Narcissa or the Road to Rome Part 6

He was gone before the indignant lady could say a word. If you came to think of it, this was shameless impudence. A lady indeed! An agent, likely, selling some trash that wasn't fit for stove-kindlings. At any rate, Miss Duty must go and give the woman a piece of her mind, comin'

traipsin' round, just when folks was busy. The idea!

Out she went, fire in her eye, thunder ready rolling on her tongue.

Out she went, and found--Betsy Garlick.

Betsy Green, rather; for the maiden Betsy never had this air of prosperity, this sweet, matronly look; was never dressed like this young woman, who sat on the boundary-stone that divided Miss Duty's lot from that of the other house, and smiled,--actually smiled in Miss Duty's face; and in her sister's too, for Calvin Parks had summoned Miss Resigned Elizabeth also, and she was approaching with feebler, slower steps. And who was this, standing by Betsy's side, erect, beaming, jubilant? Who but the recreant Bijah?

"Oh, Miss Butes!" cried Betsy, lifting her sweet face to one and then to the other of the sisters. "Please, Bijah and me couldn't pa.s.s through Verony without stoppin' to pa.s.s the time of day, and see how you was gettin' on. We're real sorry we went off and left you that way, without notice. 'Twan't right, we know that now; but, then, we couldn't find no other way to fix it, seemed's though. I hope you don't bear malice, Miss Butes. We've done real well, Bijah and me.

We're goin' now to look at a farm in Cortez't we've heard of. Bijah's grandmother has left him quite consid'able of means, for us, and we want to have a place of our own, though no one couldn't be kinder than Mother Green and Delilah has been. I--I hope you've both been right smart, this time, and had good help right along?"

Oh, wicked little Betsy! You knew very well that they have _not_ been right smart. Calvin Parks told you and Bijah all about their forlorn condition, and how old John bullied them (How did he know? Why, what is the use of being a stage-driver, if you do not know everything?), and you have come here with the very slyest scheme in your little head that ever kindness and cleverness concocted. And now you are going to play your trump-card, seeing that the two ladies are still silent, each, perhaps, waiting for the other to speak.

"And another reason we had for stoppin'," says Betsy, looking down at a great bundle in her lap, from which faint sounds now began to issue.

"Oh, Miss Butes, we--I _did_ feel to have you see Baby, 'cause I don't believe you ever did see such a darling in this world." With these words, she drew the shawl aside, and there on her lap lay the child, all warm and rosy, just waking from his nap, and stretching his little limbs, and blinking his eyes in the light.

A baby! When had the Bute ladies seen a baby as near as this? Miss Resigned Elizabeth felt a tugging at her heart-strings; she had always been fond of children. Miss Duty felt--she hardly knew what; but she saw the tears on her sister's cheek; saw, too, how old and feeble she had grown, and what a pitiful look there was in her pale blue eyes.

And yet she had a look of Mother, too!

At this moment the baby gave a crow and a kick, and made a grab at Miss Duty's dress. In the effort, he nearly rolled off his mother's lap. Instinctively the two sisters bent down to catch him, and as they did so their heads came together with a smart crack. Miss Resigned Elizabeth began to cry, she could not tell why, and Miss Duty laughed.

"You ain't fit to live alone, Resigned Eliz!" she said, and she hardly recognized her own voice.

"Well, I ain't, sister; that's a fact!" responded Miss Resigned Elizabeth, meekly. "My eyesight ain't what it was. But he _is_ a lovely child, Betsy; and--and I'm right glad to see you, Betsy, if you _didn't_ act quite as you should."

"Why, you're as blind as a mole!" cried the elder sister, in high good humor. "And you ain't had the sense to get gla.s.ses fitted." (Miss Duty could read the very smallest print, as well as she could twenty years ago) "The idea! And that thin dress ain't fit for you to wear this cold day." Miss Duty seemed to meditate. "Bije Green!" she said sharply, turning for the first time to her quondam "help."

"Yes, ma'am!" said Bije, meekly. He had kept silence till now, having absolute confidence in Betsy's diplomatic powers; but now he stepped boldly forward, and met Miss Duty's gaze without flinching.

"You behaved scandalous, Bije Green, when you was here before, as well you know. But I'm willin' to let bygones be bygones, seein' things is how they is. You go get the wheelbarrow, and bring it here. Resigned 'Liz," she added, turning to her sister, "go on in, and pack up your things. I s'pose it's fitting I should see to you, from now on. You come home, and we'll see. Mebbe I used to be a little cuterin', sometimes--though you did try me."

"I know I did, sister!" Miss Resigned Elizabeth cried. "Most prob'ly the fault was mine, though I did feel your cuttin' up the hair bracelet. But there! I've been dretful lonesome sence Betsy went.

I--I'd be real glad to come home, sister!"

"So that's all there is to it," said Miss Duty, in a final manner. "As for the other house--"

"Miss Bute!" cried Betsy Green, her eyes sparkling, her breath coming quickly. "We--we weren't so dretful set on goin' to Cortez. We'd enough sight ruther find a place nearer home. I never thought--" here she stopped short, being a truthful Betsy; for she _had_ thought, and planned, and hoped in her kind little heart, and now here was everything coming out just as she hoped it would. "I'd ruther live here than anywhere else in the world!" she said simply. "'Twas here I saw Bijah first, and all; and you was real kind to me, Miss Bute, and I do love Brindle."

"Them cows has been treated scand'lous," said Bije, lifting up his testimony. "Whoever's had the doin' for 'em! All banged about, same as if the' was yaller dogs. I took a look at 'em as we come along, and I felt to pity 'em, now I tell you. I could take care of 'em, Miss Bute, jest as well as not, with what I had of my own, and they wouldn't suffer none. I think a sight of that red cow, and the other one, too."

"And I could do for both of you," cried Betsy, "all you'd want done--me and Bije together. I could run over every mornin' and afternoon, and clean up if you wasn't feelin' smart, and Bije could do the ch.o.r.es. And--and there'd be Baby for company!" she added, with a little downward look of heavenly pride,--the very look, I declare, of a certain Bellini Madonna, who holds her lovely state in Venice. But now the baby thought his turn had come, and after a careful scrutiny of the two elderly women, he held out his arms and fairly shouted at Miss Resigned Elizabeth.

"You blessed creetur?" cried the poor woman, pouncing upon him with the pathetic hunger of a woman who was meant for a mother. "Did he want to come, bless his heart? Well, he should!" and she took the child up, and hugged and cuddled it "real knowin'," as Betsy said to herself. Miss Duty looked on in amazement. She had not the mother nature. "Why, Resigned 'Liz, you're fairly childish. The idea!" She paused, feeling rebuked, she knew not why, by the joy in her sister's pinched and faded face. Miss Resigned Elizabeth had not had a joyous life.

"Well, if 't is to be so," Miss Duty continued, after a pause, during which Betsy and the younger sister held their breath and Bije thought about the cows. "If 't is to be so, so it will be, I s'pose. I dono'

but you can go right in, Betsy, if it's so you can stay. My sister ain't goin' to spend another night there. Perhaps you'll help her lay her things together. And Bije, if you feel to milk the cows to-night--I'm free to say I should like to send that John Peaslee about his business, after the hectorin' he's give us this late. You'll find the pails--"

But Bijah was already gone, whistling joyously. As if he didn't know where the milk-pails were!

"Betsy," Miss Duty continued, turning back to instruct the new tenant as to her course of action. But Betsy was gone, too; flown into the house with her baby, like a bird into its nest. Only Miss Resigned Elizabeth remained, looking at her with eyes that seemed to grow more plaintive and more helpless every minute, as the burden of responsibility dropped from her tired shoulders.

"You go right in the house this minute, Resigned 'Liz!" said Miss Duty, severely. "Gettin' your death out here in this night-air! The idea!" And with a frown that was better than a smile, she went into the house, driving her sister before her.

"A plague o' both your houses?" Nay! only joy on one side and the other of the white picket-fence. On the one side, content and peaceful days, with ten years' gossip to talk over, and the sense of being cared for, and of having "folks" once more. Happy old age coming softly, bringing with it grace and gentle words, and ways which their grim youth had never known; finally, the absolute rest which came from Betsy's and Bijah's watchful love and care, and the strange pleasure of being called "aunt" by the baby, and the succeeding babies. Yes, the Bute girls were happy for the first time in their lives.

And on the other side of the fence? Ah! there it was not the calm peace of evening, but the fresh joy of morning and of spring. Seeing that there was no one in the world who could hold a candle to Bijah, and that Betsy was the best woman there was in these parts, let alone furrin lands, why should they not have been happy? And beside all this, had they not the most wonderful children, probably, that had ever been seen? There was not a doubt of it in Betsy's mind, nor in Miss Resigned Elizabeth's. Taking these things into consideration, together with the fact that their cows were most remarkable cows, and their hens the finest that had ever clucked in Verona, is it to be wondered at that our little friends were very happy, and the old ladies so good, and one of 'em an angel if she ever dared to call her soul her own?

A blessing on both houses! Peace and good-will, and all loving and tender thoughts! And may the sun, as he rises over the great hill-shoulder, always cast his brightest beams on the Indiana road.

THE END.