CHAPTER XXVI
IN BETSY’S ROOM
Mrs. Bruce did not sleep much after her stormy ebullition. She heard Irving and Robert come in, and knew that Irving came softly to her door and tried it. Finding it locked, he moved away as quietly. She knew he was feeling a tardy anxiety about her, and she wept again.
Toward morning she fell asleep, and when next her eyes opened, the sun was high.
Only the slumberous sound of the sea broke the Sabbath stillness.
From force of habit Mrs. Bruce put her hand out to touch the bell on the table beside her bed. It always summoned Betsy with the cup of hot water she liked to drink before she rose.
She arrested her own movement. What! Was Betsy to be allowed to fall into the usual routine and minister to her mistress’s needs as if nothing had happened?
Summon her? Certainly not. Betsy must be made to feel that a change had taken place, and that she must exhibit some regret before she could be received back into favor.
So Mrs. Bruce arose and made her toilet, and donning a negligée of silk and lace, proceeded to the dining-room.
Irving and Robert were already there, and Alice, the cook, was putting breakfast on the table. Irving strode forward to meet her. He noted her heavy eyes as he kissed her forehead.
“Pardon, Madama, I thought you weren’t coming down. Nixie and I are in a hurry, and as long as Betsy was busy with you, I asked Alice to put the things on the table.”
Mrs. Bruce moved to her place. “Betsy hasn’t been with me,” she said.
“She hasn’t? The poor dear must be ill then,” said Irving with concern. “Alice says she hasn’t been downstairs. Go up, will you,” he continued to the cook who was just leaving the room, “please go up to Betsy’s room and see what is the matter.”
The three seated themselves, and Mrs. Bruce’s dainty hands grew busy with the coffee percolator. Irving’s furtive glances assured him that there had been a storm. Discretion suggested that no reference be made to last evening. Fearing therefore that Nixie might err in that line, he hastened to speak.
“We’ve a great plan on for to-day, Madama,” he began, “and you’re in it.”
“That is certainly surprising,” rejoined the lady.
“We tried to find you at the inn to tell you about it last night,” said Nixie with insistent cheer, “but you were so exclusive, nobody knew where you were, and at last we found you had come home.”
Mrs. Bruce’s lips compressed firmly and her eyes could not lift above the percolator.
Irving stepped warningly on his friend’s foot under the table. At this juncture Alice returned. She seemed to be laboring under some excitement which made her forget her previous embarrassment in the unfamiliar region of the dining-room.
“Betsy isn’t there,” she said.
“Queer,” remarked Irving, without looking up from the egg he was breaking.
“She’s gone!” declared the girl.
“Look on the dresser!” burst forth Robert dramatically. “The note will be found.”
Mrs. Bruce paused, coffee-cup in hand, and looked at the cook, but did not speak.
“All right, Alice,” said Irving carelessly. “She has run into a neighbor’s.”
“No, sir, it looks queer up there,” returned the girl, her brogue increasing. “The bedclothes is all folded. Not a thing is on the dresser, sir. She’s gone.”
Alice’s blank expression began to be reflected in Irving’s face.
“Folded? What does that signify?” he asked.
“’Tis her trunk there too, sir. Locked and strapped it is. Sure she niver said a word to me!”
Irving pushed his chair back from the table. He looked at Mrs. Bruce. She had grown very white.
“Very well, Alice,” he said quietly. “I’ll see what it means. Thank you. You may go.”
The Irish girl withdrew, marvelling as she went.
Robert looked from mother to son, puzzled at their seriousness.
“Did you know this, Madama?”
“Certainly not,” she replied stiffly.
“Do you believe it?”
“I don’t know what to think. Betsy grows more erratic every day. She didn’t bring my hot water this morning.”
Irving studied her face an instant more, then he left the room and ran upstairs to Betsy’s room. It was dismantled. The dresser, where a flexible case had always stood open, containing six pictures of himself from babyhood to college days, was bare, even of a cover. A trunk, locked and strapped, stood a little way out from the bare wall.
Irving sat down on it in the desolate chamber, unnerved by the shock; and although the riddle seemed a horribly easy one to solve, the solution was so repulsive that he prayed to find another explanation.
Mrs. Bruce’s early disappearance from the inn, her heavy eyes this morning, Betsy’s warnings and exhortations to him in the Park, and Mrs. Bruce’s exhibition of unfriendliness to Rosalie last night, all pointed to one conclusion. His teeth clenched as he sat there, thinking back from his earliest remembrance, and all along through his life, of the unselfish care which a fine nature had devoted to his family. And this was the end. It was a nightmare. It was impossible, unthinkable.
Robert Nixon, left alone with his hostess, had seldom spent a more uncomfortable season than that first five minutes after Irving’s departure.
Mrs. Bruce stared straight before her, her face wearing an expression of fright and obstinacy.
Robert, with increasing embarrassment, began to feel that he was in the midst of some mysterious crisis, and fervently wished himself in the bosom of his family at the inn.
“I’m sorry to see you look so tired, Mrs. Bruce,” he said, when the long minutes had made the silence impossible.
“Shouldn’t you think he’d come down by this time?” she asked in a strained voice. “You see how it is, Nixie. Betsy rules this household with a rod of iron. Here is Irving upset, won’t eat his breakfast, just because she has taken a notion for an early stroll.”
Robert did not answer, and a cuckoo popping out of its door and remarking that it was half-past nine, made him jump nervously.
An instant later Mrs. Bruce pushed her chair back from the table, unable longer to endure the suspense.
“You’ll excuse me, Nixie, if I see – ” she said, and rose. The laces of her silken gown trailed so hurriedly through the door, that Robert had time but to take a step after her.
He sank back in his chair.
“Well, what does it all mean?” he murmured. “This is a cozy little vacation breakfast!”
Mrs. Bruce held her lip between her teeth as she mounted the stairs.
“Whatever has happened,” she thought, “I shall hold my own. What I said to Betsy was nothing but the truth. Irving will cross-question me, but I don’t care – ”
Her excitement was at fever-heat by the time she reached the open door of Betsy’s room.
She paused there and supported herself against the jamb. What she saw acted like a shower-bath upon her.
The familiar walls were stripped, the breeze blew through the silent, empty room, and there, seated on the trunk, was Irving, his face buried in his hands, his broad shoulders convulsed.
The only time she had ever seen him weep was when his father died. This room, too, seemed like the chamber of death.
“Irving!” she cried out in sudden pain, and ran to him.
He put out one hand and held her off. She pressed her own lips with her fingers to hold their quivering, and stared at him, miserably.
He rose from the trunk, walked over to the window, and stood there with his back to her, controlling himself and wiping his eyes.
Betsy’s words seemed to echo in her heart as she stood, hesitating and wretched.
“Of the unspoken word you are master. The spoken word is master of you.”
Her breath came fast. “Why has she done this, Irving?” she asked unsteadily.
“That is for you to tell, – if you will,” he answered. His voice was low and thick.
She drew a long sobbing breath. He had pushed her away. He had shrunk from her.
“You blame me, do you, before you have heard a word?” she asked.
“Let’s not have any nonsense, or justification,” he answered, without turning. “Something has occurred which I would have given ten years of my life to prevent.”
The iron entered his listener’s soul. All her body trembled. She did not know that at this very moment he was fighting for her against his own heart; forcing himself to remember her love for him, and the long years of her devotion. A petty, petted woman, he reminded himself, whose shallows he had perceived even as a child; and he controlled the anger against her which filled him; setting a guard upon the tongue that longed to lash her until her pitiful vanity should be dead beyond recall. She stood there, mute, and he continued to stand with his back to her.
“You left the inn last night, in anger,” he said at last.
“Hurt! So hurt, Irving,” she cried.
“You came home and wreaked your ill-temper on Betsy – Betsy, whose little finger is of more worth than your whole body and mine.”
Mrs. Bruce panted and flushed. “I did talk to her of her ill judgment – you don’t know, Irving – what do you think of her spending her savings of years on Rosalie Vincent?”
“She didn’t.”
“Why, of course she did. Who else paid the hundreds of dollars which brought her here and equipped her?”
“An old friend of her father’s family. Betsy had no need to spend a cent for her, although she would have asked nothing better, I have no doubt; because her life has been spent in doing for others. She knew that Rosalie would not accept such gifts from her, because that girl is a kindred noble soul.”
Mrs. Bruce took a step backward in this destruction of the very foundation of her defense.
“I don’t ask to know all the pitiful scene that took place. This,” Irving indicated the desolation of the room with a wave of his hand, “this speaks. Betsy has gone – ”
“She did it in revenge,” cried Mrs. Bruce. “She knew how it would make you suffer. She wanted to punish me.”
“Alas!” said Irving, “I know Betsy. She has been driven out of my father’s house —my house – without first talking to me; without putting her good arms around my neck – ” The speaker’s voice stopped short; his shoulders were again convulsed.
Mrs. Bruce stood in the same spot, watching him with miserable eyes, wringing her hands.
“Don’t – don’t say such things, Irving. Don’t feel so. I’ll – I’ll do anything. I’ll find her and – and apologize – I was mistaken – I’ll say so.”
Irving made a gesture of repression. She gazed at him, mute and miserable.
At last he turned and faced her. She was a figure to excite compassion in that moment, as she met the regard of his reddened eyes.
“It is too late for that, Madama. The break has come. It can’t be mended. Betsy would never go in this way if there were a possibility of her coming back.”
A sense of her own loss came to Mrs. Bruce with the kinder tone of Irving’s voice.
“I wish to speak to you also of another matter; of the cause of your excitement last night, before we part.”
“Part!” she repeated acutely.
“I mean only leaving this room. I wish for your own sake that you may regret the unwomanliness of your attitude toward Miss Vincent – Rosalie.”
Mrs. Bruce lifted questioning, dilated eyes.
“To think that it was she – that innocent girl, who could move you to cause this disaster. Examine your own consciousness. See what it is that could give the Powers of Darkness such easy access and sway.”
“I was jealous, Irving – jealous of Mrs. Nixon – ”
“And angry because you could not dominate the situation,” added Irving.
A painful color burned Mrs. Bruce’s face.
“I’m going to tell you,” he went on after a pause, “that no girl I have ever met has attracted me as Rosalie Vincent does.”
“Irving!”
“I’ve known many charming girls. They are all in one class. She is in another. I don’t understand it. I don’t know what it may mean. I tell you this because it may mean everything to me; and I feel it is due you to know it, since your sentiment toward Rosalie seems so strong. Then you can decide what your attitude will be for the remainder of the summer.”
Mrs. Bruce regarded him, her lips apart.
After a pause he spoke in his ordinary voice.
“We planned last evening that the Yellowstone party should go on a picnic to-day with Captain Salter. Do you care to go?”
She shook her head.
“Nor I. I would give a great deal to have this day, alone.” Again his throat closed.
“To mourn! to mourn!” thought Mrs. Bruce, wretchedly.
“But I can’t. I must go at once to see the captain, and then up to the inn. Good-by, Madama.” He approached and laid a hand on her shoulder. He realized the blow he had given her. “We must do the best we can,” he said, and left the room.
She stood there, long, in the same position.
“I wonder,” she thought confusedly, “if I am not the most miserable woman in the world.”
After a while she moved, and spoke through a tube which led to the kitchen. She told Alice that she would not need to get any dinner. Then she went to her room and closed the door. Stillness reigned again but for the subdued roar of waves.
“Some one will come for her trunk,” she reflected. “If she took a morning train it will have to be expressed.”
She held to that thought in the long hours of exhaustion that followed. Some one would come for the trunk, and she must not be asleep.
The middle of the afternoon a wagon stopped before the house. Mrs. Bruce was off her bed, alertly.
The feet of the expressman sounded on the stairs. Mrs. Bruce met him in the upper hall. To her relief it was a stranger who appeared.
“A trunk to go from here?” he said.
“Yes.” She led the way. “Is it prepaid?” she asked as he laid hands upon it.
“No.”
“Sha’n’t I do it then? Where is it to go?” The speaker’s heart beat fast under the careless words.
“No, ma’am. No need. Cap’n Salter’s good.”
“Captain – ” She arrested herself. “Oh, it’s to go to the captain’s.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Bruce returned to her room and sat on the side of the bed in deep meditation. Betsy might store her possessions in the house of an old friend until her plans were made.
The sense of desolation that overtook her as the trunk had disappeared submerged her afresh; and Irving’s words returned to pierce her.
Rosalie Vincent – in a class by herself. Her splendid Irving, whose career was to have made her life one pageant of gratified pride.
She sank upon her pillows with a groan. Her world was falling about her like a flimsy house of cards.
In the evening she heard him come in. He had to pass her room to get to his. She stood in the open doorway.
“Did you enjoy your picnic, dear?” she asked, as he appeared.
“We didn’t have any. I found Captain Salter’s house deserted, and his boat gone. I’ve been taking a long walk.”
“Indeed! I thought perhaps you would find – find Betsy at Captain Salter’s.”
“Why?” the question was quick.
“Her trunk went there this afternoon.”
“Madama!”
Mrs. Bruce felt a faint satisfaction in the amazement her information conveyed.
“I wonder – ” said Irving; and repeated vaguely, “I wonder.”
“I thought she might be storing it there,” hazarded Mrs. Bruce meekly.
Irving stood, thinking, for a minute, but to her disappointment he made no reply.
“Good-night,” he said, and kissed her forehead as he had always done.
He went on to his room, his thoughts busy.
The house was deserted. The boat was gone. That was what she had done, then.
“Betsy! Dear Betsy!” he murmured.
He looked at his watch, then took a sudden determination.
Like a thief he stole downstairs without a sound, and out of doors.
Then he started on a slow, steady run down the village street. It was not a long pull to the isolated cottage among the rocks, and when he came in sight of it he was rewarded by seeing a light in the windows.
Stealthily drawing near, he peered within. There he could see a cheerful tea-table, and Captain Salter and Betsy eating their late supper.
A lump rose in his throat. The trunk still stood on the piazza, and he passed it, to open the door gently. Smiling and dim-eyed he stood before the pair, who pushed their chairs back from the table.
“Well, Irving!” cried the captain’s big voice.
He extended a welcoming hand, but the visitor did not see it. He had fallen on his knees beside the bride’s chair, and buried his face in her lap.
She put both arms around his shoulders as she had done a hundred times to console some childish grief, and sudden tears rained from the eyes she raised to her husband.
The captain rose, and walked over to the window.
Irving lifted his cheek to Betsy’s breast.
“Mr. Irving, dear,” she said brokenly, “you know – ”
“Yes. Don’t explain. Don’t speak. I know. But I remember, Betsy. I remember so much, that I couldn’t stay away. My mother and you, Betsy. My mother and you. – So much. – So much that I can’t say – But my heart is full of it – and I wanted to kiss you – to kiss you before I went to sleep.”
“Darling boy! Darling child!” said Betsy, and pressed her cheek against his hair.
Then she kissed him tenderly, and he her, and he rose, and with a parting caress of his hand upon hers, crossed to the bridegroom, quietly blowing his nose by the window.
“Congratulations,” he said thickly.
The captain seized his offered hand speechlessly, and a mighty mutual grip ensued.
Then Irving slipped out of the open door, closed it softly behind him, and ran down the garden’s perfumed path.
CHAPTER XXVII
BETSY RECEIVES
Betsy’s letter to Mrs. Bachelder was a lighted match to a fuse. Within an hour Betsy’s Fairport, to a man, woman, and child, knew that she had linked her fortunes to Captain Salter’s.
Mrs. Pogram was one of the first to call upon the bride. Enveloped in a black shawl, and moving with heavy deliberation, the mournful lady walked up the path bordered with fragrant pinks, and looked with lugubrious but appreciative eyes about the sunny garden of the rock-bound cottage.
Betsy saw her coming, and opened the door.
“That’s right, Mrs. Pogram. This is neighborly,” she said.
The visitor regarded her with doleful curiosity, examining her gingham dress and white apron, and the smooth arrangement of her trim head, with approval.
“You look awfully well, Betsy,” she said.
“Will you come in, or do you like to sit out here in the sunshine?”
Mrs. Pogram sniffed. “The grass is kind o’ damp, I guess,” she objected.
“Perhaps it is,” said Betsy. “Come in, then. Before another summer we’re goin’ to have a real nice veranda all across the front.”
“How you talk!” returned the caller, following her inside and accepting a cushioned rocker. “It sounds good to hear of anybody prosperin’. I haven’t scarcely got my breath since I heard o’ your marriage. And they say you wasn’t married in Fairport. They say you took the boat and went off and had a preacher from Mere Point row out with a witness and get aboard and marry you, ’cause Hiram wanted the knot tied on the sea; said he was goin’ to have a sailor’s knot and make a sure thing of it. And then I heard you all danced a hornpipe!”
Betsy laughed into the curious face with its down-drawn lips. “What a good time somebody had spinnin’ that yarn,” she said. “Now tell me about yourself, Mrs. Pogram.”
“It looks awful comfortable here,” declared the visitor wistfully. “I didn’t know as you and Hiram was goin’ to get married.”
“Well, you see we did. I’m your neighbor now, for good.”
“’Tis good, Betsy. ’Tis so.”
The visitor rocked as she inspected. Her gloomy garb and countenance in the cheerful room gave an effect as of a portly raven in a solarium.
“If you’d ’a’ give folks some warnin’,” she went on, “you’d ’a’ had presents from your well-wishers and old friends. Why was you so suddent, Betsy?”
The hostess directed a one-sided smile toward the open window, near which she was sitting. “Sometimes things that seem sudden have been a long time growin’,” she said.
“I s’pose so. I think a sight of you,” declared the visitor with a sniff. “I’d like nothin’ better’n to give you a spoon if I thought there was any hope o’ Loomis not noticin’ it; but Loomis is goin’ to get married himself, and he’s more’n ever set on keepin’ the estate together. I’ve been thinkin’ a whole lot about it, ’cause I’ve decided that when he’s got his own home I’d ruther make a division. I’d ruther have less and not be pestered.”
“I would, too,” said Betsy.
“And if that time ever comes, you can count on me for a spoon.”
“Thank you,” returned the bride. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Pogram. I think even more of the will than the deed.”
“Well, I heard from Rosalie at last,” announced the caller. “She was in Boston, and had found some old friend of her father’s who was doin’ for her. She didn’t say much, just a real pleasant little note, sayin’ she was all right and would let me hear again soon.” Mrs. Pogram lowered her voice, lest her brother’s dapper astral body might be floating near. “Her note cheered me up consid’able, Betsy, and I’ve been thinkin’ that after Loomis was married I could have Rosalie back again, just as well as not!”
Betsy’s face grew inscrutable. “I saw Rosalie in Boston myself,” she began; and at that moment the door, which had been ajar, opened, and the girl herself appeared before them.
She wore a dark-blue sailor suit, her sleeves were rolled up, and her face was alight with feeling.
“I heard my name!” she cried. “Oh, Betsy, I’ve just learned about you!”
In an instant the two were locked in each other’s arms, while Mrs. Pogram, her mouth open, her eyes winking as if to dispel cobwebs, leaned back in her chair.
“Do you see my visitor?” asked Betsy.
“Why, Auntie Pogram! You?” said the girl; and hastening to the sombre figure, she kissed her. “I was coming to see you to-day,” she went on. “It was my first opportunity. Everything has happened so fast.”
“You’re – ” stammered Mrs. Pogram amazedly, “you’re livin’ in Fairport, Rosalie?”
“Yes, at the inn.”
If it were possible for Mrs. Pogram’s back to cling more limply to her chair, it did so now.
The girl laughed. “Yes, it’s a fairy story, Auntie Pogram, but I’m living at the inn and paying for my board in the pleasantest way.”
“Waitin’ on table?” asked Mrs. Pogram.
“No;” the girl flushed and laughed. “Speaking pieces, just the way I used to do for you.”
“You don’t say so! I was just tellin’ Betsy, Loomis is goin’ to get married; and then I want you to come back to me, Rosalie.”
A creeping nausea stole around the girl’s heart.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I’ve grown so conceited I believe I can make my own living.”
Betsy watched her in fond silence; and Rosalie returned to her side. “I just looked in to hug you and to say I’m glad,” she said. “I’ll come again, soon.”
“What are you going to do to-day?” asked Betsy.
“I’m going canoeing with Mr. Nixon.”
“With Mr. Nixon,” repeated Betsy.
She was sorry they could not speak alone. She saw by the girl’s face there was much she was repressing.
“The people are planning a Yellowstone picnic with Captain Salter,” continued Rosalie. “We’re to sail to some far-away beach and have a clambake. Don’t forget that you’re a Yellowstoner even if you are a bride.”
“Rosalie,” returned Betsy, “if the people are kind enough to suggest my goin’ on any o’ these excursions, I want you to tell ’em that I’d rather not.”
The girl stood silent for a moment. Robert had told her as much as he knew, which was the mere fact of the marriage. He had asked nothing of Irving, and had not mentioned Betsy’s flight; but Rosalie guessed enough to understand.
“You can tell them that my weddin’ was a very hurried one and that I’m busy, and will be all summer,” added Betsy.
The girl inspected the room.
“I was here once before,” she said. “How different it looks!”
Betsy smiled. “I guess Cap’n Salter kept the blinds shut a good deal,” she returned. “I calc’late to make it look real nice here before I get through.”
Rosalie looked at her wistfully. “Isn’t it fun!” she said. “It’s a pretty cottage, and as for what you see from here – why, the inn has nothing like it.”
A man’s step crunched the garden-path and a knock sounded at the door. Robert Nixon appeared.
“May I come in?” he cried cheerfully. “Mrs. Betsy!” he added, as the hostess started up, “I thought it would be a good time to run over and pay my respects, for I knew you had company anyway, and I wanted you to know that I bear no malice for your unkindness in the past.”
Betsy shook hands with him heartily. “Mrs. Pogram, this is Mr. Nixon,” she said.
Mrs. Pogram’s eyes had found their greatest width, and they remained there, unwinking, while Robert bowed.
“Any time’s a good time, Mr. Nixon,” went on the hostess. “The latch-string will be always out.”
“Say, this is pretty nice, do you know it?” exclaimed Robert, looking about. “Such a corking view!”
Seeing Betsy in her usual trim garb, and with no line of care in her forehead, the young man asked himself if she could bear any relation to that tragical Sunday morning.
“You look as if you’d always been here,” he said.
“I really feel that way,” replied Betsy. “Sit down, Mr. Nixon.”
“I’d like to, but I can’t. I have to take this young lady and bear her off to my light canoe. Brute’s gone to Boston and it’s my innings.”
Betsy saw Rosalie’s blush and the sudden gravity of her face.
“She’s got ’em all cinched up there at the inn,” he rattled on. “Have to stand in line now to get an hour of her. Good-by, Betsy – I don’t have to call you Mrs. Salter, do I?”
The bride laughed and reassured him, and with a few more words the young people disappeared.
“Who’s he?” asked Mrs. Pogram sepulchrally.
“A young man from Boston. We met him in the Yellowstone.”
“Rosalie said – ” began the visitor.
“Yes,” interrupted Betsy, returning to her seat with a repressed sigh. “I’ll explain.”
Then she told her caller the outline of Rosalie’s experience, foreseeing that much future heartburning would be averted by frankness.
“Rosalie and I came pretty close out there,” she finished, “and this house’ll be her headquarters next winter if she has idle times; which I don’t think she will.”
“But after Loomis is married – ” began Mrs. Pogram.
“Yes, but you see we didn’t know Loomis was goin’ to be married, and Cap’n Salter’s very fond o’ Rosalie, and we’ve made our plans.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Pogram reflectively. “She looks like a new girl. I didn’t know as she was so pretty.”
“Some evenin’ soon,” said Betsy kindly, “you’ll come over here to supper with me, and I’ll fix it up with Sam Beebe to let us go to the inn and sit in some corner outside an open window, and we’ll see and hear Rosalie give her little show. You’ll be real pleased with her.”
“I guess I shall,” returned Mrs. Pogram, in a sort of maze. “I guess I shall. There was always somethin’ out o’ the ordinary about her. I used to think it was that made Loomis mad.” Mrs. Pogram’s eyes looked into a void. “He’s goin’ to marry a real nice girl – poor thing!” she added.
Delicacy restrained Betsy from inquiring which of the contracting parties was thus apostrophized by a fond sister, and in a few minutes her caller left.
By a strange coincidence Mrs. Pogram was present a week later, when one afternoon Captain Salter approached his cottage laden with a heavy wooden case which he carried on his shoulder. He groaned in spirit as he beheld through the window the visitor’s ample sable proportions.
“That’s goin’ to be Betsy’s trouble,” he muttered. “Everybody thinks too darned much of her.”
He gave the caller a cheerful nod, however, as he entered the living-room. He was too happy himself not to let good cheer overflow upon all mankind.
Betsy regarded the heavy case with surprise.
“What ye been sendin’ to Boston for?” he asked, lowering his burden.
“Nothin’. To Boston? There’s some mistake.”
She approached and read the inky address. “Mrs. Hiram Salter.” The name was clear.
Hiram brought some tools and opened the wooden box, then began to take out the packing within.
“It’s a weddin’ present,” exclaimed Mrs. Pogram, throwing back her shawl in the excitement of the moment, and thanking the lucky star which had made her keep on from the market to the Salter cottage.
Tissue paper began to come into view.
Hiram looked at Betsy. “I guess I’ve gone as far as I darst,” he said.
Color came into her cheeks as she lifted out package after package and laid them on the table. Mrs. Pogram rocked violently.
Captain Salter lifted away the wooden case and packing.
An envelope caught Betsy’s eye. She opened it and read the card within.
“O Hiram!” she exclaimed brokenly. “It’s Mr. Irving!”
“Irvin’ Bruce,” cried Mrs. Pogram, raising herself in her chair and dropping back again.
Betsy gave the card to her husband.
He read on it: “To dear Betsy, with her boy’s love.”
A slow, broad smile grew on Hiram’s bronzed face, and he watched motionless while Betsy opened her treasures.
Only Mrs. Pogram’s breathless ejaculations broke the stillness.
“I never! – I never did! – Fit for a queen! – And I wanted to give you a spoon!”
For the morocco cases held silver with the rose pattern which Irving knew that Betsy loved.
There were a dozen tea-spoons, half a dozen table-spoons, and the same number of forks and silver knives. A silver teapot, cream-pitcher and sugar-bowl of colonial design crowned the show. Every article except the knives was engraved with an F. upon which Captain Salter gazed with admiration.
The good soul could not even begrudge Mrs. Pogram’s presence at the unveiling of so much splendor; for the raven more nearly resembled a lark now, in her chirps and cries of joy.
Hiram held his wife in an embrace while they stood looking upon the array.
“You want to bring the burglars down on me, that’s what you want, Betsy.”
“Oh, it’s too handsome, too handsome!” Betsy was murmuring. “Mr. Irving hadn’t ought to spent so much money!” She held the card against her breast.
“I hain’t a particle of objection,” said Hiram jovially. “Would you have, Mrs. Pogram?”
The latter was eyeing the tea-set.
“It’s lots like mine,” she answered, with recovered recollection of the Brown-Pogram estate. “I’m just bound and determined Loomis’s wife shan’t have my tea-set!”
“We can’t do anything but eat, to do justice to it, Betsy,” went on Hiram.
And she turned her head and buried her face on his breast, while he kept his arms around her.
Mrs. Pogram began to be inspired with the idea that perhaps the pair would not mind being left alone for a little while.
“Betsy’s kind o’ worked up,” she said leniently, to Hiram. “She set so much store by Irvin’. I’ll just go on, and see her some other time.”