# "Chet" (Yates)/Chapter 4

THE next morning, right after breakfast, I went out to the sweet-apple tree and whistled until Bess came out. She came running down the board-walk, her braids flying and her arms waving wildly, and I knew right off that there was something in the wind. As soon as she was within shouting distance, she began,—
"Oh, Chet, Chet, what do you think? I'm going to take a trip with Father, and I'm going to Chicago, and Indianapolis, and everywhere! Oh, I'm so glad, I'm so glad!"
I wasn't!
Bess saw in a minute, how I felt, and a good deal of the shine went out of her face. She dropped down onto the grass and sat smoothing her dress over her knees and pursing her lips.
"It is kind of mean, isn't it," she said, a lot of change in her voice. "I'm just as selfish as I can be—not to think of anybody but ME! But, Chet," and she looked up at me, part of the light coming back into her eyes; "it's going to be awfully nice; for you know how much I've always wanted ​to go wandering, and Father is going to have me travel alone some of the time, so I can learn to have confidence; and I'm going to take my type-writer, and—"
"When you going?" I asked.
"To-morrow night."
I sat down and began whittling a cleat for the crow's-nest. I knew I ought to be glad for her: but I wasn't. I had been dreadfully lonesome while she was away,—and now to have her going traipsing right off again—well, I wasn't mad, but I was all-fired blue.
"What about school?" I said.
"Why, I'll miss some, of course," said Bess; "but Father thinks that the trip will be of a lot more use to me. He has it all planned out. We're going to Chicago first, and he's going to leave me there for a few days, or a week; and then he's going to take me to Indianapolis, and I'll be there for a week or more, and then I'll go by myself to Columbus, Ohio, and he'll meet me there; then I'll go alone to Washington, and he'll come there; and then to some other places, I forget some of them, and then back to Chicago, and then home."
​"What's his idea in tiring you all out with a long trip like that?"
"Well, I told you, he wants me to see the places, and to learn to take care of myself, and he wants to have me with him some, and—and—"
"And what?"
Bess hesitated, and picked a head of timothy to pieces. "Well, I'll tell you, Chet," she said, at last, and I saw the red come up into her face; "You know I learned to use the type-writer last winter, and when I went East, Father told me I could take it with me, if I would promise to write him long letters on it. He says it's a great thing to learn to think on a type-writer; because you can write so fast that you don't lose your best thoughts before you can get them down. And so I've been writing him long letters all Summer;—not so much about places and people and things, but about what places and people and things made me think,—and about what happened tome. And—" Bess picked harder at the timothy, "—and Father says they were very good letters indeed,"—I nodded. I knew what those type-written pages were like!—"and that—well, he said a good many things about them,—and ​he wants me to go around some, and have experiences, and write to him about them. He says it will be good practice and—and—" Bess stopped.
I laid down the cleat and looked at her. I someway felt as if I had suddenly caught a glimpse of something very wonderful,—something I'd known was there all the time, but had not really sensed; and I felt awed and startled. I suddenly knew that the type-written letters that Bess had sent to me, were not interesting only because they were from some one I knew and liked, but because they were clever and full of unusual things; and I knew that the things in them which had made me laugh, were the sort of things that would make others laugh, and the things that had made me swallow hard, would make lumps come in the throats of other people. I think I felt a little afraid of Bess for a moment.
By and by I took a long breath. "Is that what you want to do, Bess?" I asked, soberly.
Bess clasped her hands so tightly that there were little white spots where her fingers came. "Oh, if I only could, Chee!' she said, sort of choked.
​"And you never said one word about it, when I told you all my plans, about being a civil engineer, and everything?"
"O Chet, I didn't really have any plans. I didn't even hope the least bit,—it looked too big for me to ever even think about except in the dark, and I don't hardly dare to talk about it now. Father says my work is very crude yet, but that it has something in it that is 'different'; and so he says that he has hopes that if I keep everlastingly at it, I may some time be able to do something worth while."
"But why can't you do it here, just as well?"
"Oh, he says it's so easy to drop off anything like that, when one is always in the same surroundings; and he wants me to 'get the habit'; and the main thing, at first, is to have something that you just have to write about, to get it out of your system; and he thinks that if I'm travelling and having experiences, and among strangers, so that I won't have any one to talk it out to, that I'll put it on the type-writer to him in letters. But he said"—Bess laughed and rocked back and forth, "he said that if he caught me trying to 'write fine,' instead of in the natural way, as I've been ​doing, he'd telegraph me to go home. He was afraid that talking it over might make me self-conscious, and spoil everything."
I sat still and whittled on the cleat. There didn't seem to be anything to say. I'd planned so much for the Autumn—the things we'd do when Bess got home,—and now it was all up. Of course, I was glad for Bess,—I could see how much the trip was going to mean to her; but to think of all of those beautiful Autumn days that were coming, and no one to chum with,—that is, no one with whom I was in touch or who knew how I felt about things, or who would understand everything I said, without a lot of explanation; and when I'd been alone all Summer—well, things looked mighty black,—so black, in fact, that I didn't want to talk about them; so I started something else.
"Bess," I said, "are you a Christian Scientist?"
Bess hesitated. "I—I don't know," she said. "whether I ought to say that I am, or not."
"Do you mean that you aren't quite sure that you believe it?"
"No! Oh, no, not that at all! I do believe it; because I can understand the things it teaches ​and it's all reasonable and plain to me as far as I've gone and I can't help believing it, and I've proved ever so much, just as you prove examples in arithmetic. But, you see, I haven't been studying it long,—haven't had time to grow much, under its influence, and I don't make a very good sample of what it can do. There are lots of things that I haven't grown out of yet, and I wouldn't want any one to say:—'You needn't tell me that Christian Scientists are brave and kind and loving; for I know one and she's afraid to go on the water, and she has "moods," and there are some things she hasn't forgiven, and she's afraid to eat chicken—' You see, Chet, it wouldn't be fair to pick a Northern Spy in July and let it go on exhibition as a sample of what Northern Spies are. Of course, a person who knows about apples, might see that it was a perfectly good apple as far as it had gone; but a person who didn't know, might think that it was the best thing that the tree could turn out, and say that he didn't like the variety. I've got to think it over for a while and see what's the best thing to do to answer that question so that folks will know that I am a Christian Scientist at heart, ​and am working it to the surface just as fast as ever I can. I'd like to get to where people would know that I am—a Christian Scientist without ever asking a question,—just because I am living Christian Science!"
"Well, you certainly are honest," I said, "and I can see what you mean. A fellow wouldn't feel exactly like announcing himself an athlete, and naming his trainer, when he had taken only two days' training and had done a few laps in slow time with some tumbles;—but still he'd want folks to know that he had the makings of one, and was working along the lines of the best trainer to be had."
Bess nodded. "That's the idea," she said.
"Well," I said, "I don't believe you I'll have any trouble over it; for you're square with yourself, you always are, and that means that you'll be square and considerate about this; and if you're square with yourself, you will know all right what to say when folks ask you;—and you'll know when you are ready to just stand up and say:—'Yes, I am a Christian Scientist.'"
"Yes," said Bess, soberly, "I believe I will."
"And," I went on, "you've got sense enough ​not to nag other people who don't think just as you do."
"I hope I have!" said Bess emphatically. "If any one asks me what I think of it, I'll be mighty glad to tell them that I think it's the very best thing that any one knows anything about,—and where he can go to find out what it teaches,—but I'm not going around with a chip on my shoulder labelled 'Christian Science,' nor telling people, gratis, that I think they are making mistakes; but I'm going to mind my own business strictly; and if I mind it so well that I accomplish enough to make any one want to ask me what my recipe is,—well, that will be something."
"It sure will," I said.
Bess got up. "I have to go in now," she said, "and look after my packing."
I picked up the cleat again and began to whittle. That word "packing" made things get gloomy and my mouth taste bad. "Bess," I said, whittling hard, "what would you do if you felt the way I do about your going away?"
"Why, I'd work on it," said Bess.
"'Work on it?'" I repeated. "Do you mean ​you'd say things to yourself? What would you say?"
"Say! Why, it isn't anything you say, Chet, it's what you know,—what you understand,—what you study out and make yours."
"Well, I know I'll be perfectly miserable and cross all the time you're away. That's where I stand,—and I don't have to study it out, either."
"And you want me to stay at home?"
"No, of course I don't want you to stay at home;—but you see there isn't any way around a thing like this, Science or no Science. In order for you to be happy, I've got to be miserable;—so there isn't any use in 'working' as you call it, so far as I can see."
"You don't have to see," said Bess. "When you come to look at it squarely, the only thing that you really want is harmony—to feel that things are going right and not jolting you, and it looks to yowas if there wasn't any way of having it so;—but there always is a way, and we have to know—"
"But there isn't a way in this case," I persisted; "not even if you stayed at home; for if ​you did, you'd be miserable, and so of course I would be too, and—"
Just then Bess's Father called her, and she had to run away,—and I didn't even get up when she went.
I sat there and kept on whittling for quite a while, until I got the cleat done, and then I climbed up and nailed it in place; and all the time I could feel that my jaws were set and my chin hard and that there was a deep wrinkle between my eyes,—and I knew that I had the making of about the ugliest streak 1'd ever had in my life. And so I went to work. I can always work when I have that sort of a streak; for I feel dogged and glum, and I keep right at a thing until I get it done, and it has to be done right, too. I did a lot of little odd jobs about the yard, and then went in to dinner.
I went in cross and sat down to the table with my lips pressed tight and my brows close together.
When Dad came in, he was in a fine humor. He had had a good morning at the store;—Mrs. Vickery had bought the piano she'd been looking at for six months; and there were two weddings in sight, so there was a lot of silver and such stuff
​going out, and it made him feel good. By and by he looked over at me.
"What you looking that way for, Chet?" he asked.
I didn't answer, and Mother shook her head at him—she knows my moods,—but he didn't pay any attention.
"What's the matter," he said again.
I knew I'd got to answer some time, so I said,—"Bess is going away again."
"Where's she going?" asked Dad.
"Chicago," I said.
"Leaves you pretty much alone, doesn't it? Why don't you go along?"
I pressed my lips tighter. I didn't feel like being joked.
"Well," said Dad, "of course you don't have to; but I should think it would be a nice trip for you."
I gasped. "Aren't you fooling?" I asked.
"No," said Dad. "You've been home all—Summer, and helped in the store a good deal, and if Mr. Carter will take you along, I don't see ied you shouldn't go for a week or so."
Gee! I just sat still and stared.
​"Want to go?" asked Dad.
"You bet I do!" said I.
"All right, I'll speak to Mr. Carter as I go back to the store. He's home, isn't he?"
"Yes," I said, and then I suddenly thought of Bess and her "work," and at the same moment I felt a flash of suspicion.
"Dad," I said, "did you know Bess was going?"
"No," said Dad.
"Nor that Mr. Carter was?"
"No. Why?"
"And you hadn't thought about me going, until just now?"
"Why, of course not; but I don't believe he 'I'll object;—he likes you." Dad got up from the table. "Want to come along?"
"Sure!"
Mr. Carter was on the veranda when we came across the lawn. "I hear you're going to Chicago to-morrow night," said Dad.
"Yes," said Mr. Carter, "and I'm taking Bess along with me."
"Want another, for good measure?" said Dad, jerking his head toward me.
"Good work! Well, I should say I do!" Mr. ​Carter came down three steps and shook hands with himself and looked at me. "Bess will be next thing to alone there for nearly a week, and she and Chet can have the time of their lives. Of course she'll be at my sister's; but Mary's getting the years into her joints and doesn't go out much. There'll be plenty of room for Chet there, too, and the youngsters can do the town any way they want to."
"All right," said Dad, "and much obliged. Chet, you go and tell your mother. Tell her she needn't pack much for you; for you can get a new suit in Chicago,—you need one anyway. You can take my suit-case and—" but I was on our veranda by that time, up over the railing,—and, gee, I'd been in Chicago for six hours before my head stopped whirling!