Betty's Battles Part 8

Now, at last, in the silence, she has time to think.

This morning--was it really only this morning that she was so foolishly vexed because her birthday was not remembered? Did she really feel the sweep's visit a big trouble only a few hours ago? How small, how utterly insignificant her troubles have been up to now! And yet she has made so much of them, has felt herself so hardly used!

For a long time she lies awake, turning it all over in her mind.

"Father, dear, patient old father is tossing in pain and fever, and his worry is much worse than mine, for he must lie still and think, and I can be up and at work. It is so much harder to bear things when you can do nothing to make them better. Lord, show me what to do; show me how to work for our home--for father's sake."

Somehow, soon after that prayer, Betty falls into a sound sleep, and does not awake until it is morning.

When at length she opens her eyes, it is time to get up. For a moment she lies still enough, not remembering what has happened; then, with a rush, it all comes back to her, and she starts out of bed.

Father, mother, children--what can she do for them all? Last night she had no answer to that question, but now a bright, a daring hope has flashed into her mind. Why shouldn't _she_ collect Mr. Duncan's rents, and keep his accounts whilst father is laid by? She wanted to go out to work for herself. Here is the chance of doing something much better, of working for father's sake, of lifting a great part of this heavy load from his heart!

But can she do it--can she? Her heart sinks again. "Oh, will Mr. Duncan give me a trial?" Suddenly she remembers Grannie. "How sorry Grannie will be for this--Oh, if I were like Grannie how much easier it would be! Let me think, if Grannie was in my place, what would she do first?"

The answer to that question is easy enough. "She would pray."

Betty kneels by the bedside. She prays for her father, and then she prays for herself; prays that she may have strength given her, and wisdom, and courage, to do her work bravely and well.

Mother is quite unfit for anything this morning. Lucy must give up her music-lesson to wait on her. The children are very fretful. Clara declares she is "too much upset to do her usual work, and it ought not to be expected of her."

Only Betty is patient and gentle, striving to get through the usual duties. Love is leading her at last--love for her father. Just now no thought of self dims her memory of his suffering face.

But for all that her heart beats very fast, when at last she knocks at Mr. Duncan's door, and her grand plan of carrying on a part of dear father's work suddenly appears quite hopeless.

"I'm afraid it will make Mr. Duncan quite angry to propose such a thing.

Had not I better just give him the money father collected, and say nothing about my idea after all?" Betty hesitates a moment, then--

"For father's sake--for father's sake," she murmurs to herself.

The door is opened by a neat maid. Yes, Mr. Duncan is at home, will she please to give her name? Another minute and she is shown into a room, where an elderly gentleman is writing at a table.

"The young person to see you, sir," announces the maid.

The elderly gentleman looks up with a frown, and fixes a pair of hard grey eyes on her face.

"Well, what's the meaning of this?" he says gruffly. "Where's your father?"

Betty pauses a moment.

"Where's your father? I want to see him particularly," repeats Mr.

Duncan, still more angrily.

Betty quakes inwardly; but her courage is of the kind that always rises at an emergency, and she explains what has happened in a clear business-like fas.h.i.+on.

"Hem! accident indeed--pretty fix his accident has left me in," grumbles Mr. Duncan, when she has finished. "Have you the money with you?"

Betty produces it. He counts it over. "Why, how's this? There's two pounds short!"

"Father was to collect that to-day, sir; there's a note in his book saying which of the tenants haven't paid yet."

"Hem! bad system. If they can't pay up to time, they ought to go. And what am I to do now, pray?"

"Please, if you'll let me, I'll go round to the tenants in father's place," cries Betty, eagerly.

"You? Why, what does a girl like you know about it?"

"I'm good at accounts; and father has told me how it is done, and shown me the books--I help him with them sometimes. If you would _only_ let me try, sir--until father gets better----"

"Oh, that's it, is it? _You_ want to take over my work!" and, rather to Betty's surprise, the hard old eyes give a little twinkle of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"No--no, my girl, you don't understand; there's a great deal besides just collecting the money. Repairs to attend to; bad tenants to get rid of; new tenants to bargain with----"

"But, sir," interrupts Betty, eagerly, "if you would only let me try to do the best I can until father comes out of the hospital--perhaps the repairs could wait--and I'd try _so_ hard; and--and we've nothing but a few pounds in the savings bank, and father said he thought you might do something----"

"Oh, he did--did he? Very kind of him, I'm sure!" snaps Mr. Duncan, the hard, suspicious look returning to his face.

Betty feels ready to burst into tears. "He thinks the very idea of employing me utterly absurd," she thinks, and turns to go.

But hardly have her fingers touched the handle, before Mr. Duncan calls her back.

"Don't be in such a hurry, young person. Your father is a great deal too soft with the tenants; but I believe he means well, and I'm sorry for his accident. Suppose you go round to the tenants who haven't paid this morning? It will be time enough to talk about your taking on the work when I see what you can do."

She is to have a trial after all! The expression on Betty's face changes so quickly, that Mr. Duncan's eyes twinkle again.

"Hem! you needn't look so pleased. I don't promise anything, mind--why, bless the girl, if she isn't off already! Well, if she takes after her father, I might do worse. Soft-hearted--a great deal too soft-hearted--but as honest as the day," and the old gentleman returns to his writing.

Betty hurries home for her father's little rent-collecting bag; and then makes her way through the network of narrow streets, in the midst of which the houses owned by Mr. Duncan stand.

Arriving at the long row, she looks round her in some dismay.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Rent?" cries the woman bitterly.]

How small the houses are--how dirty! How narrow and wretched-looking the street!

She consults her list, and knocks timidly at the door of the first number. No answer. She knocks again. A shuffling of feet follows, and presently a woman appears. She is haggard and old-looking, and the child in her arms is wailing pitifully. A second child clings to her skirt, and mother and children alike are wretchedly clad.

"Rent?" cries the woman bitterly, in answer to Betty's timid request.

"Pray, how do you suppose I'm to pay the rent, and my husband still on the drink? I told the agent it was no use calling, and if he wants to turn me out, he must!"

And without giving Betty time to answer, she drags the children in, and slams the door.

Betty has not the courage to knock again. What a glimpse of dull, hopeless misery the woman's face and voice have revealed to her! She pa.s.ses on to the next house.

The woman who answers this door is rather cleaner. "Called for the rent?

But you're not the agent," she says, looking at Betty very suspiciously.

Betty explains. "Hum! I don't like the look of it. How do I know it's all right? There, you needn't look so offended. If _you_ had had to work early and late, denying yourself your proper rest, and a bit of b.u.t.ter to your bread, to make up the rent, you'd be careful who you trusted it with, I can tell you."

Betty shows the poor woman her father's collecting book, and after a while the rent is put grudgingly into her hands. Betty cannot bear to take it from the poor thing.