by Carolyn Wells, originally begun January 1899
IN THE CELLAR
In obedience to to Mrs. Tucker's order, Betty started for the cellar, and as she went down the stairs she felt that her cup of woe was full indeed. To be brought in from her beloved fresh air and sunshine, and set to work in the dark, damp cellar, was bad enough, but far worse was the loss of her beautiful Turkey-red calico. And, too, Betty had had no breakfast that morning, and hunger does not add to the bravery of a little girl fourteen years old.
As she passed the kitchen door a goodly smell came out invitingly; but she dared not stop there, for Mrs. Tucker would expect the pile of split sticks to measure fairly with the time which might elapse before her appearance.
So Betty went on down-cellar, picked up the ax, and attacked a log of wood. She knew that Mrs. Tucker, in the parlor above, could hear her strokes, and that consequently they must occur in rapid succession.
"It's starvin' I am!" she said to herself. "Neither bite nor sup this blessed mornin', an' likely nothin' till noon—an' ine a-tryin' most especial this week to be good. But the more I tries, the more things happens from outside to pervent. I s'pose it's just my luck. Some folks is born to bad luck, and what luck comes we has to take. But I wish I had a home. Seems to me I would n't mind havin' bad luck if I had a pretty home to have it in. Hallo, Jack! come on down."
The crippled newsboy had appeared at the cellar window, and, in response to Betty's invitation, Jack swung himself and his crutch inside, with an agility that would have done credit to a boy who had full use of his legs.
"What's up, Betty? Where 's the old lady?"
"In the parlor, passin' the time of day wid the Miss Van Courts. Say, Jack, did you ever have a home?"
"A home? Naw—nothin' but the hospital, and I runned away from that."
"Don't you wish you did have a home?"
"Yep; but I 'd ruther have money. If yer have money, yer can buy a home."
"Oh, I never had any money. I 've just worked for clo'es and board. Of course, while you 're wishin', you might as well wish for money. But I 'd rather have schoolin'. I 'd just love to go to school, an' learn 'I am, thou art, he is.' That's what Ethel Green learns; and she learns beautiful map-questions and figgers, too."
"Stop yer choppin' a minute, Betty; I can't hear what yer say."
"I can't stop. She 's up above, listenin'."
"What a nipper she is! Will yer ketch it fer the hosin' performance, Bet?"
"S'pose so."
"It's a shame, 'cos that was my fault. Say, Betty, I 'm awful sorry I got yer in trouble."
"Oh, it does n't make any difference. If she was n't ragin' about this, it 'd be somethin' else. She 's gen'rally mad at somethin'. Oh, jiminy, Jack, she's comin'! You won't have time to get out. Hide behind the ice-box."
Jack scrambled behind the big refrigerator, the noise of his clattering crutch drowned by the vigorous blows of Betty's ax.
"You good-for-nothing looby!" began the landlady. "You have brought disgrace and reproach upon my house; you have spoiled the ladies' fine gowns, and you deserve to be turned into the street. After all I 've done for you, you have no sense of gratitude! After all I 've taught you, you have no sense of decorum, but stand out in front of my house, tricked out like an organ-grinder's monkey, and insult passers-by. Lay down that ax and look at me! What can you say for yourself?"
Betty dropped the ax and looked at Mrs. Tucker. Impressed by the lady's extreme rage, the thought struck her that she had nothing to lose and everything to gain, and she resolved on a bold stroke.
"I 'm sorry,"she said,—"awful sorry; but truly, ma'am, it was an accident. But please, ma'am, if you 'll give me back me red necktie, I 'll not wear it out o' doors again."
"Give it back to you!" fairly screamed Mrs. Tucker. "I 'll throw it in the fire; indeed you won't wear it out of doors again. Now, as part of your punishment, you may stay down here and split wood all the morning."
"But, Mrs. Tucker, I ain't had breakfast."
"And you don't deserve any. But there 's some cold tea in the pantry; you may have that and a slice of bread. You 'd better not dawdle over it, for all those sticks must be split and neatly piled up by the time Ellen calls you to pare the vegetables."
"Yes, ma'am,"said Betty, meekly; and Mrs. Tucker walked away, feeling doubtful whether she had punished her prisoner enough, and resolving that the careless girl should pay for her fault in some other way.
Betty chopped away sullenly, and Jack came out of his hiding-place and offered sympathy.
"She 's a mean old thing; but ain't yer goin' to eat nothin', Betty?"
"No; I don't want her food. I hate her!"
"Say, Betty,"—and Jack's kind voice was very comforting,—"I 've got a nickel, and if yer say so, I 'll skip down to Gruber's and buy you a hot muffin and a sausage, 'cos it was truly my fault that yer got trapped. Will yer eat 'em, hey?"
"Yes, indeedy! You 're awful good, Jack."
The lame boy hobbled off on his errand, and Betty whacked away at her task until he returned. Then she dropped her ax, and sat down to enjoy the hot muffin and sausage.
"My, but it 's good, Jack! But are n't you hungry yourself?"
"N-no—not to say hungry. I had some breakfast. But that's tiptop, ain't it?"
"It's prime; but I won't eat any more unless you take some, too. Here"; and Betty broke off a generous bit and gave it to him, and the two children sat nibbling away together.
"Let's pretend, Jack," said Betty; "that 'll make it last longer, and be more fun, besides. Let 's pretend we 're quality, and you 've come to dine with me. I 'm a grand lady with heaps of book-learnin', and a red silk dress trimmed with blue bugles, and I live in a home. You 're a hero who was lamed in the battle of Waterloo—"
"But I could n't be, Betty. That battle was years ago."
"Oh, was it? Well, never mind; any old battle will do. Now pretend. Good evenin', Mr. Kiley; it's pleased to see you I am—thou art—he is."
"Why do you say that?"
"Oh, that's grammar, Jack. The quality always talks grammar. It's all the grammar I know. But I know one bit of history. I heard Ethel Green studying it out of a book. She said it over and over, and I learned it while I was dusting her room."
"What is it?"
"Well, if you 'll pretend with me, I 'll say it. The quality brings in history as they talks."
"All right. Good evenin', Miss McGuire. You 're lookin' gorgeous to-night."
"Yes; me new gown is a becomin' color, though I say it as should n't. Will you have some of this strawberry ice-cream? It 's the best I 've ate since the crescent waved over the Church of St. Sophia and the Byzantine Empire fell forever."
"Whew! Is that your history, Bet?"
"Yes; but don't notice it. Just talk away. You 're no good at all at pretendin'. Why, I can pretend this cellar is a beautiful parlor, or a flower-garden, or a school-room. I like the school-room best, and I pretend there 's a kind, gentle teacher-lady, and lots of books and slates and things; and I learn away like fury; and when I say me lessons, the teacher says, 'That's excellent, my child.' I heard Ethel Green's teacher say that to her once. Now I must go back to me choppin', or I won't have sufficient of sticks to gratify me friend Mrs. Tucker. Clear out, Jack; I can't work if you 're here to talk to"; and as the boy hobbled away, she added:"I 'm awful thankful to you for the muffin. I 'll pay back your kindness when I come into me fortune."
Betty's fortune was a standing joke among her small circle of acquaintances. It was purely traditional, and no one but Betty had any faith in the authenticity of the tale.
The facts of Betty's early history were these: A young Irishman had come over to this country as an agent for a firm of Belfast linen-dealers. He had wooed and won a fair Boston girl contrary to the counsels of her parents, who had objected to Martin McGuire with no very good reason. But the young couple ran away and were married. For several years the parents continued implacable; then they relented, and wrote for Mr. and Mrs. McGuire and their baby daughter to come home and be forgiven.
With great joy the party started; but during their journey a serious railroad accident occurred, and the train in which they were traveling was thrown from the track. The wounded passengers were taken to various hospitals, and it so chanced that Mrs. McGuire was separated from her husband and child, and afterward received the report that they had both perished.
Though the report was true of Martin McGuire, it had been a mistake about the child, for the baby Betty had been found very much alive, and had been taken to an orphan asylum.
In his dying moments Martin McGuire managed to write a few words on a paper, which he pinned to his child's frock. The paper read:"Elizabeth McGuire. Possible heiress to a large fortune." He did this because he hoped it would attract attention to his orphaned baby and insure kind treatment for her; and as to the fortune, he had always lived in expectation of an inheritance from his father, who had long ago gone to Australia in search of gold. No news had ever been received from him since he started away with pick and pack, but if he had amassed wealth, Martin McGuire was his only heir and must inherit it.
Even this paper, however, failed to disclose Betty's whereabouts to her sorrowing mother, for no attention was paid to the scrawled message, and the paper was soon lost. But it had served to fix the child's name, and the episode remained in the memory of the matron of the asylum, and was told to Betty in after years.
As she grew old enough, she was made to work, and the hardest and most menial labors fell to her share.
When she was ten years old she was put out to service, and had drifted from one employer to another ever since. Although she inherited her father's indomitable pluck and energy, his good nature and sense of humor, yet the girl was very like her mother in innate refinement of character, her winning ways, and her sensitiveness; and so the poor little starved heart and brain suffered even more than her ill-clothed and ill-fed little body. In spite of her enforced association with ignorant people she felt a desire and a capacity for education, and although she naturally adopted something of the careless language and roughand-ready ways of her associates, yet the finer instincts were latent and ready to recognize and respond to true culture and gentleness wherever she might meet them.
Betty loved beautiful things, and, not possessing any, she tried to make up for the lack of substantial luxuries by furnishing her poor little air-castles with a lavishness which was limited only by her own ignorance.
But all her other trials and deprivations were as nothing to her longing for a home; or, rather, all the other sorrows were summed up in that. She wanted to feel that she belonged somewhere, that she would be welcomed somewhere; and her feelings of envy were roused only on seeing some manifestation of home happiness.
Betty had ambitions, and a dogged determination to achieve them, sooner or later; and she thought that, if she could ever get a place where, besides giving her board and clothes, they would pay even a small amount of money, she would save it all toward this future home of hers, which at present seemed as remote as the distant sun.
But the days went by, with no change for the better; in fact, Betty's hard life was made harder as the summer days grew warm and Mrs. Tucker became correspondingly more irritable and thoughtless.
And so it happened that one beautiful, bright morning, when Mrs. Tucker felt sure that Betty wanted to be out of doors, she sent her to the dining-room to kill flies.
Greenborough people, though living near the city of New York, were primitive and conservative; so in Mrs. Tucker's dining-room a pink mosquito-netting was spread over the always-laid table between meals. It chanced to be a new one, and of a very bright pink, and it suggested many possibilities to Betty's admiring eye.
She took it from the table, and tried it in various capacities—as a train, a shawl, a sash, and finally as a bridal veil.
This proved so satisfactory that she attacked the marauding flies with the pink gauze still fastened to the top of her head and floating behind her as she danced around.
So when Mrs. Tucker glanced in to see if the fly massacre was proceeding with sufficient rapidity, the waving pink cloud that met her eye failed to inspire her with mirth or admiration.
"You imp of wickedness!" she began; and then the situation seemed really beyond her range of epithets, and she paused and looked at Betty until the child shivered with dread.
She had done wrong, she knew; there was no excuse for her; but the temptation to see how the beautiful pink fabric would become her had proved too strong to resist.
"I 'm sorry," she began; but she shook in her shoes as Mrs. Tucker interrupted her and cried:
"Leave my house to-day! I 've been tormented with you for two years, and I 'll harbor such a minx no longer! Out you go this very day, you good-for-nothing, and seek some place where they will let you destroy their housefurnishings to gratify your jackanapes foolishness. Go at once, I tell you; I 'm done with you"; and Mrs. Tucker pushed the frightened and weeping child out into the hall.
Betty went on blindly through the hall and kitchen, and out on the little back porch, where she sat down and gave way to violent crying. Not that she loved Mrs. Tucker; not that she was sorry for her naughtiness; but the house from which she had been turned was the nearest approach to a home that she knew of, and where to go was a question with absolutely no answer.
Now, Mrs. Tucker had not really meant for Betty to go away—she was too useful a servant to lose; but the landlady thought that a lesson of this kind would do no harm, and might frighten Betty into more discreet behavior.
So Betty was left alone with her grief, and continued to sit sobbing on the back steps. Even Bumps, who poked his frowzy little head up within her arm, and blinked his sympathetic eyes at her, failed to show her a way out of her difficulties.
After a while a hobbling step was heard coming round the corner of the house, and Betty raised her head to see Lame Jack with an excited look on his face. He came up at a rapid pace, and did not wait for her to speak.
"Betty—I say, Bet, stop cryin' while I tell yer somethin'."
"Don't want to hear it," she mumbled.
"Yes, you do. You 'll want to hear this. The postman brought a letter for you."
"What?"
"He did, true as true. I was goin' by, and he asked me, did Betty McGuire live here, and I said yes, and he give all the letters to Ellen at the door. I asked him afterward if there was one for you, and he said there was."
Betty had stopped crying now, and her troubles were all crowded out of her mind by this new wonder.
"Jack! what can it be about? Where is the letter?"
"Dunno; s'pose old Tuck 's got it by this time. Like as not you 'll never see it," replied the crippled boy.
"But I must, Jack; it's mine."
Just then Mrs. Tucker's step was heard in the kitchen, and Mrs. Tucker's voice—but such a different voice from the one she generally used—said, "Betty!"
...to be continued
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