge of forty-five on it; it was the echo of her mother’s fretful plaint which the child had unconsciously picked up.

“Well, we’ll see. Run, now, and wash your hands and face, and Treesa will give you some supper in your room.” Somehow Aunt Kate shrank from leaving her alone with Uncle Ben this first night.

[8]Betsy hesitated. “This room is handsomer than our parlor,—but it’s kinder big and lonesome here.”

“It won’t seem so when you get used to it. We’re going to love you and then you will love us and we’ll all be happy as larks. Now good-night, little girl. You had better go right to bed after your tea. Treesa will show you where to put your things, and to-morrow will be a new day, Betsy dear, and then we’ll have time to get acquainted.”

Betsy walked to the door as if the interview was closed.

“Won’t you come and kiss me good-night?”

The child came slowly, as if unaccustomed to the rite, shrank a little from the arm that stole about her, pecked the lips coldly; then, at the soft caress of the white hand, she dropped a tiny corner of her reserve.

“Ma kissed me just afore she died.”

Then Betsy froze again, and walked out of the room.

Things passed in a whirl that evening. Whatever Betsy thought of the dainty room, all in white, old rose and soft, warm gray, she did not[9] disclose to Treesa. She ate her meal from delicate china, with real silver, and at last climbed into bed between the snowy sheets, and straightened out the folds of her coarse, drilling nightgown for sleep.

“It’s awful grand and beautiful here,” she whispered to herself; “but I’ll be lonesome. I wisht Ma was here, an’ I—I wisht I was back in the Holler!”

She hid her face in the pillow when Treesa came in, that her tears might not be seen.

“Good-night, Miss Betsy. Do you want a light left in your room?”

“No’m. I allers go to sleep in the dark,” said Betsy, bravely. She watched between her fingers as Treesa pulled a little chain, and snap! out went the light. At home they blew it out, and there was a smell of kerosene or tallow afterwards. This interested Betsy so much, wondering how it was done, that she forgot to stay awake and grieve through the dark hours, and before she could have counted a hundred, the wings of childish sleep were around her.

CHAPTER II THE NEW SURROUNDINGS

“She sat up and looked out of the window.”

BETSY awoke with a strange feeling of being still in a dream. Instead of opening her eyes on the little attic room of the red house in the Hollow, she was greeted by what seemed to her a palace in a fairy tale. She rubbed her eyes, sat up, and looked out of the window.

Yes, it was true; instead of being in a hollow she was on a hilltop. Stretched out below her lay[11] a green valley, and through the trees peeped many, many houses, more than Betsy had ever dreamed of in all her life. It must be a city, she thought, but the pictures in her geography had not prepared her for anything like this. The city seemed to be sitting on a hillside, with its feet dipping in the waters of a broad blue river. She was quite awake now, and beginning to realize what had happened.

Bang, bang, bang! There came a terrifying sound. It might have been a church bell, but it was too near; it might have been somebody pounding on the brass soap-kettle at home, but it was too musical. Betsy was out of bed like a shot, just as Aunt Kate showed her smiling face through a crack in the door.

“My goodness! What was that noise?” cried Betsy.

“Just the rising gong, dear. I intended to have wakened you before it sounded. You’ll have just time to dress before breakfast. What are you going to put on?”

“I got this dress I wore here, for best, and I got a black and white check gingham for every day. I had two blue calicoes and a red merino,[12] but Mrs. Webb said I wasn’t to bring ’em, ’cause they was colored, and I’m wearin’ black things.” Betsy told off the items of her wardrobe in one breath.

“Put on your gingham. It will do for now. Have you some light shoes?”

“Only just these copper-toes. I stub ’em out awful, and Pa didn’t b’lieve in no foolishness, he said. Summertimes I go barefoot, anyway.”

“Dear me! Well, these will do until after breakfast.”

Betsy dressed hurriedly, after having first been introduced to a big porcelain bathtub, where she was told to hop in this morning and every morning thereafter, for a splash.

“Oh my! Can I learn to swim in it?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t wide enough for you.”

“It’s bigger’n where I tried to learn in the brook. There wasn’t room in that pool for the whole of me. I just kicked my legs and held on to the bank, and then I kicked my arms, with my legs on the bank. But I dunno if I really learned.”

Aunt Kate laughed a merry laugh, and left her. Betsy finished off her toilette by tying a rusty[13] black ribbon on the end of her tight pigtail, and was ready for breakfast.

At the table there was Uncle Ben to meet. He was a tall, grave man, with a gray moustache,—much older-looking than Aunt Kate; but there was a twinkle in his eye as he shook Betsy’s hand.

“Good morning. I suppose this is Miss Betsy Wixon?”

“Yes,” she said simply, and slipped into the chair that Treesa pointed out to her. She contributed nothing more to the conversation for the present, but began to eat with the healthy appetite of a child. Aunt Kate sighed as she saw her bite off the biggest piece possible from her slice of toast, stuff nearly half an egg into her mouth at once, and drink her coffee noisily. If the service impressed Betsy, she gave no sign; only after Treesa had quietly finished her duties and retired to the kitchen, did she offer a remark.

“Aunt Kate,—don’t your hired girl eat to the table with you?”

She received her information on the subject without comment, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, paying no attention to the napkin that Treesa had placed in her lap, pushed back her chair, slipped[14] down, and, without waiting to be excused, walked out upon the porch.

Uncle Ben’s eyes followed the queer little figure.

“Your time won’t hang idle on your hands, Kate, even if she’s good. Do teach her some table manners, and get that black and white Mother Hubbard thing into the waste basket.”

“Just wait, Ben, until to-night. There will be a transformation on the surface, even so soon as that. I’ve a scheme all worked out,—on a theory that did not entirely originate with me. In fact, I have already begun to work on it. I spent all yesterday morning in the heat, shopping,—that’s where I got my headache. When she begins to connect the idea of self-respect with her appearance, she’ll begin to try to live up to her looks. There is splendid material there, and I’m going to do the utmost with it. I need the child as much as she needs me. I love her already, and this big house will not be empty any more. She’ll respond,—you’ll see.”

“I’ll trust you, Kate, to succeed in whatever you start out to do. Just at present I will say that[15] I’d rather have her around than forty just like her.”

“You encourage me, Ben. By and by you will applaud me. Watch!”

Later, when Dr. Johns had gone to his office at the Main Building, Aunt Kate called Betsy in, and together they mounted to the third floor, where was a cosy sewing-room, with a high north light. On a couch lay a number of pieces of cloth.

“My, aren’t they pretty!” said Betsy.

“We are going to make some simple frocks for you. Mrs. Allston is coming to-day to help.”

“For me? Why, I’m in mournin’ for Ma.”

“People—little girls—wear white, even when they are in mourning, and we can save the colored ones till a little later, if you prefer.”

“The pink’s the prettiest. It looks like the wild roses in our back lot. But I shall have to wait. Oh, well, I ain’t never had even a white dress before. I can help you sew. I know how.”

“Do you? Why, that’s fine! Now here are some underclothes for you to put on. I want you to be all ready when Mrs. Allston comes to help us sew.”

[16]“These things? They got lace on.”

“Yes.”

“Why, I’d tear ’em to bits, climbin’ trees.”

“If you can sew you’ll know how to mend them, and you will learn to be careful. Now try on these shoes.”

A pair of dainty strap-slippers were chosen, with stockings to match, and soon Betsy was surveying herself in the mirror.

“Have I got to wear ’em always?”

“Most people do, here.”

“Hm! They’ll feel funny. But I’ll get used to ’em. Folks said you would likely ‘doll me up’ some. But I didn’t think there was such pretty things in all the world. I’m afraid—I’m afraid, Aunt Kate, that I won’t mourn so hard as I ought to, with this lace on my petticoat.”

“You must think of how your mother would have liked to see you in these pretty things. She used to wear dainty, lace-trimmed clothes herself, when she was little. And, dearie, she would not want you to mourn. She’s so much happier now. Just enjoy the things, and learn to make your soul and body pretty, like the clothes.”

“Mrs. Webb said I’d prob’ly get vain when you[17] took me in hand,—but I guess I can resk one small ‘vain.’ I can wear my black hair-ribbin, so my head’ll mourn, anyway, and my feet’ll mourn, too, in these black slippers.”

With this compromise they sat down, as soon as Mrs. Allston had arrived, and Betsy’s nimble little fingers ran with the best. Basting, back-stitching and “over-and-overing” she could do, and she soon learned the mysteries of hemming and felling. So eager was she that her fingers almost learned of themselves.

In the afternoon a tired but excited Betsy beheld her first white frock, ready to wear.

“That will do for a start,” said Aunt Kate. “Now, before you put it on, let us make sure that everything else is all right. Will you let me do your hair for you?”

Betsy submitted, and in a twinkling the tight pigtail was unbraided.

“First we must get rid of the dust of the train. Did you ever have a real shampoo?”

“No’m, I guess not. I never saw one.—Is it side-combs?”

Aunt Kate laughed merrily.

“I’ll show you.”

[18]To Betsy’s surprise she was taken to the bathroom, and introduced to the wonders of a beaten egg, warm water, a delightful, soapy lather, more warm water, then cold, and last, a brisk towel-rubbing and fanning.

Out of it all the brown hair emerged, soft and fluffy, with almost a desire to kink at the ends, and a fresh black ribbon was tied jauntily into the flowing meshes.

Betsy looked at herself critically.

“It seems like I was in a picter. But it’ll snarl like sixty.”

“I’ll show you how to braid it nicely when you are playing, but this is for Uncle Ben to see. Now, just let me get the whole effect:—underwear, stockings, slippers, hair,—all right, and now the frock can go on.... Stop a minute, though; let me look at your finger-nails.—My little Betsy, we’ve some work ahead of us here!”

“What’s the matter with ’em? I washed ’em.”

“Yes, I see, dear. But did no one ever tell you not to bite your nails?”

“No’m. Why, they’d get awful long if I didn’t, and then I’d break ’em, washin’ dishes.”

[19]“Well, I’ll make them look as nice as I can, and you must promise me not to bite them any more.”

Betsy hesitated.—“I’ll try,” she said at last, “but I can’t promise,—not right off,—’cause I bite ’em when I’m thinkin’ things. I couldn’t promise nothin’ ’at I might forget.”

“That’s right, too. But you must do your best to remember. Little girls must be nice in every way.”

That evening, when Uncle Ben came to dinner, he was greeted by an apparition all in white. Betsy stood by her chair with a shy look at him, to observe the effect of her transformation.

“As I live,—a fairy,—out of a story-book! Or was there a fairy godmother somewhere, and is this Cinderella? Where is the Prince?”

Betsy laughed and seated herself, and Aunt Kate noticed that at the end of the meal she reached down shyly, and wiped her mouth on the corner of her napkin.

A week passed, and Betsy was clothed and almost in her right mind once more, when Aunt Kate came in one morning, with a pretty notebook in her hand.

[20]“Now, Betsy dear, this is to be your book, and I have put the word ‘Manners’ and a motto,—‘Manner maketh the Man’, at the top. One of the most important things is the way we eat our meals, and I think it will be easier for you if I do not speak to you at the table. But afterwards we will come up to your room for a minute, all by ourselves, and I will tell you what you have done that is not just right, and you can write it down in this book. Then we will practice with knives and forks and spoons, and make believe eat. At the table I’ll watch you, and you may watch me, and if you see anything that seems queer to you, please ask me about it.”

“Don’t I eat all right?”

“Well,—you have some things to learn.”