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CHAPTER V

On some of Beth’s visits to town, she had made the acquaintance of Helen Reed, a girl of her own age and lucky enough to have five brothers and four sisters. They were the jolliest set imaginable, all packed as close as matches in a box. Helen’s hair was as yellow as puffed taffy. Her eyes matched the blueness of the summer sky. It takes a large check to clothe, feed and educate ten children. The Reed children had early learned how to make the most of hair ribbons, and to trim over hats from the season before. They dressed plain enough, goodness knows, but they had an “air.”

Helen when barely seven would cock up a hat at the side, stick in a quill, slap it on her head and have the general effect of a French fashion plate.

She was a dear little girl who looked out for her own rights while she remembered the rights of others, just as any little girl learns to do when she has been reared with nine other children.

Helen and Beth fell in love with each other at first sight. The former, living in a flat in town, found the yard and trees at the old Wells place most delightful. Early in June when school was out, she came up to visit Beth.

“Your trees are pretty, Beth. I think you’d feel like a queen sitting under them.”

Beth looked at them with new eyes. She had always had them, and did not fully appreciate them.

“Let’s play we’re queens,” cried Helen. “Under that big locust tree on the bank, we’ll build a palace.”

“It isn’t a locust tree. They don’t grow so. It’s an oak,” said Beth.

“Locust sounds prettier, so I’ll call it that,” said Helen, who did not know one tree from another. “It doesn’t matter what kind it is. Let’s build a palace.”

“I don’t see how it can be done,” said Beth.

“Then I’ll show you.” She was already picking her way gingerly across the public road. The girls were in their bare feet and the skin was yet tender. They stepped as carefully as they could, for the bits of gravel and sand could be cruel.

“This will be the drawing room,” cried Helen, moving quickly now that she had gained the greensward under the trees. “Then we’ll have a wide hall with a library on one side, a den, and right here will be the nursery.” She had been jumping about like a cricket from one place to another, locating the different apartments of the household.

“I’m not sure where I wish the dining-room. I’d like to have something pretty to look at while I’m eating.”

“Have it on this side and we can look at the trees and Adee’s flowers,” suggested Beth. She had played second in the game. She could not yet see how Helen could build such a large and elegant affair from nothing at all.

“That’s just the thing,” cried Helen. “We’ll play that the yard is the conservatory. Now, let’s put up the walls.”

“I don’t see how you can,” began Beth.

“Help me carry up these nice stones from the beach and you’ll see.”

She started down the bank, and Beth followed blindly with faith in Helen’s power to make something from nothing. For an hour they carried up small flat stones until they had quite a number piled together under the trees. All the while, their tongues had kept clacking like the shuttle of a machine.

“Now we’ll build. It’s going to be a gray stone mansion,” said Helen.

“I always did like stone houses,” said Beth. She had never seen one, but she knew at that moment that she always had preferred them to any other.

Helen had already laid down a line of stones. “Start at this corner and make a line over to here.” She laid a stone down to mark the corners of a large rectangle which was to be the living room. “Right here will be the door on to the front porch. Don’t put stones there, – here will be a large double door into the library. We’ll leave that open.”

It took a little time to lay the stones around until the general outline was that of the ground plan of a large house. The stones were the walls. Open spaces were the doors and windows.

The little girls stood in the drawing room and looked about with an air of pride. “It’s all ready now but the furnishing,” said Helen. “We must have some dishes, too, for the china closet.”

“I have some saucers and cups without handles. I’ll get them.” She started toward the house. Helen gave a scream of horror and clutched at Beth’s arm.

“Look what you are doing,” she cried. “Do be careful. Come back,” and she forcibly brought her back.

“What’s the trouble? What ever am I doing? I can’t see that I’ve done anything wrong.”

“You’ve stepped over the walls. Who ever knew any one to leave a room by stepping over the wall. Do be careful and go through the doors.”

“Oh, I thought the way you screamed that it was a snake – one of those little green ones.” She obediently moved through the open space meant for a door and went for the broken dishes.

By the time she had returned, Helen had furnished the drawing room. A discarded wash-boiler, turned upside down, served as a piano. A shingle resting upon two stones did very well as a music rest. Helen was down on her knees before it, singing with all her might and thumping with her knuckles until the tin resounded.

Beth had learned her lesson and came into the room by way of the door rather than over the wall. She surveyed the drawing room with pride.

“Scrumptious, isn’t it?” asked Helen.

“It’s certainly kertish,” replied Beth. Kertish was a new word to Helen.

“Now what does ker-tish mean, Beth Wells? You are forever using it.”

“It means scrumptious and a whole lot more,” said Beth. “I can’t just exactly explain. It means just what the drawing-room is now.”

“It does look rather nice,” said Helen complacently. “These chairs in pink velvet and brocade are certainly scrumptious.”

She pointed to several billets of wood which she had stood on end to serve as chairs. Then she seated herself cautiously upon them, for pink velvet chairs made from a cross-cut on square timber will wobble sometimes in spite of one.

“They certainly are ‘kertish’,” said Beth. She had made up that word herself. It expressed all she had in her mind, and being her very own word, she could thrust it about to fit any feeling or any condition. She was moving about the drawing-room in a dignified fashion, arranging at regular intervals wild roses on the heavy sod. Helen watched her.

“The green velvet carpet with pink roses is just the thing to go with these chairs,” said Helen. “I must say that in all my travels I never saw anything more scrumptious.”

“It is the most kertish thing I ever saw,” said Beth.

“Who are we anyhow?” asked Beth at last. “I mean who are we besides ourselves.”

“I am Mrs. Queen of Sheba,” said Helen, “and you can be Mrs. Princess of Wales.”

So it was. Royalty had set up housekeeping under the shady trees which covered the bank before the old Wells place.

Royalty is not domestic. Before a second day had passed, Mrs. Queen of Sheba grew tired of the monotony of housekeeping.

“Princess of Wales, we will take a trip around the world,” she said. “The ship is ready.” She pointed majestically to an old row boat which, water-logged and unseaworthy, lay abandoned on the beach. “We will go on board at once.”

“I am ready, Mrs. Queen of Sheba.”

An hour later, they were ship-wrecked and forced to wade ashore from mid-ocean. A little accident like this did not deter them. They were on a voyage of experience and discovery.

“While we are waiting for a ship to rescue us, let us explore the land,” said the Queen of Sheba.

“It would be the most kertish thing we could do.”

They proceeded slowly, making their way around Great Island, which the uninitiated might have called the big rock lying out well toward mid-stream. They crossed Knee-Deep Gulf and came to Cant-Wada Bay where they were forced to turn back. Along the shore, they had a horrible experience. Helen screamed and sank down, pulling Beth with her.

“Look,” she whispered, pointing her finger to the opposite shore. “There are cannibals. Do not let them see us, or they will roast us and eat us alive.”

Beth sank down with a shiver, clutching at Helen’s bare feet as though to find protection in them. At length, she found courage to raise her eyes and look where Helen pointed. “Those – those – cannibals,” she cried. Her voice was a mixture of relief and scorn. “They’re only boys in swimming. That big one is Jimmy – ”

“They are cannibals, and that big one is the chief. Don’t let them see us. Let us creep softly away.” They crept. It was a horrifying experience. No one could tell what might have happened, had not a distant sail appeared.

“A ship! A ship! We shall be saved,” cried the Queen of Sheba, kicking up her sunburnt legs and waving her arms with delight.

“A ship! A ship! We are saved,” and Mrs. Princess of Wales indulged in antics which are not generally practiced by people of royal blood.

“Put up a signal of distress,” said Mrs. Queen of Sheba.

“Here is a flag. Put it on the pole,” cried the Princess of Wales. She promptly stuck her sunbonnet on the end of a stick and waved frantically to and fro.

So while the cannibals were shrieking and performing wild antics on the opposite shore, the Queen of Sheba and the Princess of Wales crept on board the water-logged boat and were saved.

These were glorious days. The little girls lacked for nothing. What was not theirs in actuality, became theirs by the gift of imagination. They reveled in motor cars, airships, mansions and pink velvet furniture. They were billionaires, with all the possessions and none of the trouble of taking care of them.

They were happy together for several weeks. Then Helen invited Beth to her birthday party, and Beth was heart-broken. Even Adee could not comfort her for a time.

CHAPTER VI

“Helen Reed was born on the tenth of July. When’s my birthday, Adee?”

Eliza had never foreseen such a question. She could not reply at first.

“When was I born, Adee?”

Eliza was not one given to evasion. To her there could be but aye or nay.

“I do not know,” she replied.

“Why do you not know, Adee? Helen’s mother knows the very day that Helen was born. I think you would remember about me.”

“But, Beth dearest, you were not a tiny baby when you were sent to me. I do not know how old you were. I think almost two years old. No one told me about your birthday.”

“They kept me in heaven longer than most babies, then,” said Beth sententiously. “Most babies are just a minute old when they are sent down on earth. The angels must have liked me very much. Don’t you think so, Adee?”

“I am sure they did,” Eliza assured her. This comforted Beth somewhat. It is nice to feel that the angels feel pleasure in one’s society. Yet it had its disadvantages too. One could not be quite sure of one’s birthday; and thereby one was short of presents and festivities of various kinds.

“I should think, Adee, that you would have asked them,” she said after some time. Eliza had let her thoughts go back to her household duties and, some time having elapsed between this question and the remarks which had preceded it, she had forgotten the subject of conversation.

“Asked what – of whom?”

“My birthday – of the angels when they brought me.”

“You were not brought directly to me. I am not your real mother.”

“Not my real one?” Beth dropped her play-things and came close to Eliza and leaned against her knee. There was surprise, consternation, pathos in her face and voice, as she leaned her head against Adee’s arm.

“Not my real one? I don’t see any different, Adee. You’re just like Helen’s mother, only you’re a good deal nicer. She’s a real mother, why hain’t you?”

“I mean, you are not my child by birth.”

“Wasn’t I born your little girl?”

“No,” said Adee. “When you were born you did not belong to me.”

There was nothing more to be said. Beth was quiet – too quiet, Eliza thought, and turned to look at the child. Beth’s lips were quivering and trembling, but she was pressing them hard so as to make no outcry. The tears were very near the surface, but Beth would not let them fall. One glance at the brave little face, and Eliza turned and, throwing her arm about here impulsively, hugged her tight to her bosom.

“What is it, Beth?”

“I want to be some one’s born child,” she said. “I want to be your born child.”

Eliza hesitated. What was conventionality in comparison to the little girl’s peace of mind? She would put aside her own sense of the fitness of some things and make the child happy. “You may be my born child, then,” she said. “You may be born in my love, in my heart. You may be my own little girl, exactly as Helen is her mother’s little girl. Will that please you?”

“Yes, now what about my birthday?” asked Beth. “Every one of the Reeds have birthdays, and they are always talking about pulling ears and what presents they got. They don’t have their birthdays all the same time. They’ve scattered them about so that one comes after each pay-day.”

“Not a bad idea”, said Eliza, “especially when there is a birthday with candles. You may have a birthday, too, just like the other girls. You came to my house the first day of July. We’ll celebrate that; so far as you and I are concerned that day is correct.”

Beth gave a sigh of satisfaction. That was the only trouble she had had in her life. It was nice that it was disposed of so satisfactorily.

“We’ll have a cake too, Adee, with candles. How many candles?”

“Seven,” replied Eliza promptly.

Beth had come to the years when a child questions and begins to reach out for the reason of things. She was not at all stupid. She was quick to see how people conducted themselves; how they spoke and dressed. She was always attracted toward the refined and gentle. Eliza’s heart rejoiced at this. She believed that ‘blood would tell’, and all Beth’s attributes and natural tendencies were proof that her people were self-respecting gentlefolk.

Eliza had long since given up wearing black silk and little bits of bonnets perched on her head, too small for grace or beauty. Beth had not liked them. Beth had declared them not ‘pitty’, and Eliza had accepted her decision. There were white dresses and cheap thin prints, but they were artistic and suited Eliza far better than the dark, somber colors. Perhaps it was easy to follow Beth’s wishes in regard to the matter of clothes, for Eliza’s heart had always hungered after daintiness and brightness. Yet she had never felt herself equal to going against the conventions and unwritten laws of the narrow little hamlet; but with Beth’s encouragement, it was easier to follow the dictates of her own desires.

Eliza was really a handsome woman, but she never suspected that herself; nor did the people of Shintown. Their taste was inclined toward buxom figures, red cheeks, and black, curly hair. Years before, some one had declared this the type of beauty, and the folk of Shintown had accepted it then, and their grand-children looked upon it as a matter of course even now. So to them Eliza Wells was not beautiful. Her broad, white forehead with the soft, smooth chestnut hair like a band of velvet; her big, clear, gray eyes, serene and calm until she was vexed or excited, when they glowed like embers; her lithe, willowy form, all this meant nothing to them.

“Eliza’s got a big mouth. Did you ever see the like of it,” had been Sam Houston’s comment on her appearance for years, and everyone grinned then and ever afterward whenever he repeated it. It was large, perhaps, but it displayed beautiful teeth, and its curves were exquisite. There was strength and sweetness both in it. Yet, in Shintown, she was not even considered fine looking. It was merely a difference of standards, and somehow all about her was bigger than their measure.

Beth was arriving at the age when she asked questions and had thoughts all her own. One afternoon during the heat of summer, Eliza sat in the living room, taking a few stitches in her weekly mending. The room had been darkened save where she had raised the blinds sufficiently to let the light fall on her work. Her profile was distinct against the white draperies of the inner hangings.

Beth was taking her afternoon nap on the davenport at the end of the room. It was the same big old affair of mahogany on which Sam Houston had placed her when Prince had run away – five years before. It was big and cozy and comfortable. Beth had slept soundly and long. When at last she opened her eyes, she was dazed and just a little dull. She lay looking at Adee’s profile against the window draperies.

What was in her mind, what shadow of a far-off dream had come to her, no one could tell. She watched her foster-mother, and at last said, “You don’t wear your hair like you used to, Adee. Why don’t you? It was prettier, much prettier the other way.”

“You’re dreaming, Beth, child. I always wore it just this way – at least, since I have grown up.”

“No, Adee, I’m sure you didn’t. You used to have fussy little curls about your face, and you used to wear flowers – pink rosebuds and carnations. Don’t you remember, Adee?”

Eliza was startled, but wisely did not contradict the child. “When did I wear flowers in my hair, Little One? Was it in this room, or where? Tell me about it.”

Beth laughed in a lazy sort of way. She was not fully awake. Was she partly dreaming, or did some recollections of her babyhood days intrude themselves? Was a little portion of her brain opening and bringing to light impressions of the hours when she had been with someone else than Adee?

“You’re not one bit of a good ‘rememberer,’” she replied slowly, dreamily. “You used to wear your hair all fussiness and have flowers in it, stuck down over your ear so, and your dresses would be long in the back. Don’t you remember, you’d come in my room and pick me up and hug me and call me Baby – and something else, but I’ve forgot. What else was it that you called me, Adee?”

“I’ve forgotten. Go on with your remembering. The other name will come back after a while.”

Adee’s heart jumped even as she spoke. Perhaps the child could remember enough that some trace of her people could be found. There was no joy to Eliza in this thought. Beth gone! Her limbs grew cold and her heart felt like ice in her breast at the mere thought of it.

“Was it a pretty room, Beth, where you slept?”

“Of course, Adee. There were curtains around the bed. It was shiny and yellow – the bed. You hadn’t any carpets on the floor. It was pretty, all right, but not one bit like where I sleep now. Did you give my little bed away, Adee?”

“You must not ask impertinent questions,” said Eliza with what lightness she could muster. “You are such a big girl now. Surely you would not wish to sleep in a little baby-crib.”

“No, but it would be nice for my dolls,” said Beth. “If we had it ready, we might get a live baby to put in it sometime.”

Eliza took her stitches slowly. Beth must be dreaming. Surely, the woman in gowns with long trains and fluffy, fussy hair in which flowers were fastened were tricks of the child’s imagination. Eliza had a picture in her mind of the big, fair woman, shabbily dressed, whom she had found along the roadside. This woman’s hair had been braided and coiled tight about her head. It had been beautiful, but it was not fussy, and it was straight as hair could be.

It was a question in Eliza’s mind, whether she should change the subject, or whether it would be wiser to encourage the child in these remembrances or fits of fancy, whichever they were. She concluded that anything was better than uncertainty.

“What about the big woman with blue eyes and long braids of yellow hair? She used to have it wrapped close to her head. There were no curls anywhere. She wore very plain dresses – black skirts – ”

“And big white aprons,” cried Beth, sitting up suddenly and clapping her hands. Then she laughed joyously. “That was Bena, Adee. Wasn’t Bena funny? She had such funny words.” Then suddenly a new mood came to the child. Getting down quickly from the davenport, she crossed the room and, standing directly in front of Eliza, asked with direct tenseness:

“Where is Bena, Adee? What has become of her? What did you ever do to Bena? She hasn’t been here since I was a little bit of a baby. Where is Bena?”

Eliza shook her head. “I do not know, Beth. I am sorry, but I do not know.”