Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield Fisher (recommended ebook reader TXT) 📕

in great leaps, constantly escaping from Betsy’s outstretched hand. They

came thus to the horse-barn, into the open door of which Eleanor whisked

like a little gray shadow, Betsy close behind. The cat flashed up the

steep, ladder-like stairs that led to the hayloft. Betsy scrambled

rapidly up, too. It was dark up there, compared to the gorgeous-colored

October day outside, and for a moment she could not see Eleanor. Then

she made her out, a dim little shape, picking her way over the hay, and

she heard her talking. Yes, it was real talk, quite, quite different

from the loud, imperious “MIAUW!” with which Eleanor asked for her milk.

This was the softest, prettiest kind of conversation, all little murmurs

and chirps and sing-songs. Why, Betsy could almost understand it! She

COULD understand it enough to know that it was love-talk, and then,

breaking into this, came a sudden series of shrill, little, needle-like

cries that fairly filled the hayloft. Eleanor gave a bound forward and

disappeared. Betsy, very much excited, scrambled and climbed up over the

hay as fast as she could go.

It was all silent now—the piercing, funny little squalls had stopped as

suddenly as they began. On the top in a little nest lay Eleanor, purring

so loudly you could hear her all over the big mow, and so proud and

happy she could hardly contain herself. Her eyes glistened, she arched

her back, rolled over and spread out her paws, disclosing to Betsy’s

astounded, delighted eyes—no, she wasn’t dreaming—two dear little

kittens, one all gray, just like its mother; one gray with a big bib on

his chest.

Oh! How dear they were! How darling, and cuddly, and fuzzy! Betsy put

her fingers very softly on the gray one’s head and thrilled to feel the

warmth of the little living creature. “Oh, Eleanor!” she asked eagerly.

“CAN I pick one up?” She lifted the gray one gently and held it up to

her cheek. The little thing nestled down in the warm hollow of her hand.

She could feel its tiny, tiny little claws pricking softly into her

palm. “Oh, you sweetness! You little, little baby-thing!” she said over

and over in a whisper.

Eleanor did not stop purring, and she looked up with friendly, trusting

eyes as her little mistress made the acquaintance of her children, but

Betsy could feel somehow that Eleanor was anxious about her kitten, was

afraid that, although the little girl meant everything that was kind,

her great, clumsy, awkward human hands weren’t clever enough to hold a

baby-cat the proper way. “I don’t blame you a bit, Eleanor,” said Betsy.

“I should feel just so in your place. There! I won’t touch it again!”

She laid the kitten down carefully by its mother. Eleanor at once began

to wash its face very vigorously, knocking it over and over with her

strong tongue. “My!” said Betsy, laughing. “You’d scratch my eyes out,

if I were as rough as that!”

Eleanor didn’t seem to hear. Or rather she seemed to hear something

else. For she stopped short, her head lifted, her ears pricked up,

listening very hard to some distant sound. Then Betsy heard it, too,

somebody coming into the barn below, little, quick, uneven footsteps. It

must be little Molly, tagging along, as she always did. What fun to show

Molly the kittens!

“Betsy!” called Molly from below.

“Molly!” called Betsy from above. “Come up here quick! I’ve got

something up here.”

There was a sound of scrambling, rapid feet on the rough stairs, and

Molly’s yellow curls appeared, shining in the dusk. “I’ve got a …” she

began, but Betsy did not let her finish.

“Come here, Molly, quick! QUICK!” she called, beckoning eagerly, as

though the kittens might evaporate into thin air if Molly didn’t get

there at once. Molly forgot what she was going to say, climbed madly up

the steep pile of hay, and in a moment was lying flat on her stomach

beside the little family in a spasm of delight that satisfied even Betsy

and Eleanor, both of them convinced that these were the finest kittens

the world had ever seen.

“See, there are two,” said Betsy. “You can have one for your very own.

And I’ll let you choose. Which one do you like best?”

She was hoping that Molly would not take the little all-gray one,

because she had fallen in love with that the minute she saw it.

“Oh, THIS one with the white on his breast,” said Molly, without a

moment’s hesitation. “It’s LOTS the prettiest! Oh, Betsy! For my very

own?”

Something white fell out of the folds of her skirt on the hay. “Oh,

yes,” she said indifferently. “A letter for you. Miss Ann told me to

bring it out here. She said she saw you streaking it for the barn.”

It was a letter from Aunt Frances. Betsy opened it, one eye on Molly to

see that she did not hug her new darling too tightly, and began to read

it in the ray of dusty sunlight slanting in through a crack in the side

of the barn. She could do this easily, because Aunt Frances always made

her handwriting very large and round and clear, so that a little girl

could read it without half trying.

And as she read, everything faded away from before her … the barn,

Molly, the kittens … she saw nothing but the words on the page.

When she had read the letter through she got up quickly, oh ever so

quickly! and went away down the stairs. Molly hardly noticed she had

gone, so absorbing and delightful were the kittens.

Betsy went out of the dusky barn into the rich, October splendor and saw

none of it. She went straight away from the house and the barn, straight

up into the hill-pasture toward her favorite place beside the brook, the

shady pool under the big maple-tree. At first she walked, but after a

while she ran, faster and faster, as though she could not get there soon

enough. Her head was down, and one arm was crooked over her face … .

And do you know, I’m not going to follow her up there, nor let you go.

I’m afraid we would all cry if we saw what Betsy did under the big

maple-tree. And the very reason she ran away so fast was so that she

could be all by herself for a very hard hour, and fight it out, alone.

So let us go back soberly to the orchard where the Putneys are, and wait

till Betsy comes walking listlessly in, her eyes red and her cheeks

pale. Cousin Ann was up in the top of a tree, a basket hung over her

shoulder half full of striped red Northern Spies; Uncle Henry was on a

ladder against another tree, filling a bag with the beautiful, shining,

yellow-green Pound Sweets, and Aunt Abigail was moving around, picking

up the parti-colored windfalls and putting them into barrels ready to go

to the cider-mill.

Something about the way Betsy walked, and as she drew closer something

about the expression of her face, and oh! as she began to speak,

something about the tone of her voice, stopped all this cheerful

activity as though a bomb had gone off in their midst.

“I’ve had a letter from Aunt Frances,” said Betsy, biting her lips, “and

she says she’s coming to take me away, back to them, tomorrow.”

There was a big silence; Cousin Ann stood, perfectly motionless up in

her tree, staring down through the leaves at Betsy. Uncle Henry was

turned around on his ladder, one hand on an apple as though it had

frozen there, staring down at Betsy. Aunt Abigail leaned with both fat

hands on her barrel, staring hard at Betsy. Betsy was staring down at

her shoes, biting her lips and winking her eyes. The yellow, hazy

October sun sank slowly down toward the rim of Hemlock Mountain, and

sent long, golden shafts of light through the branches of the trees upon

this group of people, all so silent, so motionless.

[Illustration: Betsy was staring down at her shoes, biting her lips and

winking her eyes.]

Betsy was the first to speak, and I’m very proud of her for what she

said. She said, loyally, “Dear Aunt Frances! She was always so sweet to

me! She always tried so hard to take care of me!”

For that was what Betsy had found up by the brook under the big red

maple-tree. She had found there a certainty that, whatever else she did,

she must NOT hurt Aunt Frances’s feelings—dear, gentle, sweet Aunt

Frances, whose feelings were so easily hurt and who had given her so

many years of such anxious care. Something up there had told her—

perhaps the quiet blue shadow of Windward Mountain creeping slowly over

the pasture toward her, perhaps the silent glory of the great red-and-gold tree, perhaps the singing murmur of the little brook—perhaps all

of them together had told her that now had come a time when she must do

more than what Cousin Ann would do—when she must do what she herself

knew was right. And that was to protect Aunt Frances from hurt.

When she spoke, out there in the orchard, she broke the spell of

silence. Cousin Ann climbed hastily down from her tree, with her basket

only partly filled. Uncle Henry got stiffly off his ladder, and Aunt

Abigail advanced through the grass. And they all said the same thing—

“Let me see that letter.”

They read it there, looking over each other’s shoulders, with grave

faces. Then, still silently, they all turned and went back into the

house, leaving their forgotten bags and barrels and baskets out under

the trees. When they found themselves in the kitchen—“Well, it’s

suppertime, anyhow,” said Cousin Ann hastily, as if ashamed of losing

her composure, “or almost time. We might as well get it now.”

“I’m a-going out to milk,” said Uncle Henry gruffly, although it was not

nearly his usual time. He took up the milk pails and marched out toward

the barn, stepping heavily, his head hanging.

Shep woke up with a snort and, getting off the couch, gamboled clumsily

up to Betsy, wagging his tail and jumping up on her, ready for a frolic.

That was almost too much for Betsy! To think that after tomorrow she

would never see Shep again—nor Eleanor! Nor the kittens! She choked as

she bent over Shep and put her arms around his neck for a great hug. But

she mustn’t cry, she mustn’t hurt Aunt Frances’s feelings, or show that

she wasn’t glad to go back to her. That wouldn’t be fair, after all Aunt

Frances had done for her!

That night she lay awake after she and Molly had gone to bed and Molly

was asleep. They had decided not to tell Molly until the last minute, so

she had dropped off peacefully, as usual. But poor Betsy’s eyes were

wide open. She saw a gleam of light under the door. It widened; the door

opened. Aunt Abigail stood there, in her night cap, mountainous in her

long white gown, a candle shining up into her serious old face.

“You awake, Betsy?” she whispered, seeing the child’s dark eyes gleaming

at her over the covers. “I just—I just thought I’d look in to see if

you were all right.” She came to the edge of the bed and set the candle

down on the little stand. Betsy reached her arms up longingly and the

old woman stooped over her. Neither of them said a