Betty's Battles: An Everyday Story

by Harriet Pyne Grove

  CHAPTER XII

  LUCY

  For some days after father's return Betty has eyes and ears for scarcelyanyone else. To see his dear face, to listen to his dear voice, is sucha true delight to her!

  Then, too, his presence relieves her from a great responsibility. True,he is much too lame, as yet, to collect the rents, or to call on Mr.Duncan; but he takes all those tiresome accounts off her hands at once.It is as though an actual weight had been lifted from her shoulders, forshe has felt the anxiety of keeping Mr. Duncan's books a heavy burdenindeed.

  But though Betty is deeply thankful to be rid of it all, she isbeginning to realise how good this responsibility has been for her.

  "I used to make such a fuss over little things," she thinks. "Why, I wasquite upset if the girls came in with torn frocks, and dirty faces, orClara did not clean the kitchen properly; worse still, I used to behavequite rudely to mother if she forgot to arrange the dinner in good time,or made me close a window when I thought it ought to be open. Howirritable, how unreasonable I was! How hasty and inconsiderate!

  "Ah! yes. I see now that God _had_ to send me all these worries; Icouldn't learn how to bear little troubles, until I had been through bigones. Dear Captain said that in a happy home every one had his or hertrue place. It was certainly never my place to speak to mother as I usedto do.

  "Yes, I believe mother has really loved me better than I deserved. Poormother! Her life is much duller than mine; she has never had such afriend as my dear Captain Scott; she has never been in the country tostay with darling Grannie; she has just lived on at home, year afteryear.

  "Why, it wasn't until I spent that lovely time with Grannie that I sawhow much nicer things could be made here, and now I really believe they_are_ nicer. I'm sure every one seems more cheerful lately. Jennie andPollie have greatly improved; I'm so thankful to see that they havereally taken little Minnie White as a close friend; she is a true ArmyJunior, and will do them a world of good.

  "Harry doesn't seem _quite_ so rough, and as for Bob, well, he's aperfect dear about those violin exercises now. I'm sure that half-hourwe have together over the piano is one of the sweetest in the whole day;and, really, 'Exercise No. 4' is beginning to sound quite pretty.

  "The only person in the house I can't altogether make out is Lucy; shecertainly isn't all a sister should be, somehow. She does her share ofthe work, I suppose; but I declare I know more of Bob's thoughts than Ido of hers--she lives in a perfect world of her own.

  "She reads too much; I never knew such a girl for reading--always oversome book or other. I mean to speak to her pretty plainly about that,directly I get an opportunity."

  Alas! opportunities for speaking "pretty plainly" come only too easily.

  The next day is washing day. Clara Jones's mother comes in to help;mother spends the whole day in the kitchen, and, of course, Betty hasplenty to do.

  By dint of almost superhuman exertions, Betty manages to inspire Claraand her mother with a desire to get the work cleared up before tea,instead of dawdling over the tubs until late into the evening. Herefforts are successful; by half-past four they have actually finished,and Betty looks forward to a rest, and cup of tea. She will ask Lucy tomake it directly.

  "Lucy!" she calls. No answer. "Where can that girl be? 'Lucy!' She mustcome--she ought to come; this is really too bad!"

  She runs upstairs, still calling, "Lucy, Lucy!" She peeps into everyroom; there is no Lucy to be found.

  At last a thought strikes her. "Surely she hasn't hidden herself away toread in the attic?" Betty's anger rises. Lucy is in the attic, sittingall huddled up in a chair, poring intently over a book; books, and penand ink, on the floor beside her.

  "Lucy, what on earth are you doing here? And to-day, of all days! I'vebeen searching the whole house to find you; we all want our tea, and youare calmly amusing yourself with a book!"

  "Tea? It isn't tea-time yet, is it?" stammers Lucy, her pale faceflushing painfully red, as she pushes her book out of Betty's sight.

  "You know I always like tea early on washing-day," cries Betty, stillmore sharply, "and I must say, I do think it most selfish andthoughtless of you to go away by yourself like this, when we are all upto our eyes in work!"

  "I didn't know; I thought the washing was finished," says poor Lucy, herlip beginning to quiver.

  "That's nothing to do with it; we're all tired and want our tea; but younever gave that a thought; all you seem to care for is to get away byyourself to read some silly story-book. Such shocking waste of time!Such unsociable behaviour! I only hope you are not reading novels. I amsure it looks as though you come up here sometimes because you areafraid to let father and mother know what you are doing!"

  Lucy's head droops lower still, but she makes no answer.

  "Well, now, _is_ it a novel?"

  "No-o."

  "Then let me see it at once."

  "Betty, I'd rather you didn't; that is, not just now; some other day,perhaps----"

  "Oh, it doesn't make any difference; whatever it is, you've no businessto waste your time in this way. Do, for goodness' sake, leave booksalone for a while, and attend to your work!"

  That night Betty goes to sleep with an uneasy sense that the day has notbeen altogether well spent, in spite of the success of her washingschemes.

  Awakening, some hours later, with this uncomfortable feeling strong uponher, she begins to ask herself what has been wrong? Conscience soontells her that she has been unkind to her sister.

  "I _did_ speak sharply, and I certainly felt very vexed; but, then, itwas aggravating, and there is really too much to do in our house forthat sort of thing.

  "Of course, I know that Lucy is not so old, or so strong, as I am; butshe should have remembered how much I like an early cup of tea onwashing-day, and----. What was that? Lucy, did you speak?"

  Betty breaks off her meditations hastily, and raises herself on herelbow. Is Lucy asleep on the pillow beside her--surely, she spoke justnow?

  She is speaking, or, rather, muttering, in her sleep. How strange! Canshe be ill?

  Then Betty remembers, with a faint thrill of alarm, that Lucy ateneither tea nor supper; and, when mother asked the reason, she said herhead ached.

  For a long while she lies awake, listening to her sister's uneasywhisperings. "Oh," she thinks, "why was I so unkind to her--suppose sheshould be really ill?"

  Lucy is really ill. After a troubled night of feverish dreaming, sheawakes to a consciousness of great pain and stiffness in all her limbs.A doctor is sent for; her parents' worst fears are realised, Lucy isstricken down with rheumatic fever.

  She is very quiet and patient, and tries hard not to complain. Hermother nurses her, relieved by Betty now and then.

  Love has taught Mrs. Langdale to be a good nurse; love makes her forgether own small illnesses and worries, and think only of her poor littledaughter's suffering.

  The remembrance of her unkind words gives Betty bitter pain. Lucy wasill when she scolded her. Oh, if she had known!

  After a while, as Lucy grows better, Betty begins to excuse herselfagain. "She _did_ read too much; I was right in that, and reading iswaste of time--only I wish I hadn't been so cross with her."

  Slowly the pain grows less, slowly the fever cools; but, alas! for poorLucy, the doctor says he fears that this illness will leave lasting badeffects behind it; that, though she will soon be fairly well, she willnever be quite as strong again as she has been.

  One afternoon, Betty is sitting with her sister, while Mrs. Langdalerests. Lucy has just finished her basin of bread and milk, and Bettythinks she is asleep, until she hears her sigh softly to herself, andthen make a restless movement on her pillow.

  Betty is at her side in an instant.

  "Do you want anything, Lucy?"

  "No, thank you, Betty," she says, in her weak, patient voice. But Bettysees that two large tears are rolling down her cheeks.

  "O Lucy, you mustn't fret, that's ever so bad for you, and, besides,you're getting well so
fast. Shall I read to you? You were veryinterested in some book just before you were taken ill--tell me where tofind it."

  "No, no, Betty, not that book; it's of--no--use--now." Lucy's lipsquiver so painfully, that she can hardly pronounce the words, and sheburies her face in her pillow.

  "Lucy, don't! Oh, please, don't! I was horrid to you that day, and I'vebeen sorry ever since. Do let me read, if it's only to make up alittle."

  Her arm around her sister's neck.]

  "But, Betty, it's of no use. I can never, never, never do it now. Iheard the doctor tell mother this morning that I should always have tobe careful, or I should be just as bad again, and--and--it's only reallystrong people who can do--what I wanted to do." Lucy's voice dies awayinto such a faint whisper that her sister can only just catch the lastwords.

  "Do what?" asks Betty, in great surprise. Then, suddenly, an ideastrikes her. "Ah! Lucy, were you studying for something all thetime--not just reading to amuse yourself--were you learning about somework you wished to do?"

  "Yes, Betty."

  "And all these months I have never thought of that. Oh, what was it?Come, tell me, Lucy, dear."

  "I--I wanted to go to the poor heathen women in India, some day, youknow. I had read how they suffered, and--and it seemed that God wastelling me to go. So I got all the books I could about India--to beready when the time came--and I read, and read, and even began to learntheir language."

  "Why, Lucy, how _could_ you do that?" exclaims Betty, in the greatestastonishment.

  "My music teacher's elder sister came home from India a little whileago, and she told me what books to get from the Library."

  "And you did all this, and I never guessed. How stupid--how blind I havebeen!"

  "No--no, Betty. I ought to have confided in you; but, somehow, Icouldn't speak of it. I felt it too much, and now it is all at an end,"and her sobs break out afresh.

  But Betty leans over the bed, and lovingly draws her arm around hersister's neck.

  "O Lucy, I feel that you forgive me for my unkindness, but I cannotforgive myself. When shall I get out of the habit of judging toohastily? I can see quite well now that you couldn't tell me your plans,because I was always so full of my own affairs."

  "Betty, Betty, that wasn't the reason. You work so hard for all ofus--how could I bother you with my hopes and fears?"

  "Ah, Lucy! I never met anyone with so much to do, or so many folks tocare for as my dear Captain. Yet no one thinks _her_ too busy to listento their troubles. I must learn to be more like her--to empty my heartof self--then, dear, you will never hesitate to tell me everything."