She was hourly oppressed with a sense of her own uselessness, a feeling her aunt's aggrieved4 manner tended to foster. Her heart smote5 her as she saw everyone at work but herself. She tried to help her father with his township affairs, but he met all her offers of assistance with his indulgent smile, and the remark that little girls could not understand business, and she must not bother her head.
Neither could she find any regular occupation about the house. Sarah Emily, who had conceived a great respect for Elizabeth since she had been living in the town, refused to let her soil her hands in the kitchen. It was too much of a come-downer, she declared, for a lady educated away up high the way Lizzie was to be sloppin' round with an apron6 on. Why didn't she sit still and read books, the way Jean did?
And Sarah Emily's will was not to be disputed. She was even more than usually independent these days, for without doubt a real suitor for her hand had appeared at The Dale kitchen. He was none of those "finest young gents as ever was seen," that existed only in Sarah Emily's imagination; but a real, solid, flesh-and-blood young farmer, none less than Wully Johnstone's Peter, now the eldest7 son at home, and to whom the farm was to eventually fall. Since Peter had openly avowed8 his intentions, Sarah Emily had been thrown into alternate fits of ecstasy9 over her good fortune,—which she strove to hide under a mask of haughty10 indifference—and spasms11 of dismay over the wreck12 she was making of poor Tom Teeter's life. That Tom was in a frightful14 way, she could not but see; for, as she confided15 to Elizabeth, it fairly made her nerves all scrunch17 up to hear him sing that awful doleful song about wishin' she would marry him.
Elizabeth suggested to her aunt, that as Sarah Emily was likely soon to give notice finally and forever, that she should be the one to take up the burden of the housekeeping. But Miss Gordon seemed unwilling18 that Elizabeth should find any settled place in the household. Mary was quite sufficient help, she said, and when Sarah Emily left of course another maid must succeed her. There really was nothing for Elizabeth to do, she added, with a grieved sigh.
She was equally averse19 to any proposition on the part of the girl to go away and earn her own living. Now that there was no hope of her ever becoming a school-teacher, Miss Gordon said, with a heavier sigh than usual, there was really no other avenue open for a young lady that was quite genteel.
And then Elizabeth would sigh too, very deeply, and wish with all her soul that she had had just sufficient mathematics in her head to meet the requirements of the cast-iron system of the Education Department, which unfortunately required all heads to be exactly alike.
Meanwhile, her nature being too buoyant to allow her to fret20, she managed to put in the days in a way that made even her aunt confess that the old house was much brighter for her presence. Mary was her constant companion, glad of any contingency21 that kept Lizzie near her. But beyond the home-circle she found little congenial friendship.
She visited Mother MacAllister once a week, of course, and was some real help to her, as she was to poor Susie Martin. But she had outgrown22 her schoolmates, or grown away from them, even had her aunt approved of her associating with them. The Price girls had spent all their father's substance in riotous23 dressing24, and were now in domestic service in Cheemaun. Rosie was living away up north on the McQueen farm, a new, practical, careful money-making little Rosie. And Martha Ellen Robertson even was gone. Martha Ellen was married and now lived on an Alberta ranch25 and had many gold watches and all the dresses she could desire. The only familiar sight in Forest Glen for Elizabeth was Noah Clegg. He was still superintendent26 of the Sunday school, still wore the same squeaky Sabbath boots, and though he had never quite regained27 his old-time cheerfulness since the day his assistant left, he still smilingly urged his flock to "sing up an' be 'appy."
Elizabeth often wondered what had become of old Sandy and Eppie. She had not quite outgrown her childish desire to right poor Eppie's wrongs, and often, even yet, she told herself that some day she would intercede28 with Mrs. Jarvis, and Eppie would be brought back to Forest Glen.
But in spite of her buoyant nature Elizabeth was not happy. Great new aspirations29 were springing up in her heart. She had submitted to a well-known magazine her little verses, born of that night of moonrise and sunset, when the boys said good-by. They had not been accepted, but the reviewer, a lady of some insight, had written the young poetess a long and encouraging letter. Miss Gordon must read and study nature, she advised, and she would do something some day. So Elizabeth tried to obey. Studying nature was like breathing and came very easily, and reading was always a joy; but she grew restless in spite of it all, not knowing what was the matter with her.
"I wish I could go away and do something, John Coulson," she said to her brother-in-law on an afternoon which he and Annie and the baby were spending at The Dale. "I'm no use here. I have horrible suspicions that I'm a cumberer of the ground."
"You're surely not going to develop into a new woman, Betsey," said John Coulson with alarm. "One never knows which way the wild streak30 is going to shoot off next."
Elizabeth was kneeling by the old dining-room sofa, upon which the Vision rolled from side to side, waving his bare pink toes in the air. She had just been busy saying over for the fifth time, "Dis 'itty pig went to market," and had evoked31 such gurgles and coos and giggles32 from the owner of the "'itty pigs," that it was hard to give her attention elsewhere.
"Maybe I am," she said at last, looking up at him with serious gray eyes. "I don't know. But I do know I don't want to sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam forever and ever like the lady in Baby's book. The rest are working hard. I wonder if I couldn't earn my living somehow."
John Coulson looked at her gravely. He generally treated his young sister-in-law as a joke, but evidently she wanted to be taken seriously.
"What do you think you would like to be?" he asked gently.
Elizabeth chucked the Vision under the chin, rolled him from side to side, and kissed each separate dimple in his plump hand before answering.
"Oh, I don't care. I'd just as soon be one thing as another."
"Well, well," John Coulson's eyes twinkled again. "Have you no ambition at all, Betsey Bobbett?"
Elizabeth looked across at him, her eyes half-veiled by her long lashes35, in that way she had when she wished to hide her thoughts. The forced reticence36 of her childhood had grown to be a fixed37 habit, and for all her love for her brother-in-law, which had grown steadily38 with the years, she could not confide16 in him. For Elizabeth had ambitions, though her aunt would have found it hard to believe in them. They were quite as radiant as her old dreams of Joan of Arc, though different. They were such conflicting aspirations, too, that she was puzzled by them herself. She was filled with vague golden dreams of one day overturning the world and righting all wrongs, and making all Eppies rich and Susies happy, and giving all Mother MacAllisters their rewards. And side by side with these glorious visions lived the desire, very real and very deep, to be like Estella Raymond and have a half-dozen boys expiring for love of her. Elizabeth would have died rather than confess this wish—even to herself. Nevertheless, it was there, and back of it lay another, still hazy39, but also very real, the ambition to be an Annie and have a John Coulson and a brick house with white pillars and a Vision lying on a sofa waving ten pink rosebud41 toes in one's face. But these were things one would not breathe, so Elizabeth answered lightly.
"I guess I haven't—much. I think I'd like to teach school—maybe. At least I'd like it just as well as anything else, but you see I can't, now."
"My, but you're enthusiastic. But isn't there something you'd like better than anything else?"
Elizabeth's long lashes drooped42 again. That was forbidden ground. She shook her head, and poked43 the Vision's ribs44 until he screamed with laughter.
"Some of the girls in your class have gone to Toronto to learn nursing. Would you care about that?"
"I suppose that would do to earn my own living; only John makes me sick when he talks about operations. Look, Sweetie; pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man."
"I suppose you wouldn't like to hammer a typewriter in my office? I need a girl, but perhaps Aunt Margaret wouldn't think it was genteel."
"That would do, if I wouldn't bother you too much; and I'd just love to be with you, John Coulson, only—oh, oh, look at the darling pet swallowin' him's own pinky toes. Oh, John Coulson, just look!"
John Coulson laughed indulgently.
"Oh, Betsey!" he said in despair, while his eyes were very kind, "you're no use in the world. We'll just have to get you married."
Nevertheless, he thought much about the girl after his return home and talked over her case with his wife. "Send her a note and tell her to come here for a week," was his final decision. "We must do something for the poor kid."
So Annie very willingly wrote her sister, and on the day her letter arrived at The Dale Elizabeth received another. This one was from Estella. It was an ecstatic letter, as everything emanating45 from Estella generally was. It chronicled page after page of her trials with her beaux. An embarrassment47 of riches was what troubled Estella. She did wish Beth would come to Cheemaun and take some of them off her hands. But of course Beth didn't care about boys, she had forgotten. Madeline Oliver was just as bad, boys never looked near her. And speaking of Madeline, what did Beth think? Since they'd left school she had been putting on frightful airs, and was just perfectly48, dreadfully horrid50 to all the girls except the Annsleys and the Delafields and a few others of those nobs on Sunset Hill. Madeline seemed to forget she'd ever known half her old chums. And Mrs. Oliver gave Bridge parties in the afternoon now, and didn't ask half the people she used to ask. And it was all on account of Mrs. Jarvis. She had just come back from the Old Country, and the Olivers were making a terrible fuss about her. They said she intended to spend the winter in California, and Madeline was working to get taken with her. And the Olivers had given a great big reception last week for Madeline's coming out, and such airs Beth never saw, and Mrs. Jarvis was there dressed like a queen. And she, Estella, had asked Madeline if she wasn't going to ask Beth Gordon to her party, seeing she'd been called for Mrs. Jarvis, and Madeline just tossed her head and said, "Oh, Aunt Jarvis never thinks about her now." And Horace was there; it was down in the ice-cream parlor51 where Frank Harper had taken her—really, he was getting perfectly awful he called so often—and Horace spoke52 up and said he bet his Aunt Jarvis would just like jolly well to see Beth, and he'd a good mind to drive out and fetch her in; and Madeline looked crosser than ever. And so now, here was Estella's plan. She was just going to show Madeline Oliver, see if she wasn't! She was going to "come out," and mamma was going to give a reception—one far bigger and grander than the Olivers' had been, too. And they were going to ask Mrs. Jarvis, of course, and Mrs. Oliver daren't refuse because papa had a hold on Mr. O. in business, and the whole family would just have to come. And darling Beth was to come, too—with Mrs. Coulson, and wear her white dress and the blue bows in her hair, and Mrs. Jarvis would see her, and be certain sure to love her. She couldn't help it. And between them they'd spite that nasty Madeline, see if they wouldn't. Horace himself had said he knew his aunt would like to see Beth. He told her that, going home one evening from choir53 practice. Horace had done that twice, and Frank Harper and Will Drummond were both just wild about it. But of course there was nothing at all between her and Horace, and if Beth minded the tiniest bit she'd never speak to him again as long as she lived, etc., etc.
The letter went on in this strain for many more pages. Elizabeth laughed and handed it to her aunt, anticipating some fun when Miss Gordon gave her opinion of it. But to Elizabeth's intense surprise the lady made no comment upon the writer's manners and heartily54 approved of her niece accepting the invitation. Elizabeth had fully49 expected Estella to be pronounced entirely55 ungenteel, and no sort of person to associate with a Gordon. But Elizabeth did not yet understand her aunt, any more than her aunt understood her.
So very joyfully56 an acceptance of both invitations was written, and Miss Gordon helped Elizabeth prepare for her visit to Annie's with hope once more rising in her heart. Surely, surely, upon this occasion, this one unsuccessful member of her family would grasp opportunity before he passed her for the last time.
They were debating as to how Elizabeth was to reach town, for both the gray horse and the old phaeton were now tottering57 on the verge58 of dissolution, when Auntie Jinit McKerracher came across the brown shaven fields, to make a call and an offer. Auntie Jinit had heard of Elizabeth's proposed visit to Cheemaun, for the lady knew minutely the downsitting and the uprising of everyone in the valley. She, too, was bent59 on a journey thither60, on the morrow,—on important business, she said mysteriously,—and she invited Elizabeth to accompany her.
The offer was gladly accepted, though Miss Gordon would have preferred that her niece make a more dignified61 entry into the town than could be accomplished62 in Wully Johnstone's old buck-board with the bunch of hay sticking out behind, and Auntie Jinit leaning far forward slapping the old gray mare63 with the lines. But little cared Elizabeth. She was going on a tour into the unknown—she was to enter Cheemaun society, and it mattered little to her how she got there, she was sure to have a good time.
The day they set out was a glorious October morning, warm and bright, with a hint of that soft blue-gray mist on the horizon which in the afternoon would clothe the landscape in an amethyst64 haze65. Auntie Jinit's old gray horse ambled66
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CHAPTER XI THE DREAM OF LIFE
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CHAPTER XIII GETTING INTO SOCIETY AND OUT
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