Part 5 (1/2)
”Well, of all!” said Betsy.
”I did! There's nothing else as I know of that's so red and white, and so round, and so--so sweet, Betsy.”
”Bijah Green, how you do talk!” Betsy cried. ”It's time we was gettin'
home with these cows.” But she did not quicken her pace, and Bije noticed that she did not.
”Do you know what I'd do if you were a snow, Betsy?” Bije came a little nearer, and his voice grew husky.
”Eat me, presume likely!” said Betsy, with a little laugh that trembled as if it were full of tears.
”No!” cried the boy. ”I'd pick you off the tree, though, and have you for my own, Betsy. I'd carry you off, and run away with you, sure's the world. Should--should you mind much, Betsy?”
But for once Betsy had nothing to say. She could only hang her head, and look more and more like the snow-apple, as Bije's arm stole round her, and his hand clasped hers. Little Betsy! She was only eighteen; four years older, it is true, than that creature of fire and perfume over in the other Verona, but still almost a child, according to New England ideas. The moon looked down, and probably thought she had seen the same sort of thing ever since she was an asteroid, and these children were like all the rest. But what a mistaken old moon she was,--for there had never been any one like Betsy, and certainly no one like Bijah, since the world began; and it was all perfectly new and strange, and--and--they had a very pleasant walk home.
”A bird of the air shall carry the matter!” What bird of all that fly could have had so bad a heart as to tell Miss Resigned Elizabeth of what was going on? Did a raven come on heavy-flapping wings, and croak it in her ear? Or was it a magpie, or a chattering jay? Surely no respectable robin or oriole would think of such a thing! But, however the news reached her, it was there, and the golden time was rudely broken in upon.
Coming in one evening all flushed and radiant with her new joy, the child was met by her mistress (only we do not say ”mistress” in New England; we say ”she” or ”her,” as the case may be),--she was met, I say, by Miss Resigned Elizabeth, wearing so stern a face that the blush froze on Betsy's cheek, and the smile fled from the corners of her mouth, where it always loved to linger.
”Betsy Garlick, where have you been with that cow?”
Betsy faltered. ”Been with her, Miss Bute? I've been bringing her back from pasture, same as I allers do.”
”Same as you allers do? And how's that? Betsy Garlick, ain't you ashamed to look me in the face, and you goin' with that low-lived feller over t' the other house?”
But at this Betsy caught fire. ”He ain't no low-lived feller!” she cried, the blushes coming back again in an angry flood over cheek and brow and neck. ”You can scold me all you're a mind to, Miss Bute, and I won't say nothin'; but you ain't no call to abuse Bijah.”
”Oh, I ain't, ain't I?” cried Miss Resigned Elizabeth, taking fire in her turn. ”I'm to be shet up in my own house, am I, by a girl from North Beulah? I'm to have such actions goin' on under my nose, and never so much as wink at 'em, am I? I should like to know! You go to your room this minute, Betsy Garlick, and stay there till I tell you to come out, or you'll find out p'raps more than you like. North Beulah! Well, of all impudence!”
Betsy fled to her room, and the angry woman followed and turned the key upon her. Then, returning to her sitting-room, Miss Resigned Elizabeth sat down and made out her line of action in this domestic crisis. She sat for some time, her head shaking with indignation over the iniquities of this generation; then she went to the writing-desk, so seldom used, and, with stiff, trembling fingers, wrote two notes.
One of the notes was posted, being intrusted to the care of the travelling baker, who went jingling by just in the nick of time; the other was thrust in at Miss Duty's door by a withered hand, which held it unflinchingly till Miss Duty came and took it, wondering greatly, but not opening the door an inch wider to catch a glimpse of her sister's face,--the face she had not looked into for ten years.
When the hand was withdrawn, Miss Duty proceeded to decipher the note, her gray hair bristling with indignation as she did so.
SISTER DUTY,--Your help has been courting my hired girl, and I don't suppose you want any such doings, any more than I do. I have shet the girl up in her room till he is gone, and sent for her stepmother. So no more from your sister.
R. E. BUTE.
Who shall paint Miss Duty's wrath? It was more violent than her sister's, for she was of sterner mould; and it was really a fiery whirlwind that greeted the delinquent Bijah when he came whistling in from the barn, cheerfully smiling and at peace with all the world. But the boy who faced Miss Duty in her fury was a very different person from the meek, submissive youth whom she had learned to know and tyrannize over as Bije Green.
This Bije met her torrent of angry words with head held high, and smiling countenance. Ashamed? No, he wasn't ashamed, not the least mite in the world. Pick up his duds and go? Why, of course he would--just as easy! Should he wait to split the kindling-wood and bring in the water? Just as she said; it didn't make a mite o'
difference to him. Go right off, this minute of time? Ruther go than eat, any time. One week's pay--thank her kindly, much obliged. The cow was fed, and he cal'c'lated she'd find everything pretty slick in the barn. Real pleasant night for a walk--good evenin'!
The consequence of which was--what? Certainly not what Miss Duty had expected, or Miss Resigned, either.
At daybreak next morning, when the gray heads of these indignant virgins were still lying on their pillows, taking an interval of peace with all the world, Bijah was under Betsy's window, like a flame of fire. Betsy was not asleep. Oh, no! She was crying, poor little soul, at thought of going back to her stepmother, one of the old-fas.h.i.+oned kind, and never seeing Bije again. For she would never see him, of course. Hark! Was that a pebble thrown against the gla.s.s? A peep through the green blinds, up went the little window, softly, softly, and the dearest girl in the world leaned out, showing her sweet tear-stained face in the faint gray light,--a sight which made Bije more fiery than ever. Softly she bade him begone, for she dared not speak to him. How did he know Miss Bute wasn't looking at him this minute, out of her window?
It appeared that Bije did not care if twenty Miss Butes were looking at him, though one was enough to frighten the crows. Betsy was to put on her bunnit that minute, and come along with him. Door locked? What did that matter, he should like to know? He should laugh if she was to be kept shet up there like a mouse in a trap. Send her home to her stepmother? He'd like to see them try it, that was all. Never mind the things! Come right along! She'd ben cryin'! He'd like to get hold of them as made her cry. There'd be _some_ cryin' round, but it wouldn't be hers. Come! Why didn't Betsy come? They'd take the cows out to pasture this once more,--he didn't want the dumb critters to suffer, and 't wasn't likely the old cats could get any help before night,--and then they'd go. Go where? Now Betsy knew that well enough.
To Friar Laurence, of course (Bije called him parson instead of friar, and he spelled his name with a _w_ instead of a _u_, but these are mere trifles of detail), to get married. Where else should they go?
Wasn't she his Betsy, his own girl? Did she think she was goin' to stay there and be hectored, while he was round? Parson Lawrence was to home, Bije saw him only last night. Now could she climb down that grape-vine? He reckoned she could, and he'd be standin' ready to catch her if her foot should slip.