Marion Berkley: A Story for Girls

by Amanda M. Douglas

  CHAPTER VII.

  AUNT BETTIE.

  "Oh, dear!" yawned Grace Minton, "how I do hate stormy Saturdays!"

  "So do I!" exclaimed Georgie Graham; "they are a perfect nuisance, andwe were going up to Aunt Bettie's this afternoon."

  "Who's we?"

  "Oh, 'her royal highness' for one, and your humble servant for another;Sarah Brown, Flo Stevenson, and Rachel Drayton, _of_ course. By the way,how terribly intimate those two have grown! I don't believe 'herhighness' relishes their being so dreadfully thick."

  "What in the world makes you call Marion 'her highness'?" said Grace.

  "Oh, because she _is_ so high and mighty; she walks round here sometimesas if she were queen and we her subjects."

  "No such thing, Georgie Graham!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, who came in justas the last remark was made, and knew very well to whom it alluded; "shedoesn't trouble herself about us at all."

  "That's just it; she thinks herself superior to us poor _plebeians_."

  "Stuff and nonsense! You know you're jealous of her, and always havebeen."

  "Oh, no!" replied Georgie, who, no matter how much she might beprovoked, always spoke _to_ any one in a soft purring voice. "Oh, no!I'm not jealous of her; there is no reason why I should be. But really,Sarah, I don't see why you need take up the cudgel for her so fiercely;she always snubs you every chance she gets."

  Sarah tossed her head, blushing scarlet; for the remark certainly had agood deal of truth in it, and was none the less cutting for being madein a particularly mild tone.

  "Well, at any rate," said Grace Minton, for the sake of changing thesubject, "I think Rachel Drayton is lovely."

  "Lovely!" exclaimed Georgie, "she's a perfect stick! I don't see whatthere is lovely about her, and for my part I wish she had never comehere."

  "Seems to me the tune has changed," broke in Sarah. "I thought you wereone of the ones who were so down on Marion Berkley for saying the samething."

  "Oh, that was before I had seen her," replied Georgie, not at alldisconcerted.

  "In other words, you said it just so as to have an opportunity to differwith Marion," retorted Sarah. "I really believe you hate her!"

  "Sarah, how can you get so excited? it is so very unbecoming, you know,"purred Georgie. Sarah flounced out of the room too indignant for speech,and just as she was going through the hall met Marion, who was in anunusually pleasant mood.

  "See, Sarah, it is clearing off; we shall have a chance for our walk, Iguess, after all."

  "Do you think so? It will be awful sloppy though, won't it?"

  "No, I don't believe it will; besides who cares for that? We are notmade of sugar or salt."

  "How many are going?" asked Sarah.

  "I don't know exactly; let me see." And Marion counted off on herfingers. "You for one, and I for another; that's two. Miss Drayton andFlorence are four. Grace Minton, if she wants to go, five; and GeorgieGraham six."

  At the mention of the last name, Sarah gave her head a toss, which wasso very expressive that Marion could not help laughing, and exclaimed,"Oh, yes! you know 'her royal highness' must allow some of the_plebeians_ among her subjects to follow in her train."

  Sarah laughed softly. "Did you hear?" she whispered.

  Marion nodded, and just at that moment Georgie came out of the roomwhere she had been sitting. "What was that you said, Marion, about 'herhighness'?" she asked. "Did you think that the title applied toyourself?"

  "I shouldn't have thought of such a thing, Georgie, if I hadn'toverheard your remarks, and of course I could not but feel gratified atthe honorable distinction."

  "How do you know it was meant for an honorable distinction?"

  "How can I doubt it, Georgie, when it was bestowed upon me by such anamiable young lady as yourself? Now if it had been Sarah, I might havethought _she_ said it out of spite; but of course when Georgie Grahamsaid it, I knew it was intended as a tribute to my superiority;" andMarion made a provokingly graceful courtesy.

  "There is nothing like having a good opinion of one's self," repliedGeorgie.

  "But you see you are mistaken there, Georgie; it was you who seemed tohave such a high opinion of me. You know I didn't claim thegreatness,--it was 'thrust upon me;'" and Marion, satisfied with thatshaft, turned on her heel, and opening the front door went out on tothe piazza, followed by Sarah, who had been a silent but appreciativewitness of the scene.

  Georgie Graham shut her teeth, muttering in anything but her usual softtones, and with an expression in her eyes which was anything butpleasant to see, "Oh, how I hate you! But I'll be even with you yet!"

  The shower which had so disconcerted the whole school was evidentlyclearing off, and there was every prospect that the proposed plan ofwalking to Aunt Bettie's directly after dinner might be carried intoexecution.

  Aunt Bettie, as all the school-girls called her, was a farmer's wife,who supplied the school with eggs, butter, and cheese, and during thesummer with fresh vegetables and berries.

  She lived about two or three miles from the school, on the same road,and the girls often went to see her. She was fond of them all, althoughshe had her favorites, among whom was Marion; and she always kept a goodsupply of doughnuts, for which she was quite famous, on hand for themwhenever they might come.

  The sun kept his promise, and before dinner-time the girls were all outon the piazza, getting up an appetite they said, although that was notoften wanting with any of them.

  The party for Aunt Bettie's numbered eight,--Rose May and Fannie Thayerhaving begged Marion to ask permission for them to go,--and they all setout for their walk in high spirits. Although Marion treated Rachel witha certain degree of politeness, she never spoke to her unless it wasabsolutely necessary, and then always addressed her as Miss Drayton,although every other girl in school had, by this time, become accustomedto familiarly call her Rachel. Florence had done everything in her powerto draw Marion into their conversation at table, but seeing that she wasdetermined not to change her manner, she thought it best to take nomore notice of it, as by doing so it only made it the more apparent toRachel that Marion had no intention of becoming better acquainted withher.

  Rachel had been there but a short time, and already Marion began to feelthat Florence was turning from her for a new friend. This was not reallythe case, and Florence, who knew Marion's feelings, was secretly verymuch troubled.

  She loved Marion as deeply and truly as ever; but she could not turnaway from that motherless girl, between whom and herself an instinctivesympathy seem to have been established, arising from the loss which theyhad each felt, and which naturally drew them closer to each other.Florence had never known her mother, but the loss was none the lessgreat to her; she felt that there was a place in the heart that none buta mother's love could ever have filled, and no matter how bright andhappy she might feel, there was at times a sense of utter lonelinessabout her which she found hard to dispel.

  Rachel seemed to turn to her as her only friend among that crowd ofstrangers, and she could not refuse to give her her friendship inreturn, even at the risk of seeing Marion for a time estranged from her;for she trusted to Marion's better nature, hoping that in the future shewould not be misjudged, and that all might be made pleasant and happyagain.

  And so to-day for the first time since they had been to school together,Florence and Marion were taking their Saturday afternoon walk withseparate companions. Marion had Rose May by the hand, while she toldSarah Brown to take care of little Fannie. Florence and Rachel weredirectly in front of her, and she knew that they would have been happyto have had her join in their conversation. In fact, they spoke so thatshe could hear every word they said; but she occupied herself bytelling Rose a story of such remarkable length and interest as toperfectly enchant the child, who exclaimed as they reached thefarm-house, "O Marion, you do tell the best stories; I really think you_ought_ to write a book!" Marion laughed, but had no chance to answer,for at that moment the door opened and Aunt Bettie appeared upon thethreshold.<
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  "Wall, gals, I be glad to see ye; this is a sight good for old eyes!"

  "Did you expect us, auntie?" asked Marion.

  "Spect yer, child! why, I been a-lookin' for yer these three Saturdayspast! What you been a-doin' that's kept yer so long?"

  "Well, nothing in particular; but you see the term has only just begun,and we've hardly got settled."

  "Oh, yes, honey, I know; I haint laid it up agin yer. But who's this newone?--yer haint introduced me."

  As Marion showed no inclination to perform the ceremony Florencepresented Rachel, remarking that she was a new scholar from the West.But Aunt Bettie's keen eyes took in at a glance the deep mourningapparel, and her kind heart at once divined its cause; and she exclaimedwith great heartiness as she took Rachel's hands in her own rough palms,"Wall, child, you couldn't 'a come to a better place than MissStiffback's, and you couldn't 'a got in with a better lot o' girls; takeem as they come, they're about as good a set as I knows on!"

  "O Aunt Bettie!" exclaimed Florence; "flattering, as I live! I wouldn'thave believed it of you."

  "Not a bit of it, child; just plain speakin', a thing that never hurtanybody yet, according to my notion. But come in, gals; come in, youmust be tired after your long walk, and the tin box is most a-bustin'its sides, I crammed it so full."

  The girls laughed, for they all knew what the tin box contained, andwere only too ready to be called upon to empty it.

  They all seated themselves in the large, old-fashioned kitchen, with itslow ceiling and tremendous open fireplace, surmounted by a narrow shelf,on which was displayed a huge Bible, and a china shepherdess in a greenskirt and pink bodice, smiling tenderly over two glass lamps and aBritannia teapot, at a china shepherd in a yellow jacket and sky-bluesmalls; being, I suppose, exact representations of the sheep-tenders ofthat part of the country.

  Aunt Bettie bustled in and out of the huge pantry, bringing out a largetin box filled to the top with delicious brown, spicy doughnuts, and alarge earthen pitcher of new milk.

  "There, gals," as she put a tray of tumblers on the table, "jest helpyerselves, and the more yer eat, why the better I shall be suited."

  "Suppose we should go through the box and not leave any for Jabe; whatshould you say to that?" asked Marion.

  "Never you mind Jabe; trust him for getting his fill. Eat all yer want,and then stuff the rest in yer pockets."

  "Oh, that wouldn't do at all!" exclaimed Marion; "you don't know what afuss we had about those Julia Thayer carried home last year! MissStiefbach didn't like it at all; she said it was bad enough bringingboxes from home, but going round the neighborhood picking up cake wasdisgraceful. She never knew exactly who took them to school, for Juliakept mum; but I don't think it would do to try it again."

  "Wall, I think that was too bad of Miss Stiffback; she knows nothin'pleases me so much as to have you come here and eat my doughnuts, and ifyou choose to carry some on 'em to school, what harm did it do? Sheought to remember that she was a gal once herself."

  "Oh, mercy! auntie, I don't believe she ever was," ejaculatedMarion. "She was born Miss Stiefbach, and I wouldn't be at allsurprised if she wore the same stiff dresses, and had the sameI'm-a-little-better-than-any-body-else look when she was a baby."

  "Wall, child, she's a good woman after all. You know there aint any ofus perfect; we all hev our faults; if it aint one thing it's another;it's pretty much the same the world over."

  "You do make the best doughnuts, Aunt Bettie, _I_ ever eat," declaredFannie Thayer, who was leaning with both elbows on the table, a piece ofa doughnut in one hand, and a whole one in the other as a reserve force.

  "Wall, child, I ginerally kalkerlate I ken match any one going ondoughnuts; but 't seemed to me these weren't 's good as common. I hadsomething on my mind that worrited me when I was mixin' 'em, and I'spose I wasn't quite as keerful as usual."

  "If _you_ don't call these good, _I_ do!" ejaculated Miss Fannie. "Why,I just wish you could have seen some Julia made last summer. She took acooking-fit, and tried most everything; mother said she wasted more eggsand butter than she was worth, and her _doughnuts_!--Ugh! heavy, greasythings!"

  "She must 'a let 'em soak fat!" exclaimed Aunt Bettie, who was alwaysinterested in the cookery question; "that's the great trouble withdoughnuts; some folks think everything's in the mixin', but I say more'nhalf depends on the fryin'. You must hev yer fat hot, and stand over 'emall the time. I allers watch mine pretty close and turn 'em offen with afork, and then I hev a cullender ready to put 'em right in so't the fatken dreen off. I find it pays t' be pertickeler;" and Aunt Bettiesmoothed her apron, and leaned back in her chair with the air of one whohad said something of benefit to mankind in general.

  "But where is Julia?" she asked after a short pause. "Why didn't shecome?"

  "Oh, I forgot!" exclaimed Fannie; "she sent her love to you, and told meto tell you not to let us eat up all your doughnuts this time, becauseshe'll be up before long and want some. She had a sore throat, and MissStiefbach thought she had better not go out."

  "I'm sorry for that," replied Aunt Bettie; "I hope she aint a-goin' tobe sick."

  "Oh, no, it aint very bad. Julia thinks it's nothing but cankers; sheoften has them."

  "Wall, it's always best to be on the safe side, any way," said AuntBettie; "you tell her she needn't be afraid about the doughnuts; I'llhave a fresh batch ready agin the time she comes."

  The business of eating and drinking so occupied the girls' attention,that they did not enter into conversation as readily as usual; and afterthe first flush of excitement at meeting her young friends anddispensing her hospitality was over, Aunt Bettie, too, subsided into aquiet, subdued manner, which was quite foreign to her usual brisktalkativeness.

  She sat in her high-backed rocking-chair, looking at the girls over hersilver-bowed spectacles, with a sad, musing expression, as if the sightof them called up some unhappy thought.

  This unusual restraint on the part of their hostess communicated itselfin a certain degree to her visitors, though they did not themselvesremark the cause of their silence, and their visit was made shorter thanusual.

  It was Marion who first made the move to go; and although Aunt Bettiepressed them to remain she did not urge it with her accustomedeagerness.

  They had got just beyond the bend of the road which hid the oldfarm-house from view, when Marion exclaimed, "You run on, Rose, with theothers; I believe I left my gloves on the table; don't wait for me, I'llcatch up with you;" and before Rose could beg to go back with her, shehad turned round and ran off up the road. She ran quickly, butnoiselessly along, and was back to the farm-house in a few moments, andwas surprised to find Aunt Bettie sitting on the door-step with her headburied in her hands. Going up to her, she found her weeping as if herheart would break.

  "Aunt Bettie!" she said, in her gentlest tones, "Aunt Bettie! It's onlyMarion. What is the matter? I thought you seemed worried aboutsomething, and came back to see if I couldn't help you; can't I?"

  "Oh, dear!" sobbed the poor woman. "It may be dreadful wicked of me, butthe sight of you young things, all lookin' so bright and happy, did makeme feel awful bad, for I couldn't help thinking o' my own darterJemimy."

  "Why, what is the matter with her, auntie? Where is she?"

  "The Lord knows, dear, I don't. Not a blessed word hev I heerd from herit's going on eight weeks. I've writ, and Jabe he's writ, but we hainthad a sign of an answer, and I'm afraid she's dead, or perhaps wus;" andthe poor woman rocked herself back and forth, completely overcome by hergrief.

  "But, auntie," said Marion, laying her hand gently on the good woman'sshoulder, "don't you see there are forty things that might have happenedto prevent your hearing from her? You know a girl that lives out can'talways find time to write as often as she would like. Besides, she mayhave got a new place, and in that case might not have received yourletters."

  "I thought o' that, child, and the last letter Jabe writ he directed tothe care of Miss Benson, the woman that keeps the intelli
gence office;but that's two weeks an' more ago, and I haven't heerd a word. You see,Miss Marion, there aint a better-hearted gal livin' than my Jemimy, butshe got kinder lonesome and discontented-like a livin' way off here, andtook it into her head she'd like the city better. She allus was ahigh-sperrited gal, and 'twas dull for her here, that's a fact; but Iwish to the Lord I'd held my own and hadn't let her gone; for there'sawful places in them big cities, and my gal's pretty enough to make anyone look at her. I dunno, child, but I can't help feelin' somethin'dreadful's happened to her."

  "O auntie, you must not get discouraged so easily. I thought you wereone of the kind who always looked on the bright side of things," saidMarion in a cheerful tone.

  "Wall, dear, I do ginerally; but this has just keeled me right over, andI don't seem to know where I be. You see I haint got any one in the cityas I ken call upon to help me. I don't know a soul in the place I couldget to hunt her up. Sometimes I think I'll go down there; but where'sthe use? I should be like a hen with her head cut off in such a great,strange place as Boston."

  "Well, auntie, I'll try my best to help you. I tell you what I'll do:you give me Jemima's address, and I'll write to my mother, and get herto look her up. She has to go to those offices very often afterservants, and like as not she might stumble right on her. Now cheer up,auntie, for I feel just as if we should find her;" and Marion passed herhand over Aunt Bettie's wrinkled forehead and gray hair as tenderly asif she were her own mother.

  Aunt Bettie looked at Marion with the tears still glistening in hereyes, and a sad smile on her face, as she said:--

  "Marion Berkley it aint every gal as would take so much trouble for anold creetur like me, even if she noticed I was sad and worried. You'vecomforted a poor, old woman who was most broken-hearted. May the Lordbless you for it, an' I know he will."

  Marion smiled up at the tender, old face that looked down at her, whileher own flushed with pleasure at the words of commendation.

  It was a pity that there were no unobserved witnesses of the scene; forMarion Berkley, cold and haughty, apparently indifferent alike to thepraise or blame of those around her, was a very different person fromthis gentle girl. Her whole soul was shining through her eyes; all herhaughtiness, pride, and coldness had fallen from her, and she stoodalmost like one transfigured, her face beaming with the light whichmakes the plainest face seem almost divine,--that of pure, disinterestedsympathy for the sufferings and troubles of a fellow-being.

  For a moment there was silence between the two, while the tears rolleddown both of their cheeks; but Marion dashed hers away, as she exclaimedin a cheery voice:--

  "Come, auntie, it is getting late, and I must be off; so get me theaddress, please."

  "To be sure, child! How thoughtless I be! I'll get it for yer rightaway;" and Aunt Bettie went into the house with something of her usualbriskness, and returning, brought out a scrap of paper, on which waswritten in a stiff, cramped, school-boy hand this direction:--

  "MISS JEMIMA DOBBS, _In Kare of Mis Benson_, Number 22 Eest Crorfud Street, Boston."

  Marion could hardly repress a smile of amusement at the remarkableorthography; but remembering that in Aunt Bettie's eyes it was a perfectmonument to the glory of her son Jabe, she made no comments, and foldingit up, tucked it carefully away in her purse. Then, with a bright,encouraging smile, she said good-by to Aunt Bettie, and hurried off downthe road.

  It was much later than she thought, and as the days were rapidly growingshorter, it was quite dusk, and the girls were entirely out of sight andhearing.

  But her thoughts kept her company on her long walk, and all the way homeshe was turning over in her mind the probabilities and improbabilitiesof her mother's being able to find the young, unknown country girl in alarge city like Boston.

  Miss Christine had begun to feel quite anxious about her by the time shearrived, and Florence met her in the hall with a hearty caress, to whichshe responded with her old warmth.

  "Why, you dear, old thing!" exclaimed Florence; "what has kept you solong? It must have been forlorn walking home at this hour."

  "Oh, I did not mind it; I had something to think of," replied Marion, asshe pulled off her muddy rubbers before going upstairs. "I'll tell youby and by; I must run up and get ready for supper."

  That night, after they got to bed, Marion gave Florence a synopsis ofher conversation with Aunt Bettie, and told her of her plan of writingto her mother for assistance.

  "Well," said Florence, "I think it was real good of you to think of it.What a queer girl you are! I knew we didn't have quite as jolly a timeas usual up there, but I never noticed there was anything the matterwith Aunt Bettie; and if I had I don't believe it would have occurredto me to go back and comfort her. O Marion!"--and she threw her arm overher friend's shoulder,--"how much good there is in you! Why won't youlet it all come out?"

  "I don't think there was anything particularly good in that. You seethere was no virtue in my being kind to the poor, old thing, because Icould not help it. If there had been any hateful feelings to overcome,or any wounded pride to interfere, I probably should not have done it."

  "I'm not so sure of that, Marion. You do conquer yourself sometimes."

  "Not often, dear," Marion replied, with a little, nervous, forced laugh."It is too much trouble. Good-night, I must go to sleep."

  But it was long before sleep came to Marion. She laid perfectly still,so as not to disturb Florence, but the small hours found her stillawake. She had been for some time thoroughly dissatisfied with herself,and the thought that she had been of some comfort to any one was indeedpleasant to her; but she would not attribute to herself credit that didnot belong to her.

  It was just as she had said to Florence; she could not help being kindto the poor old woman in her trouble; she had obeyed the promptings ofher naturally warm heart. It had been an impulsive action, not one inwhich a disagreeable duty had been plainly pointed out for her tofollow; and she determinedly put aside all feeling of self-satisfaction.She knew that if Rachel Drayton had made a similar appeal to herkindness and sympathy, her heart would have been resolutely closedagainst her, and she would not have spoken a single encouraging word.

  This thought thrust itself upon her again and again. She tried to put itfrom her, but it was no use; she could not evade it. She told herselfthat she was ridiculously conscientious; that this girl had no claimsupon her; and that she had done all that Miss Christine asked of her;treated Rachel politely and courteously; but she knew that herpoliteness had been cold and formal, and her courtesy less kindly thanshe would bestow upon a beggar at the door. But she said to herself,Florence makes up for all my deficiencies. This bitter thought, invarious forms, had rankled in her breast day and night. She had oftensaid that nothing could ever make her jealous of Florence; theiraffection had been too lasting, too much a part of themselves, foreither to suspect the other of inconstancy; and now she was the first todoubt.

  But the last words of Florence, as they talked that night, came back toher, and she remembered the fond embrace and the earnestness of hervoice as she besought her to act her real self.

  Should she doubt that generous heart, that had shown its love for her ina thousand ways, because, when it was appealed to by a fatherless,motherless girl, it had responded with all the warmth of its true,generous nature?

  No, she could not do it; she felt that it was only another reason forloving her more, and tears of shame and sorrow filled her eyes, as,bending over in the darkness, she pressed a kiss upon the lips of hersleeping companion.

  Her unjust suspicion of her friend vanquished and conquered forever, herthoughts gradually wandered back to Aunt Bettie, and with her mind fullof plans and projects in her behalf, she at last fell asleep.