Clever Betsy. Clara Louise Burnham
that divining rod which recognizes the artistic. Strange how much better I remember that girl’s gift and her unstudied gestures than I do her face.”
Betsy paused long enough in her undertakings to pull up the bib of her mistress’s apron, which had slipped, endangering the pretty silk gown. There was a permanent line in Betsy’s forehead, which might have been named “Mrs. Bruce the second”; but she fastened the apron as carefully now as she did all things pertaining to that lady’s welfare, and made no reply to the reflection upon her æsthetic capabilities. Betsy would not have known the meaning of the word æsthetic, but she would have declared unhesitatingly that if it characterized Mrs. Bruce she was willing not to have it describe herself. Not that she had a dislike of her mistress. She took her as she found her. Mr. Bruce had been attached to her, and Betsy’s duty was to the bearer of his name. She seldom contended with her mistress, nor had any argument. She said to herself simply that it was hard to teach an old dog new tricks; and while it might seem a trifle rough to mention an old dog in connection with a lady of Mrs. Bruce’s attractive appearance, the sense of the axiom was extremely applicable, since Mrs. Bruce could become no more set in all essentials if she lived to be a hundred.
Betsy very rightly realizing that avoidable discord was foolishness, lived her philosophy, and contented herself with mental reservations which would have astonished her complacent mistress mightily.
On the evening, twelve years ago, when Mr. Bruce announced to his housekeeper his impending marriage, she shouldered this cross resolutely.
He had been a man of few words, and on this occasion he said simply to the woman who had seen his happiness with the bride of his youth, “I find myself very lonely, Betsy. I am going to marry Miss Flushing.”
“Very well, sir,” she replied quietly, though her heart leaped to her throat and her thoughts flew to the twelve-year-old boy who was then at home on his vacation. “Have you told Mr. Irving, sir?”
She remembered the father’s face as he replied, “Yes. That boy, Betsy, is a manly little chap. Miss Flushing is devoted to him and has gained his affection already; but – it was a blow to him. I saw it. A surprise, a great surprise.”
Betsy remembered to this day how she bit her tongue to keep it from speaking.
“He talked to me though,” the father had continued, “more like one man to another than like a child; but after being very civil about it, he announced that I mustn’t expect him to call her mother, because he should not be able to.”
Betsy had nodded. “Mr. Irving had a mother out of the ordinary, Mr. Bruce,” she replied very quietly, but with the hot blood pressing in her head; then she went up decorously to her room, closed the door, and indulged in one storm of weeping; after which she shouldered the cross above mentioned, which like all crosses heartily borne, lightened as the years went on.
One thing was certain. Greater devotion was never displayed by a stepmother; and if Irving Bruce had mental reservations, too, he did not divulge them to the faithful woman who was part of his earliest remembrance.
CHAPTER III
IRVING BRUCE
Mrs. Bruce had retired from her labors, but a vigorous cleansing process was still going on in the cottage, when a man’s footsteps again sounded on the garden-path. Some one set a suit-case down on the porch, and then appeared in the doorway for a moment of inspection.
Betsy started at sight of the tall, gray-clad apparition.
“Mr. Irving!” she ejaculated, and the transfiguring expression which crossed her face gave the key at once to her loyalty. “Go ’way from here, we ain’t a bit ready for you!” she said severely.
He strode forward and gently shook the speaker’s angular shoulders instead of her busy hands.
“Great that I could get here so soon,” he returned, continuing to rest his hands on her shoulders, while she looked up into the eyes set generously apart under level brows.
“He ain’t any job lot,” she thought for the hundredth time, “he’s a masterpiece.” But all the time she was trying to frown.
“We ain’t ready for you,” she repeated. “The cook hasn’t come.”
“Bully!” ejaculated the unwelcome one. “It’s the aim of my existence to catch you where there isn’t any cook. Are the mackerel running?”
“You’ll have to ask Cap’n Salter or some other lazy coot about that. Mackerel running! Humph! My own running has been all I could attend to the last two days. Mrs. Pogram’s supposed to look after the cottage – air it and so on; but she always was slower’n molasses and I s’pose she don’t get any younger nor spryer as the years go on. I’ve found mildew, yes, I have, mildew, in a number o’ places.”
The young man smiled, dropped his hands, and sauntered to a window overlooking the tumbling blue.
“She has what’s-her-name there, that girl she adopted,” he responded carelessly. “Why doesn’t she shift such duties upon her?”
“Oh, you remember Rosalie, do you?” asked Betsy dryly, as she resumed her work.
“To be sure. That was her name. Pretty name. Pretty girl. A real village beauty.”
“Yes,” said Betsy. “You very likely remember Mrs. Bruce took a lot of interest in her. Had her here to speak poetry one day.”
“Oh, I remember her very well,” returned the young man. “I don’t recall the poetry though. So that was her forte. Apt to interfere with opening up and airing out other people’s cottages, I suppose.”
“Yes, if it’s encouraged. Hers was encouraged.”
Betsy’s lips snapped together and her tone caused her companion to glance around at her over his shoulder.
“Mildew sort of got on your nerves, Betsy?” he asked, amused. “Don’t worry. There’s a free-for-all chemistry here that will fix it up in no time. Drop that duster and come and look at the ocean. It will steady you.”
“Steady me!” Betsy gave a derisive grunt. “Tell that to the marines. I’ve had experience of its steadiness the last month, haven’t I?”
Irving laughed at certain memories of his companion’s walnut profile, with lips pursed in the throes of endurance.
“You aren’t a star sailor, are you?” he returned.
“I learned the meanin’ o’ one phrase o’ Scripture; learned it for life. ‘Unstable as water.’ It fits some folks just splendid and you couldn’t say anything worse about ’em. My! will I ever forget tryin’ to wait on Mrs. Bruce and fix my hair in that stateroom! Never got my arms up that there didn’t come a lurch and knock my elbow against the woodwork fit to break the skin.”
“You ought to be better upholstered, Betsy,” said Irving.
“And varnish!” she continued, with reminiscent loathing. “Shall I ever be able to use varnish again!”
“Joy!” exclaimed Irving. “Then I’m not in any danger of being shellacked! I never felt certain in childhood’s happy hour that keeping me surgically clean would wholly satisfy you.”
“No, sir,” said Betsy warmly, “the ocean won’t get me to look at it this summer. All diamonds, and blue sparkles, and white feathers, just as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth; then when it gets you in its clutches, bangs you around from pillar to post and nearly blows the hair off your head. I know its tricks now. It’ll never deceive me again.”
Irving smiled out at the maligned billows. “Looks pretty good to me,” he returned. “Wonder what I shall do about a boat. Has Mrs. Bruce said any more about the Yellowstone?”
“Yes, spoke of it this mornin’ to Cap’n Salter.”
“Oh, has she been out with Hiram already?”
“No, he was lally-gaggin’ around here for a while.”
“How