Clever Betsy. Clara Louise Burnham
couldn’t do better. He’s a good sort.” Irving smiled at some memory. “I must have made that man’s life a burden. What a lot of patience he had! But when the end was reached, I can feel that hand of his come down on me, big as a ham, and toss me away as if I’d been a cunner he was throwing back. Mrs. Salter, too. Talk about salt of the earth! I suppose that must have been a stock Fairport pun during her life. Many a time she begged me off. The gentle Annie! I should think so. Let’s see. How long has she been gone?”
“Five years.”
“And the captain has never taken notice since, has he?”
“Don’t ask me,” was the curt response; and a table was whisked completely around with a celerity which must have given it vertigo.
“Betsy! Betsy!” It was a cautious call which came quietly from the invisible.
Betsy straightened herself and moved toward it, and the silent moment was followed by the swift entrance of Mrs. Bruce.
“My dear boy!” she exclaimed, aggrieved. “I thought I heard a man’s voice. How long have you been here? Betsy, why didn’t you tell me!”
The young man’s eyes were kind as he turned and came to meet the speaker, and his manner seemed very quiet in contrast to her alert, fussy personality and the froufrou of her taffetas.
“Good-morning, Madama,” he said, returning her nervous embrace lightly. “I’ve asked Betsy so many questions since I broke in here, that she couldn’t in civility leave me.”
Betsy returned to her labors, deaf to her mistress’s remarks. She knew that Mrs. Bruce had a chronic objection to her having a tête-à-tête, however short, with Irving. It was as if the widow were jealous of the twelve years’ advantage which her maid had over her; and notwithstanding Betsy’s humble position, her mistress constantly imagined that they referred, when together, to events which she had not shared, and spoke on subjects which would be dropped upon her appearance.
The newcomer slipped her hand through the young man’s arm, and moved with him as he returned to the window.
“Why didn’t you telegraph? How did you happen to come so soon?”
“Oh, I just saw that the bank was run by a lot of egoists who supposed that they could manage it without me, just as they have for thirty years, so I thought I would make the most of this last summer of their self-satisfaction, and take all that was coming to me, before I get into the harness.”
“Very wise; and I hope when you do get into harness you’ll never make such a slave of yourself as your dear father did.”
“You never can tell. I rather dread my own proclivities. If I should ever work as hard as I’ve played, the business world is going to be jarred when I leap into it.”
Mrs. Bruce hung fondly on his arm, rejoicing in the hard muscle she felt through his light sleeve.
“Well,” she said, “I’m glad you could come. There is such a wonderful feeling of freedom in this restful spot. Sometimes,” pensively, “I think the greatest blessing we have in life is personal freedom. I suffocate without it, and it is astonishing how difficult it is to get, in the ordinary affairs of life.” Then, with sudden attention, “What makes you wear that tie with that suit? I don’t like it at all, anyway. That isn’t one that I gave you.”
The young man’s hand mechanically sought his throat. “No, Madama,” he admitted, still looking absently from the window.
“I should think, Irving, as many neckties as I pick out for you, you might wear one of them when you’re going to be with me.”
“But I can’t bear to wear your neckties,” he returned gently, “they’re so decorative in my room. To tie them all up and bury them under a collar and vest would be a shame. I hang them on my tie-rack, where they can be admired morning, noon, and night. You know I keep trying to curb your extravagance in that line. You’ll impoverish yourself so that you can’t wear silk stockings if you go on like this. Every few days a new tie to go on the rack.”
“Nonsense,” returned Mrs. Bruce curtly. “If I didn’t have such good taste, of course I shouldn’t venture to buy ties for a man; but even as a girl I was considered to have the most perfect taste. I was famous for it, and I’m sure, Irving, I’ve tried to instill it into you.”
“You have, Madama,” he returned soothingly, “and I think I’m a credit to you. Now come, I’m prepared to maintain that I’ve caught the infection, and that my taste is perfect, too.” He stifled a yawn. “To prove it, I’ll throw down the bone of contention, collar and all, and get into a sweater. I’m going to hunt up Hiram before lunch and swap lies for a spell.”
So speaking the young man stepped out on the porch, picked up his suit-case, and walked through the spreading cottage until he came to his room, where Betsy was whisking things into readiness for his occupancy.
“There! Do you smell?” she asked, sniffing disapprovingly; “just like a cellar?”
“No,” he returned plaintively, “I don’t think I do.”
“I didn’t say do you; I say, don’t it,” snapped Betsy, in no mood for badinage. “If you hadn’t come so soon, I’d have had it aired out. I’d like to shake Mrs. Pogram till her teeth chatter.”
Irving set down his suit-case.
“As I remember, Mrs. Pogram’s teeth aren’t calculated to chatter. They don’t – what is the technical term now?”
Betsy grunted. “I do feel ashamed to have you come into such a comfortless place, Mr. Irving.”
“I’d rather be here, Betsy, even if I have to wear a clothes-pin on my nose while unmaking my toilet. I can sleep on the porch, you know. You think – eh, Betsy, you think there’s no use trying to side-step the Yellowstone?”
“We’re as good as there,” returned Betsy sententiously. “Mrs. Bruce says that when once you get into that bank, she might as well count on the wind that blows as you taking a vacation at any stated time; and you know it’s got to be a stated time for the Yellowstone.”
Irving sighed.
“I hope we know our place, Betsy,” he returned.
CHAPTER IV
MRS. POGRAM CONFIDES
Half an hour afterward Mrs. Pogram, unconscious of Miss Foster’s yearning to administer to her portly person a vigorous movement cure, walked leisurely up the village street. From one hand depended a long slender package which she held away from her black shawl by a string loop around her forefinger.
A merry whistling attracted her, and she perceived coming along the walk, at a swinging gait, a bareheaded young man in a sweater. In a few days the streets of the village would be largely populated by girls and men, all with an aversion to hats and sleeves. Mrs. Pogram was familiar with the type, and noted that this care-free person was an advance guard proving that the summer was here.
She eyed him, however, with lack-lustre eyes until he stopped suddenly before her.
“You don’t know me,” he said, taking his hands out of his pockets.
The corners of Mrs. Pogram’s lips drew down and her chin drew in.
“Why, Irvin’ Bruce, it’s you!” she declared. “We haven’t seen you in these parts for so long I didn’t know but you’d given up Fairport.”
“Couldn’t do that, Mrs. Pogram. You know how a man always returns to the scene of his crimes.”
Mrs. Pogram again drew down the corners of her mouth and gave her gingerly-held package a shake.
“This pesky fish never will be done drippin’,” she remarked.
“Been fishing?” asked her companion.
“Yes. I go fishin’ on the wharf. It’s cheaper than to the market and the walk does me good.”
“You look well.”
“I