The Flight of Betsey Lane
I.One windy morning in May, three old women sat together near an openwindow in the shed chamber of Byfleet Poor-house. The wind was fromthe northwest, but their window faced the southeast, and they wereonly visited by an occasional pleasant waft of fresh air. They wereclose together, knee to knee, picking over a bushel of beans, andcommanding a view of the dandelion-starred, green yard below, and ofthe winding, sandy road that led to the village, two miles away. Somecaptive bees were scolding among the cobwebs of the rafters overhead,or thumping against the upper panes of glass; two calves were bawlingfrom the barnyard, where some of the men were at work loading adump-cart and shouting as if every one were deaf. There was acheerful feeling of activity, and even an air of comfort, about theByfleet Poor-house. Almost every one was possessed of a mostinteresting past, though there was less to be said about the future.The inmates were by no means distressed or unhappy; many of themretired to this shelter only for the winter season, and would go outpresently, some to begin such work as they could still do, others tolive in their own small houses; old age had impoverished most of themby limiting their power of endurance; but far from lamenting the factthat they were town charges, they rather liked the change andexcitement of a winter residence on the poor-farm. There was asharp-faced, hard-worked young widow with seven children, who was anexception to the general level of society, because she deplored thechange in her fortunes. The older women regarded her with suspicion,and were apt to talk about her in moments like this, when theyhappened to sit together at their work.The three bean-pickers were dressed alike in stout brown ginghams,checked by a white line, and all wore great faded aprons of bluedrilling, with sufficient pockets convenient to the right hand. MissPeggy Bond was a very small, belligerent-looking person, who wore ahuge pair of steel-bowed spectacles, holding her sharp chin well up inair, as if to supplement an inadequate nose. She was more than halfblind, but the spectacles seemed to face upward instead of squareahead, as if their wearer were always on the sharp lookout for birds.Miss Bond had suffered much personal damage from time to time, becauseshe never took heed where she planted her feet, and so was alwaystripping and stubbing her bruised way through the world. She hadfallen down hatchways and cellarways, and stepped composedly into deepditches and pasture brooks; but she was proud of stating that she wasupsighted, and so was her father before her. At the poor-house, wherean unusual malady was considered a distinction, upsightedness waslooked upon as a most honorable infirmity. Plain rheumatism, such asafflicted Aunt Lavina Dow, whose twisted hands found even this lightwork difficult and tiresome,--plain rheumatism was something ofevery-day occurrence, and nobody cared to hear about it. Poor Peggywas a meek and friendly soul, who never put herself forward; she wasjust like other folks, as she always loved to say, but Mrs. Lavina Dowwas a different sort of person altogether, of great dignity and,occasionally, almost aggressive behavior. The time had been when shecould do a good day's work with anybody: but for many years now shehad not left the town-farm, being too badly crippled to work; she hadno relations or friends to visit, but from an innate love of authorityshe could not submit to being one of those who are forgotten by theworld. Mrs. Dow was the hostess and social lawgiver here, where sheremembered every inmate and every item of interest for nearly fortyyears, besides an immense amount of town history and biography forthree or four generations back.She was the dear friend of the third woman, Betsey Lane; together theyled thought and opinion--chiefly opinion--and held sway, not only overByfleet Poor-farm, but also the selectmen and all others in authority.Betsey Lane had spent most of her life as aid-in-general to therespected household of old General Thornton. She had been much trustedand valued, and, at the breaking up of that once large and flourishingfamily, she had been left in good circumstances, what with legaciesand her own comfortable savings; but by sad misfortune and lavishgenerosity everything had been scattered, and after much illness,which ended in a stiffened arm and more uncertainty, the good soul hadsensibly decided that it was easier for the whole town to support herthan for a part of it. She had always hoped to see something of theworld before she died; she came of an adventurous, seafaring stock,but had never made a longer journey than to the towns of Danby andNorthville, thirty miles away.They were all old women; but Betsey Lane, who was sixty-nine, andlooked much older, was the youngest. Peggy Bond was far on in theseventies, and Mrs. Dow was at least ten years older. She made a greatsecret of her years; and as she sometimes spoke of events prior to theRevolution with the assertion of having been an eye-witness, shenaturally wore an air of vast antiquity. Her tales were aninexpressible delight to Betsey Lane, who felt younger by twenty yearsbecause her friend and comrade was so unconscious of chronologicallimitations.The bushel basket of cranberry beans was within easy reach, and eachof the pickers had filled her lap from it again and again. The shedchamber was not an unpleasant place in which to sit at work, with itstraces of seed corn hanging from the brown cross-beams, its sparechurns, and dusty loom, and rickety wool-wheels, and a few bits of oldfurniture. In one far corner was a wide board of dismal use andsuggestion, and close beside it an old cradle. There was a batteredchest of drawers where the keeper of the poor-house kept hisgarden-seeds, with the withered remains of three seed cucumbersornamenting the top. Nothing beautiful could be discovered, nothinginteresting, but there was something usable and homely about theplace. It was the favorite and untroubled bower of the bean-pickers,to which they might retreat unmolested from the public apartments ofthis rustic institution.Betsey Lane blew away the chaff from her handful of beans. The springbreeze blew the chaff back again, and sifted it over her face andshoulders. She rubbed it out of her eyes impatiently, and happened tonotice old Peggy holding her own handful high, as if it were anoblation, and turning her queer, up-tilted head this way and that, tolook at the beans sharply, as if she were first cousin to a hen."There, Miss Bond, 'tis kind of botherin' work for you, ain't it?"Betsey inquired compassionately."I feel to enjoy it, anything that I can do my own way so," respondedPeggy. "I like to do my part. Ain't that old Mis' Fales comin' up theroad? It sounds like her step."The others looked, but they were not far-sighted, and for a momentPeggy had the advantage. Mrs. Fales was not a favorite."I hope she ain't comin' here to put up this spring. I guess she won'tnow, it's gettin' so late," said Betsey Lane. "She likes to go rovin'soon as the roads is settled.""'Tis Mis' Fales!" said Peggy Bond, listening with solemn anxiety."There, do let's pray her by!""I guess she's headin' for her cousin's folks up Beech Hill way," saidBetsey presently. "If she'd left her daughter's this mornin', she'dhave got just about as far as this. I kind o' wish she had stepped injust to pass the time o' day, long's she wa'n't going to make nostop."There was a silence as to further speech in the shed chamber; and eventhe calves were quiet in the barnyard. The men had all gone away tothe field where corn-planting was going on. The beans clicked steadilyinto the wooden measure at the pickers' feet. Betsey Lane began tosing a hymn, and the others joined in as best they might, likeautumnal crickets; their voices were sharp and cracked, with now andthen a few low notes of plaintive tone. Betsey herself could singpretty well, but the others could only make a kind of accompaniment.Their voices ceased altogether at the higher notes."Oh my! I wish I had the means to go to the Centennial," mournedBetsey Lane, stopping so suddenly that the others had to go oncroaking and shrilling without her for a moment before they couldstop. "It seems to me as if I can't die happy 'less I do," she added;"I ain't never seen nothin' of the world, an' here I be.""What if you was as old as I be?" suggested Mrs. Dow pompously."You've got time enough yet, Betsey; don't you go an' despair. Iknowed of a woman that went clean round the world four times when shewas past eighty, an' enjoyed herself real well. Her folks followed thesea; she had three sons an' a daughter married,--all shipmasters, andshe'd been with her own husband when they was young. She was left awidder early, and fetched up her family herself,--a real stirrin',smart woman. After they'd got married off, an' settled, an' was doingwell, she come to be lonesome; and first she tried to stick it outalone, but she wa'n't one that could; an' she got a notion she hadn'tnothin' before her but her last sickness, and she wa'n't a personthat enjoyed havin' other folks do for her. So one on her boys--Iguess 'twas the oldest--said he was going to take her to sea; therewas ample room, an' he was sailin' a good time o' year for the Cape o'Good Hope an' way up to some o' them tea-ports in the Chiny Seas. Shewas all high to go, but it made a sight o' talk at her age; an' theminister made it a subject o' prayer the last Sunday, and all thefolks took a last leave; but she said to some she'd fetch 'em homesomething real pritty, and so did. An' then they come home t'otherway, round the Horn, an' she done so well, an' was such a sight o'company, the other child'n was jealous, an' she promised she'd go av'y'ge long o' each on 'em. She was as sprightly a person as ever Isee; an' could speak well o' what she'd seen.""Did she die to sea?" asked Peggy, with interest."No, she died to home between v'y'ges, or she'd gone to sea again. Iwas to her funeral. She liked her son George's ship the best; 'twasthe one she was going on to Callao. They said the men aboard allcalled her 'gran'ma'am,' an' she kep' 'em mended up, an' would gobelow and tend to 'em if they was sick. She might 'a' been alive an'enjoyin' of herself a good many years but for the kick of a cow; 'twasa new cow out of a drove, a dreadful unruly beast."Mrs. Dow stopped for breath, and reached down for a new supply ofbeans; her empty apron was gray with soft chaff. Betsey Lane, stillpondering on the Centennial, began to sing another verse of her hymn,and again the old women joined her. At this moment some strangers camedriving round into the yard from the front of the house. The turf wassoft, and our friends did not hear the horses' steps. Their voicescracked and quavered; it was a funny little concert, and a lady in anopen carriage just below listened with sympathy and amusement.
II."Betsey! Betsey! Miss Lane!" a voice called eagerly at the foot of thestairs that led up from the shed. "Betsey! There's a lady here wantsto see you right away."Betsey was dazed with excitement, like a country child who knows therare pleasure of being called out of school. "Lor', I ain't fit to godown, be I?" she faltered, looking anxiously at her friends; but Peggywas gazing even nearer to the zenith than usual, in her excited effortto see down into the yard, and Mrs. Dow only nodded somewhatjealously, and said that she guessed 'twas nobody would do her anyharm. She rose ponderously, while Betsey hesitated, being, as theywould have said, all of a twitter. "It is a lady, certain," Mrs. Dowassured her; "'tain't often there's a lady comes here.""While there was any of Mis' Gen'ral Thornton's folks left, I wa'n'twithout visits from the gentry," said Betsey Lane, turning backproudly at the head of the stairs, with a touch of old-world pride andsense of high station. Then she disappeared, and closed the doorbehind her at the stair-foot with a decision quite unwelcome to thefriends above."She needn't 'a' been so dreadful 'fraid anybody was goin' to listen.I guess we've got folks to ride an' see us, or had once, if we hain'tnow," said Miss Peggy Bond, plaintively."I expect 't was only the wind shoved it to," said Aunt Lavina."Betsey is one that gits flustered easier than some. I wish 'twassomebody to take her off an' give her a kind of a good time; she'syoung to settle down 'long of old folks like us. Betsey's got a notiono' rovin' such as ain't my natur', but I should like to see hersatisfied. She'd been a very understandin' person, if she had theadvantages that some does.""'Tis so," said Peggy Bond, tilting her chin high. "I suppose youcan't hear nothin' they're saying? I feel my hearin' ain't up to wharit was. I can hear things close to me well as ever; but there, hearin'ain't everything; 'tain't as if we lived where there was more goin' onto hear. Seems to me them folks is stoppin' a good while.""They surely be," agreed Lavina Dow."I expect it's somethin' particular. There ain't none of the Thorntonfolks left, except one o' the gran'darters, an' I've often heardBetsey remark that she should never see her more, for she lives toLondon. Strange how folks feels contented in them strayaway places offto the ends of the airth."The flies and bees were buzzing against the hot windowpanes; thehandfuls of beans were clicking into the brown wooden measure. A birdcame and perched on the windowsill, and then flitted away toward theblue sky. Below, in the yard, Betsey Lane stood talking with the lady.She had put her blue drilling apron over her head, and her face wasshining with delight."Lor', dear," she said, for at least the third time, "I remember yewhen I first see ye; an awful pritty baby you was, an' they all saidyou looked just like the old gen'ral. Be you goin' back to foreignparts right away?""Yes, I'm going back; you know that all my children are there. I wishI could take you with me for a visit," said the charming young guest."I'm going to carry over some of the pictures and furniture from theold house; I didn't care half so much for them when I was younger as Ido now. Perhaps next summer we shall all come over for a while. Ishould like to see my girls and boys playing under the pines.""I wish you re'lly was livin' to the old place," said Betsey Lane. Herimagination was not swift; she needed time to think over all that wasbeing told her, and she could not fancy the two strange houses acrossthe sea. The old Thornton house was to her mind the most delightfuland elegant in the world."Is there anything I can do for you?" asked Mrs. Straffordkindly,--"anything that I can do for you myself, before I go away? Ishall be writing to you, and sending some pictures of the children,and you must let me know how you are getting on.""Yes, there is one thing, darlin'. If you could stop in the villagean' pick me out a pritty, little, small lookin'-glass, that I can keepfor my own an' have to remember you by. 'Tain't that I want to set meabove the rest o' the folks, but I was always used to havin' my ownwhen I was to your grandma's. There's very nice folks here, some on'em, and I'm better off than if I was able to keep house; but senceyou ask me, that's the only thing I feel cropin' about. What be yougoin' right back for? ain't you goin' to see the great fair toPheladelphy, that everybody talks about?""No," said Mrs. Strafford, laughing at this eager and almostconvicting question. "No; I'm going back next week. If I were, Ibelieve that I should take you with me. Good-by, dear old Betsey; youmake me feel as if I were a little girl again; you look just thesame."For full five minutes the old woman stood out in the sunshine, dazedwith delight, and majestic with a sense of her own consequence. Sheheld something tight in her hand, without thinking what it might be;but just as the friendly mistress of the poor-farm came out to hearthe news, she tucked the roll of money into the bosom of her browngingham dress. "'Twas my dear Mis' Katy Strafford," she turned to sayproudly. "She come way over from London; she's been sick; they thoughtthe voyage would do her good. She said most the first thing she had onher mind was to come an' find me, and see how I was, an' if I wascomfortable; an' now she's goin' right back. She's got two splendidhouses; an' said how she wished I was there to look after things,--sheremembered I was always her gran'ma's right hand. Oh, it does so carryme back, to see her! Seems if all the rest on 'em must be theretogether to the old house. There, I must go right up an' tell Mis' Dowan' Peggy.""Dinner's all ready; I was just goin' to blow the horn for themen-folks," said the keeper's wife. "They'll be right down. I expectyou've got along smart with them beans,--all three of you together;"but Betsey's mind roved so high and so far at that moment that noachievements of bean-picking could lure it back.
III.The long table in the great kitchen soon gathered its company of waifsand strays,--creatures of improvidence and misfortune, and theirreparable victims of old age. The dinner was satisfactory, and therewas not much delay for conversation. Peggy Bond and Mrs. Dow andBetsey Lane always sat together at one end, with an air of putting therest of the company below the salt. Betsey was still flushed withexcitement; in fact, she could not eat as much as usual, and shelooked up from time to time expectantly, as if she were likely to beasked to speak of her guest; but everybody was hungry, and even Mrs.Dow broke in upon some attempted confidences by asking inopportunelyfor a second potato. There were nearly twenty at the table, countingthe keeper and his wife and two children, noisy little persons who hadcome from school with the small flock belonging to the poor widow, whosat just opposite our friends. She finished her dinner before any oneelse, and pushed her chair back; she always helped with thehousework,--a thin, sorry, bad-tempered-looking poor soul, whom griefhad sharpened instead of softening. "I expect you feel too fine to setwith common folks," she said enviously to Betsey."Here I be a-settin'," responded Betsey calmly. "I don' know's Ibehave more unbecomin' than usual." Betsey prided herself upon hergood and proper manners; but the rest of the company, who would haveliked to hear the bit of morning news, were now defrauded of thatpleasure. The wrong note had been struck; there was a silence afterthe clatter of knives and plates, and one by one the cheerful towncharges disappeared. The bean-picking had been finished, and there wasa call for any of the women who felt like planting corn; so PeggyBond, who could follow the line of hills pretty fairly, and Betseyherself, who was still equal to anybody at that work, and Mrs. Dow,all went out to the field together. Aunt Lavina labored slowly up theyard, carrying a light splint-bottomed kitchen chair and herknitting-work, and sat near the stone wall on a gentle rise, where shecould see the pond and the green country, and exchange a word with herfriends as they came and went up and down the rows. Betsey vouchsafeda word now and then about Mrs. Strafford, but you would have thoughtthat she had been suddenly elevated to Mrs. Strafford's own cares andthe responsibilities attending them, and had little in common with herold associates. Mrs. Dow and Peggy knew well that these high-feelingtimes never lasted long, and so they waited with as much patience asthey could muster. They were by no means without that true tact whichis only another word for unselfish sympathy.The strip of corn land ran along the side of a great field; at theupper end of it was a field-corner thicket of young maples and walnutsaplings, the children of a great nut-tree that marked the boundary.Once, when Betsey Lane found herself alone near this shelter at theend of her row, the other planters having lagged behind beyond therising ground, she looked stealthily about, and then put her handinside her gown, and for the first time took out the money that Mrs.Strafford had given her. She turned it over and over with anastonished look: there were new bank-bills for a hundred dollars.Betsey gave a funny little shrug of her shoulders, came out of thebushes, and took a step or two on the narrow edge of turf, as if shewere going to dance; then she hastily tucked away her treasure, andstepped discreetly down into the soft harrowed and hoed land, andbegan to drop corn again, five kernels to a hill. She had seen the topof Peggy Bond's head over the knoll, and now Peggy herself cameentirely into view, gazing upward to the skies, and stumbling more orless, but counting the corn by touch and twisting her head aboutanxiously to gain advantage over her uncertain vision. Betsey made afriendly, inarticulate little sound as they passed; she was thinkingthat somebody said once that Peggy's eyesight might be remedied if shecould go to Boston to the hospital; but that was so remote andimpossible an undertaking that no one had ever taken the first step.Betsey Lane's brown old face suddenly worked with excitement, but in amoment more she regained her usual firm expression, and spokecarelessly to Peggy as she turned and came alongside.The high spring wind of the morning had quite fallen; it was a lovelyMay afternoon. The woods about the field to the northward were full ofbirds, and the young leaves scarcely hid the solemn shapes of acompany of crows that patiently attended the corn-planting. Two of themen had finished their hoeing, and were busy with the construction ofa scarecrow; they knelt in the furrows, chuckling, and looking oversome forlorn, discarded garments. It was a time-honored custom to makethe scarecrow resemble one of the poor-house family; and this yearthey intended to have Mrs. Lavina Dow protect the field in effigy;last year it was the counterfeit of Betsey Lane who stood on guard,with an easily recognized quilted hood and the remains of a valuedshawl that one of the calves had found airing on a fence and chewed topieces. Behind the men was the foundation for this rustic attempt atstatuary,--an upright stake and bar in the form of a cross. This stoodon the highest part of the field; and as the men knelt near it, andthe quaint figures of the corn-planters went and came, the scene gavea curious suggestion of foreign life. It was not like New England; thepresence of the rude cross appealed strangely to the imagination.
IV.Life flowed so smoothly, for the most part, at the Byfleet Boor-farm,that nobody knew what to make, later in the summer, of a strangedisappearance. All the elder inmates were familiar with illness anddeath, and the poor pomp of a town-pauper's funeral. The comings andgoings and the various misfortunes of those who composed this strangefamily, related only through its disasters, hardly served for theexcitement and talk of a single day. Now that the June days were attheir longest, the old people were sure to wake earlier than ever; butone morning, to the astonishment of every one, Betsey Lane's bed wasempty; the sheets and blankets, which were her own, and guarded withjealous care, were carefully folded and placed on a chair not too nearthe window, and Betsey had flown. Nobody had heard her go down thecreaking stairs. The kitchen door was unlocked, and the old watchdoglay on the step outside in the early sunshine, wagging his tail andlooking wise, as if he were left on guard and meant to keep thefugitive's secret."Never knowed her to do nothin' afore 'thout talking it over afortnight, and paradin' off when we could all see her," ventured aspiteful voice. "Guess we can wait till night to hear 'bout it."Mrs. Dow looked sorrowful and shook her head. "Betsey had an aunt onher mother's side that went and drownded of herself; she was apritty-appearing woman as ever you see.""Perhaps she's gone to spend the day with Decker's folks," suggestedPeggy Bond. "She always takes an extra early start; she was speakin'lately o' going up their way;" but Mrs. Dow shook her head with a mostmelancholy look. "I'm impressed that something's befell her," sheinsisted. "I heard her a-groanin' in her sleep. I was wakeful theforepart o' the night,--'tis very unusual with me, too.""'Twa'n't like Betsey not to leave us any word," said the other oldfriend, with more resentment than melancholy. They sat together almostin silence that morning in the shed chamber. Mrs. Dow was sorting andcutting rags, and Peggy braided them into long ropes, to be made intomats at a later date. If they had only known where Betsey Lane hadgone, they might have talked about it until dinner-time at noon; butfailing this new subject, they could take no interest in any of theirold ones. Out in the field the corn was well up, and the men werehoeing. It was a hot morning in the shed chamber, and the woolen ragswere dusty and hot to handle.
V.Byfleet people knew each other well, and when this mysteriously absentperson did not return to the town-farm at the end of a week, publicinterest became much excited; and presently it was ascertained thatBetsey Lane was neither making a visit to her friends the Deckers onBirch Hill, nor to any nearer acquaintances; in fact, she haddisappeared altogether from her wonted haunts. Nobody remembered tohave seen her pass, hers had been such an early flitting; and whensomebody thought of her having gone away by train, he was laughed atfor forgetting that the earliest morning train from South Byfleet, thenearest station, did not start until long after eight o'clock; and ifBetsey had designed to be one of the passengers, she would havestarted along the road at seven, and been seen and known of all women.There was not a kitchen in that part of Byfleet that did not havewindows toward the road. Conversation rarely left the level of theneighborhood gossip: to see Betsey Lane, in her best clothes, at thathour in the morning, would have been the signal for much exercise ofimagination; but as day after day went by without news, the curiosityof those who knew her best turned slowly into fear, and at last PeggyBond again gave utterance to the belief that Betsey had either goneout in the early morning and put an end to her life, or that she hadgone to the Centennial. Some of the people at table were moved to loudlaughter,--it was at supper-time on a Sunday night,--but otherslistened with great interest."She never'd put on her good clothes to drownd herself," said thewidow. "She might have thought 'twas good as takin' 'em with her,though. Old folks has wandered off an' got lost in the woods aforenow."Mrs. Dow and Peggy resented this impertinent remark, but deigned totake no notice of the speaker. "She wouldn't have wore her bestclothes to the Centennial, would she?" mildly inquired Peggy, bobbingher head toward the ceiling. "'Twould be a shame to spoil your bestthings in such a place. An' I don't know of her havin' any money;there's the end o' that.""You're bad as old Mis' Bland, that used to live neighbor to ourfolks," said one of the old men. "She was dreadful precise; an' she sobegretched to wear a good alapaca dress that was left to her, that ithung in a press forty year, an' baited the moths at last.""I often seen Mis' Bland a-goin' in to meetin' when I was a younggirl," said Peggy Bond approvingly. "She was a good-appearin' woman,an' she left property.""Wish she'd left it to me, then," said the poor soul opposite,glancing at her pathetic row of children: but it was not good mannersat the farm to deplore one's situation, and Mrs. Dow and Peggy onlyfrowned. "Where do you suppose Betsey can be?" said Mrs. Dow, for thetwentieth time. "She didn't have no money. I know she ain't gone far,if it's so that she's yet alive. She's b'en real pinched all thespring.""Perhaps that lady that come one day give her some," the keeper's wifesuggested mildly."Then Betsey would have told me," said Mrs. Dow, with injured dignity.
VI.On the morning of her disappearance, Betsey rose even before the peweeand the English sparrow, and dressed herself quietly, though withtrembling hands, and stole out of the kitchen door like a plunderlessthief. The old dog licked her hand and looked at her anxiously; thetortoise-shell cat rubbed against her best gown, and trotted away upthe yard, then she turned anxiously and came after the old woman,following faithfully until she had to be driven back. Betsey was usedto long country excursions afoot. She dearly loved the early morning;and finding that there was no dew to trouble her, she began to followpasture paths and short cuts across the fields, surprising here andthere a flock of sleepy sheep, or a startled calf that rustled outfrom the bushes. The birds were pecking their breakfast from bush andturf; and hardly any of the wild inhabitants of that rural world wereenough alarmed by her presence to do more than flutter away if theychanced to be in her path. She stepped along, light-footed and eageras a girl, dressed in her neat old straw bonnet and black gown, andcarrying a few belongings in her best bundle-handkerchief, one thather only brother had brought home from the East Indies fifty yearsbefore. There was an old crow perched as sentinel on a small, deadpine-tree, where he could warn friends who were pulling up thesprouted corn in a field close by; but he only gave a contemptuous cawas the adventurer appeared, and she shook her bundle at him inrevenge, and laughed to see him so clumsy as he tried to keep hisfooting on the twigs."Yes, I be," she assured him. "I'm a-goin' to Pheladelphy, to theCentennial, same's other folks. I'd jest as soon tell ye's not, oldcrow;" and Betsey laughed aloud in pleased content with herself andher daring, as she walked along. She had only two miles to go to thestation at South Byfleet, and she felt for the money now and then, andfound it safe enough. She took great pride in the success of herescape, and especially in the long concealment of her wealth. Not anight had passed since Mrs. Strafford's visit that she had not sleptwith the roll of money under her pillow by night, and buttoned safeinside her dress by day. She knew that everybody would offer adviceand even commands about the spending or saving of it; and she brookedno interference.The last mile of the foot-path to South Byfleet was along the railwaytrack; and Betsey began to feel in haste, though it was still nearlytwo hours to train time. She looked anxiously forward and back alongthe rails every few minutes, for fear of being run over; and at lastshe caught sight of an engine that was apparently coming toward her,and took flight into the woods before she could gather courage tofollow the path again. The freight train proved to be at a standstill,waiting at a turnout; and some of the men were straying about, eatingtheir early breakfast comfortably in this time of leisure. As the oldwoman came up to them, she stopped too, for a moment of rest andconversation."Where be ye goin'?" she asked pleasantly; and they told her. It wasto the town where she had to change cars and take the great throughtrain; a point of geography which she had learned from evening talksbetween the men at the farm."What'll ye carry me there for?""We don't run no passenger cars," said one of the young fellows,laughing. "What makes you in such a hurry?""I'm startin' for Pheladelphy, an' it's a gre't ways to go.""So't is; but you're consid'able early, if you're makin' for theeight-forty train. See here! you haven't got a needle an' thread 'longof you in that bundle, have you? If you'll sew me on a couple o'buttons, I'll give ye a free ride. I'm in a sight o' distress, an'none o' the fellows is provided with as much as a bent pin.""You poor boy! I'll have you seen to, in half a minute. I'm troubledwith a stiff arm, but I'll do the best I can."The obliging Betsey seated herself stiffly on the slope of theembankment, and found her thread and needle with utmost haste. Two ofthe train-men stood by and watched the careful stitches, and evenoffered her a place as spare brakeman, so that they might keep hernear; and Betsey took the offer with considerable seriousness, onlythinking it necessary to assure them that she was getting most too oldto be out in all weathers. An express went by like an earthquake, andshe was presently hoisted on board an empty box-car by two of her newand flattering acquaintances, and found herself before noon at the endof the first stage of her journey, without having spent a cent, andfurnished with any amount of thrifty advice. One of the young men,being compassionate of her unprotected state as a traveler, advisedher to find out the widow of an uncle of his in Philadelphia, sayingdespairingly that he couldn't tell her just how to find the house; butMiss Betsey Lane said that she had an English tongue in her head, andshould be sure to find whatever she was looking for. This unexpectedincident of the freight train was the reason why everybody about theSouth Byfleet station insisted that no such person had taken passageby the regular train that same morning, and why there were those whopersuaded themselves that Miss Betsey Lane was probably lying at thebottom of the poor-farm pond.
VII."Land sakes!" said Miss Betsey Lane, as she watched a Turkish personparading by in his red fez, "I call the Centennial somethin' like theday o' judgment! I wish I was goin' to stop a month, but I dare say'twould be the death o' my poor old bones."She was leaning against the barrier of a patent pop-cornestablishment, which had given her a sudden reminder of home, and ofthe winter nights when the sharp-kerneled little red and yellow earswere brought out, and Old Uncle Eph Flanders sat by the kitchen stove,and solemnly filled a great wooden chopping-tray for the refreshmentof the company. She had wandered and loitered and looked until hereyes and head had grown numb and unreceptive; but it is onlyunimaginative persons who can be really astonished. The imaginationcan always outrun the possible and actual sights and sounds of theworld; and this plain old body from Byfleet rarely found anything richand splendid enough to surprise her. She saw the wonders of the Westand the splendors of the East with equal calmness and satisfaction;she had always known that there was an amazing world outside theboundaries of Byfleet. There was a piece of paper in her pocket onwhich was marked, in her clumsy handwriting, "If Betsey Lane shouldmeet with accident, notify the selectmen of Byfleet;" but having madethis slight provision for the future, she had thrown herself boldlyinto the sea of strangers, and then had made the joyful discovery thatfriends were to be found at every turn.There was something delightfully companionable about Betsey; she had away of suddenly looking up over her big spectacles with a reassuringand expectant smile, as if you were going to speak to her, and yougenerally did. She must have found out where hundreds of people camefrom, and whom they had left at home, and what they thought of thegreat show, as she sat on a bench to rest, or leaned over the railingswhere free luncheons were afforded by the makers of hot waffles andmolasses candy and fried potatoes; and there was not a night when shedid not return to her lodgings with a pocket crammed with samples ofspool cotton and nobody knows what. She had already collected smallpresents for almost everybody she knew at home, and she was such apleasant, beaming old country body, so unmistakably appreciative andinterested, that nobody ever thought of wishing that she would moveon. Nearly all the busy people of the Exhibition called her eitherAunty or Grandma at once, and made little pleasures for her as bestthey could. She was a delightful contrast to the indifferent, stupidcrowd that drifted along, with eyes fixed at the same level, andseeing, even on that level, nothing for fifty feet at a time. "What beyou making here, dear?" Betsey Lane would ask joyfully, and the mostperfunctory guardian hastened to explain. She squandered money as shehad never had the pleasure of doing before, and this hastened the daywhen she must return to Byfleet. She was always inquiring if therewere any spectacle-sellers at hand, and received occasionaldirections; but it was a difficult place for her to find her way aboutin, and the very last day of her stay arrived before she found anexhibitor of the desired sort, an oculist and instrument-maker."I called to get some specs for a friend that's upsighted," shegravely informed the salesman, to his extreme amusement. "She'sdreadful troubled, and jerks her head up like a hen a-drinkin'. She'sgot a blur a-growin' an' spreadin', an' sometimes she can see out toone side on't, and more times she can't.""Cataracts," said a middle-aged gentleman at her side; and Betsey Laneturned to regard him with approval and curiosity."'Tis Miss Peggy Bond I was mentioning, of Byfleet Poor-farm," sheexplained. "I count on gettin' some glasses to relieve her trouble, ifthere's any to be found.""Glasses won't do her any good," said the stranger. "Suppose you comeand sit down on this bench, and tell me all about it. First, where isByfleet?" and Betsey gave the directions at length."I thought so," said the surgeon. "How old is this friend of yours?"Betsey cleared her throat decisively, and smoothed her gown over herknees as if it were an apron; then she turned to take a good look ather new acquaintance as they sat on the rustic bench together. "Who beyou, sir, I should like to know?" she asked, in a friendly tone."My name's Dunster.""I take it you're a doctor," continued Betsey, as if they hadovertaken each other walking from Byfleet to South Byfleet on a summermorning."I'm a doctor; part of one at least," said he. "I know more or lessabout eyes; and I spend my summers down on the shore at the mouth ofyour river; some day I'll come up and look at this person. How old isshe?""Peggy Bond is one that never tells her age; 'tain't come quite up towhere she'll begin to brag of it, you see," explained Betseyreluctantly; "but I know her to be nigh to seventy-six, one way ort'other. Her an' Mrs. Mary Ann Chick was same year's child'n, andPeggy knows I know it, an' two or three times when we've be'n in theburyin'-ground where Mary Ann lays an' has her dates right on herheadstone, I couldn't bring Peggy to take no sort o' notice. I willsay she makes, at times, a convenience of being upsighted. But there,I feel for her,--everybody does; it keeps her stubbin' an' trippin'against everything, beakin' and gazin' up the way she has to.""Yes, yes," said the doctor, whose eyes were twinkling. "I'll come andlook after her, with your town doctor, this summer,--some time in thelast of July or first of August.""You'll find occupation," said Betsey, not without an air ofpatronage. "Most of us to the Byfleet Farm has got our ails, now Itell ye. You ain't got no bitters that'll take a dozen years right offan ol' lady's shoulders?"The busy man smiled pleasantly, and shook his head as he went away."Dunster," said Betsey to herself, soberly committing the new name toher sound memory. "Yes, I mustn't forget to speak of him to thedoctor, as he directed. I do' know now as Peggy would vally herselfquite so much accordin' to, if she had her eyes fixed same as otherfolks. I expect there wouldn't been a smarter woman in town, though,if she'd had a proper chance. Now I've done what I set to do for her,I do believe, an' 'twa'n't glasses, neither. I'll git her a prittylittle shawl with that money I laid aside. Peggy Bond ain't got apritty shawl. I always wanted to have a real good time, an' now I'mhavin' it."
VIII.Two or three days later, two pathetic figures might have been seencrossing the slopes of the poor-farm field, toward the low shores ofByfield pond. It was early in the morning, and the stubble of thelately mown grass was wet with rain and hindering to old feet. PeggyBond was more blundering and liable to stray in the wrong directionthan usual; it was one of the days when she could hardly see at all.Aunt Lavina Dow was unusually clumsy of movement, and stiff in thejoints; she had not been so far from the house for three years. Themorning breeze filled the gathers of her wide gingham skirt, andaggravated the size of her unwieldy figure. She supported herself witha stick, and trusted beside to the fragile support of Peggy's arm.They were talking together in whispers."Oh, my sakes!" exclaimed Peggy, moving her small head from side toside. "Hear you wheeze, Mis' Dow! This may be the death o' you; there,do go slow! You set here on the sidehill, an' le' me go try if I cansee.""It needs more eyesight than you've got," said Mrs. Dow, pantingbetween the words. "Oh! to think how spry I was in my young days, an'here I be now, the full of a door, an' all my complaints so aggravatedby my size. 'T is hard! 'tis hard! but I'm a-doin' of all this forpore Betsey's sake. I know they've all laughed, but I look to see herris' to the top o' the pond this day,--'tis just nine days since shedeparted; an' say what they may, I know she hove herself in. It run inher family; Betsey had an aunt that done just so, an' she ain't be'nlike herself, a-broodin' an' hivin' away alone, an' nothin' to say toyou an' me that was always sich good company all together. Somethin'sprung her mind, now I tell ye, Mis' Bond.""I feel to hope we sha'n't find her, I must say," faltered Peggy. Itwas plain that Mrs. Dow was the captain of this doleful expedition. "Iguess she ain't never thought o' drowndin' of herself, Mis' Dow; she'sgone off a-visitin' way over to the other side o' South Byfleet; somethinks she's gone to the Centennial even now!""She hadn't no proper means, I tell ye," wheezed Mrs. Dow indignantly;"an' if you prefer that others should find her floatin' to the topthis day, instid of us that's her best friends, you can step back tothe house."They walked on in aggrieved silence. Peggy Bond trembled withexcitement, but her companion's firm grasp never wavered, and so theycame to the narrow, gravelly margin and stood still. Peggy tried invain to see the glittering water and the pond-lilies that starred it;she knew that they must be there; once, years ago, she had caughtfleeting glimpses of them, and she never forgot what she had onceseen. The clear blue sky overhead, the dark pine-woods beyond thepond, were all clearly pictured in her mind. "Can't you see nothin'?"she faltered; "I believe I'm wuss'n upsighted this day. I'm going tobe blind.""No," said Lavina Dow solemnly; "no, there ain't nothin' whatever,Peggy. I hope to mercy she ain't"--"Why, whoever'd expected to find you 'way out here!" exclaimed a briskand cheerful voice. There stood Betsey Lane herself, close behindthem, having just emerged from a thicket of alders that grew close by.She was following the short way homeward from the railroad."Why, what's the matter, Mis' Dow? You ain't overdoin', be ye? an'Peggy's all of a flutter. What in the name o' natur' ails ye?""There ain't nothin' the matter, as I knows on," responded the leaderof this fruitless expedition. "We only thought we'd take a stroll thispleasant mornin'," she added, with sublime self-possession. "Where'veyou be'n, Betsey Lane?""To Pheladelphy, ma'am," said Betsey, looking quite young and gay, andwearing a townish and unfamiliar air that upheld her words. "All oughtto go that can; why, you feel's if you'd be'n all round the world. Iguess I've got enough to think of and tell ye for the rest o' my days.I've always wanted to go somewheres. I wish you'd be'n there, I do so.I've talked with folks from Chiny an' the back o' Pennsylvany; and Isee folks way from Australy that 'peared as well as anybody; an' I seehow they made spool cotton, an' sights o' other things; an' I spokewith a doctor that lives down to the beach in the summer, an' heoffered to come up 'long in the first of August, an' see what he cando for Peggy's eyesight. There was di'monds there as big as pigeon'seggs; an' I met with Mis' Abby Fletcher from South Byfleet depot; an'there was hogs there that weighed risin' thirteen hunderd"--"I want to know," said Mrs. Lavina Dow and Peggy Bond, together."Well, 'twas a great exper'ence for a person," added Lavina, turningponderously, in spite of herself, to give a last wistful look at thesmiling waters of the pond."I don't know how soon I be goin' to settle down," proclaimed therustic sister of Sindbad. "What's for the good o' one's for the goodof all. You just wait till we're setting together up in the old shedchamber! You know, my dear Mis' Katy Strafford give me a han'somepresent o' money that day she come to see me; and I'd be'n a-dreamin'by night an' day o' seein' that Centennial; and when I come to thinkon't I felt sure somebody ought to go from this neighborhood, if 'twasonly for the good o' the rest; and I thought I'd better be the one. Iwa'n't goin' to ask the selec'men neither. I've come back withone-thirty-five in money, and I see everything there, an' I fetched yeall a little somethin'; but I'm full o' dust now, an' pretty nigh beatout. I never see a place more friendly than Pheladelphy; but 't ain'tnatural to a Byfleet person to be always walkin' on a level. There,now, Peggy, you take my bundle-handkercher and the basket, and letMis' Dow sag on to me. I 'll git her along twice as easy."With this the small elderly company set forth triumphant toward thepoor-house, across the wide green field.
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