Betty was a woman! Not by virtue of the simple white
dress that clung to her tall, slender figure, revealing
lines of exquisite grace and litheness; not by virtue
of the glossy masses of dark brown hair heaped high on
her head and held there in wonderful shining coils; not
by virtue of added softness of curve and daintiness of
outline; not because of all these, but because of the
dream and wonder and seeking in her eyes. She was a
woman, looking, all unconscious of her quest, for love.
The understanding of the change in her came home to me
with a shock that must have left me, I think, something
white about the lips. I was glad. She was what I had
wished her to become. But I wanted the child Betty
back; this womanly Betty seemed far away from me.
I stepped out into the path and she saw me, with a
brightening of her whole face. She did not rush forward
and fling herself into my arms as she would have done a
year ago; but she came towards me swiftly, holding out
her hand. I had thought her slightly pale when I had
first seen her; but now I concluded I had been
mistaken, for there was a wonderful sunrise of color in
her face. I took her hand - there were no kisses this
time.
"Welcome home, Betty," I said.
"Oh, Stephen, it is so good to be back," she breathed,
her eyes shining.
She did not say it was good to see me again, as I had
hoped she would do. Indeed, after the first minute of
greeting, she seemed a trifle cool and distant. We
walked for an hour in the pine wood and talked. Betty
was brilliant, witty, self-possessed, altogether
charming. I thought her perfect and yet my heart ached.
What a glorious young thing she was, in that splendid
youth of hers! What a prize for some lucky man -
confound the obtrusive thought! No doubt we should soon
be overrun at Glenby with lovers. I should stumble over
some forlorn youth at every step! Well, what of it?
Betty would marry, of course. It would be my duty to
see that she got a good husband, worthy of her as men
go. I thought I preferred the old duty of
superintending her studies. But there, it was all the
same thing - merely a post-graduate course in applied
knowledge. When she began to learn life's greatest
lesson of love, I, the tried and true old family friend
and mentor, must be on hand to see that the teacher was
what I would have him be, even as I had formerly
selected her instructor in French and botany. Then, and
not until then, would Betty's education be complete.
I rode home very soberly. When I reached The Maples I
did what I had not done for years . . . looked critically
at myself in the mirror. The realization
that I had grown older came home to me with a new and
unpleasant force. There were marked lines on my lean
face, and silver glints in the dark hair over my
temples. When Betty was ten she had thought me "an old
person." Now, at eighteen, she probably thought me a
veritable ancient of days. Pshaw, what did it matter?
And yet . . . I thought of her as I had seen her,
standing under the pines, and something cold and
painful laid its hand on my heart.
My premonitions as to lovers proved correct. Glenby was
soon infested with them. Heaven knows where they all
came from. I had not supposed there was a quarter as
many young men in the whole county; but there they
were. Sara was in the seventh heaven of delight. Was
not Betty at last a belle? As for the proposals . . .
well, Betty never counted her scalps in public; but
every once in a while a visiting youth dropped out and
was seen no more at Glenby. One could guess what that
meant.
Betty apparently enjoyed all this. I grieve to say that
she was a bit of a coquette. I tried to cure her of
this serious defect, but for once I found that I had
undertaken something I could not accomplish. In vain I
lectured, Betty only laughed; in vain I gravely
rebuked, Betty only flirted more vivaciously than
before. Men might come and men might go, but Betty went
on forever. I endured this sort of thing for a year and
then I decided that it was time to interfere seriously.
I must find a husband for Betty . . . my fatherly duty
would not be fulfilled until I had . . . nor, indeed,
my duty to society. She was not a safe person to have
running at large.
None of the men who haunted Glenby was good enough for
her. I decided that my nephew, Frank, would do very
well. He was a capital young fellow, handsome, clean-
souled, and whole-hearted. From a worldly point of view
he was what Sara would have termed an excellent match;
he had money, social standing and a rising reputation
as a clever young lawyer. Yes, he should have Betty,
confound him!
They had never met. I set the wheels going at once. The
sooner all the fuss was over the better. I hated fuss
and there was bound to be a good deal of it. But I went
about the business like an accomplished matchmaker. I
invited Frank to visit The Maples and, before he came,
I talked much . . . but not too much . . . of him to
Betty, mingling judicious praise and still more
judicious blame together. Women never like a paragon.
Betty heard me with more gravity than she usually
accorded to my dissertations on young men. She even
condescended to ask several questions about him. This I
thought a good sign.
To Frank I had said not a word about Betty; when he
came to The Maples I took him over to Glenby and,
coming upon Betty wandering about among the beeches in
the sunset, I introduced him without any warning.
He would have been more than mortal if he had not
fallen in love with her upon the spot. It was not in
the heart of man to resist her . . . that dainty,
alluring bit of womanhood. She was all in white, with
flowers in her hair, and, for a moment, I could have
murdered Frank or any other man who dared to commit the
sacrilege of loving her.
Then I pulled myself together and left them alone. I
might have gone in and talked to Sara . . . two old
folks gently reviewing their youth while the young
folks courted outside . . . but I did not. I prowled
about the pine wood, and tried to forget how blithe and
handsome that curly-headed boy, Frank, was, and what a
flash had sprung into his eyes when he had seen Betty.
Well, what of it? Was not that what I had brought him
there for? And was I not pleased at the success of my
scheme? Certainly I was! Delighted!
Next day Frank went to Glenby without even making the
poor pretense of asking me to accompany him. I spent
the time of his absence overseeing the construction of
&nbs
p; a new greenhouse I was having built. I was
conscientious in my supervision; but I felt no interest
in it. The place was intended for roses, and roses made
me think of the pale yellow ones Betty had worn at her
breast one evening the week before, when, all lovers
being unaccountably absent, we had wandered together
under the pines and talked as in the old days before
her young womanhood and my gray hairs had risen up to
divide us. She had dropped a rose on the brown floor,
and I had sneaked back, after I had left her the house,
to get it, before I went home. I had it now in my
pocket-book. Confound it, mightn't a future uncle
cherish a family affection for his prospective niece?
Frank's wooing seemed to prosper. The other young
sparks, who had haunted Glenby, faded away after his
advent. Betty treated him with most encouraging
sweetness; Sara smiled on him; I stood in the
background, like a benevolent god of the machine, and
flattered myself that I pulled the strings.
At the end of a month something went wrong. Frank came
home from Glenby one day in the dumps, and moped for
two whole days. I rode down myself on the third. I had
not gone much to Glenby that month; but, if there were
trouble Bettyward, it was my duty to make smooth the
rough places.
As usual, I found Betty in the pineland. I thought she
looked rather pale and dull . . . fretting about Frank
no doubt. She brightened up when she saw me, evidently
expecting that I had come to straighten matters out;
but she pretended to be haughty and indifferent.
"I am glad you haven't forgotten us altogether,
Stephen," she said coolly. "You haven't been down for a
week."
"I'm flattered that you noticed it," I said, sitting
down on a fallen tree and looking up at her as she
stood, tall and lithe, against an old pine, with her
eyes averted. "I shouldn't have supposed you'd want an
old fogy like myself poking about and spoiling the
idyllic moments of love's young dream."
"Why do you always speak of yourself as old?" said
Betty, crossly, ignoring my reference to Frank.
"Because I am old, my dear. Witness these gray hairs."
I pushed up my hat to show them the more recklessly.
Betty barely glanced at them.
"You have just enough to give you a distinguished
look," she said, "and you are only forty. A man is in
his prime at forty. He never has any sense until he is
forty - and sometimes he doesn't seem to have any even
then," she concluded impertinently.
My heart beat. Did Betty suspect? Was that last
sentence meant to inform me that she was aware of my
secret folly, and laughed at it?
"I came over to see what has gone wrong between you and
Frank," I said gravely.
Betty bit her lips.
"Nothing," she said.
"Betty," I said reproachfully, "I brought you up . . .
or endeavored to bring you up . . . to speak the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Don't tell
me I have failed. I'll give you another chance. Have
you quarreled with Frank?"
"No," said the maddening Betty, "he quarreled with me.
He went away in a temper and I do not care if he never
comes back!"
I shook my head.
"This won't do, Betty. As your old family friend I
still claim the right to scold you until you have a
husband to do the scolding. You mustn't torment Frank.
He is too fine a fellow. You must marry him, Betty."
"Must I?" said Betty, a dusky red flaming out on her
cheek. She turned her eyes on me in a most
disconcerting fashion. "Do you wish me to marry Frank,
Stephen?"
Betty had a wretched habit of emphasizing pronouns in a
fashion calculated to rattle anybody.
"Yes, I do wish it, because I think it will be best for
you," I replied, without looking at her. "You must
marry some time, Betty, and Frank is the only man I
know to whom I could trust you. As your guardian, I
have an interest in seeing you well and wisely settled
for life. You have always taken my advice and obeyed my
wishes; and you've always found my way the best, in the
long run, haven't you, Betty? You won't prove
rebellious now, I'm sure. You know quite well that I am
advising you for your own good. Frank is a splendid
young fellow, who loves you with all his heart. Marry
him, Betty. Mind, I don't command. I have no right to
do that, and you are too old to be ordered about, if I
had. But I wish and advise it. Isn't that enough,
Betty?"
I had been looking away from her all the time I was
talking, gazing determinedly down a sunlit vista of
pines. Every word I said seemed to tear my heart, and
come from my lips stained with life-blood. Yes, Betty
should marry Frank! But, good God, what would become of
me!
Betty left her station under the pine tree, and walked
around me until she got right in front of my face. I
couldn't help looking at her, for if I moved my eyes
she moved too. There was nothing meek or submissive
about her; her head was held high, her eyes were
blazing, and her cheeks were crimson. But her words
were meek enough.
"I will marry Frank if you wish it, Stephen," she said.
"You are my friend. I have never crossed your wishes,
and, as you say, I have never regretted being guided by
them. I will do exactly as you wish in this case also,
I promise you that. But, in so solemn a question, I
must be very certain what you do wish. There must be no
doubt in my mind or heart. Look me squarely in the
eyes, Stephen - as you haven't done once to-day, no,
nor once since I came home from school - and, so
looking, tell me that you wish me to marry Frank
Douglas and I will do it! Do you, Stephen?"
I had to look her in the eyes, since nothing else would
do her; and, as I did so, all the might of manhood in
me rose up in hot revolt against the lie I would have
told her. That unfaltering, impelling gaze of hers drew
the truth from my lips in spite of myself.
"No, I don't wish you to marry Frank Douglas, a
thousand times no!" I said passionately. "I don't wish
you to marry any man on earth but myself. I love you -
I love you, Betty. You are dearer to me than life -
dearer to me than my own happiness. It was your
happiness I thought of - and so I asked you to marry
Frank because I believed he would make you a happy
woman. That is all!"
Betty's defiance went from her like a flame blown out.
She turned away and drooped her proud head.
"It could not have made me a happy woman to marry one
man, loving another," she said, in a whisper.
I got up and went over to her.
"Betty,
whom do you love?" I asked, also in a whisper.
"You," she murmured meekly - oh, so meekly, my proud
little girl!
"Betty," I said brokenly, "I'm old - too old for you -
I'm more than twenty years your senior - I'm - "
"Oh!" Betty wheeled around on me and stamped her foot.
"Don't mention your age to me again. I don't care if
you're as old as Methuselah. But I'm not going to coax
you to marry me, sir! If you won't, I'll never marry
anybody - I'll live and die an old maid. You can please
yourself, of course!"
She turned away, half-laughing, half-crying; but I
caught her in my arms and crushed her sweet lips
against mine.
"Betty, I'm the happiest man in the world - and I was
the most miserable when I came here."
"You deserved to be," said Betty cruelly. "I'm glad you
were. Any man as stupid as you deserves to be unhappy.
What do you think I felt like, loving you with all my
heart, and seeing you simply throwing me at another
man's head. Why, I've always loved you, Stephen; but I
didn't know it until I went to that detestable school.
Then I found out - and I thought that was why you had
sent me. But, when I came home, you almost broke my
heart. That was why I flirted so with all those poor,
nice boys - I wanted to hurt you but I never thought I
succeeded. You just went on being fatherly. Then, when
you brought Frank here, I almost gave up hope; and I
tried to make up my mind to marry him; I should have
done it if you had insisted. But I had to have one more
try for happiness first. I had just one little hope to
inspire me with sufficient boldness. I saw you, that
night, when you came back here and picked up my rose! I
had come back, myself, to be alone and unhappy."
"It is the most wonderful thing that ever happened -
that you should love me," I said.
"It's not - I couldn't help it," said Betty, nestling
her brown head on my shoulder. "You taught me
everything else, Stephen, so nobody but you could teach
me how to love. You've made a thorough thing of
educating me."
"When will you marry me, Betty?" I asked.
"As soon as I can fully forgive you for trying to make
me marry somebody else," said Betty.
It was rather hard lines on Frank, when you come to
think of it. But, such is the selfishness of human
nature that we didn't think much about Frank. The young
fellow behaved like the Douglas he was. Went a little
white about the lips when I told him, wished me all
happiness, and went quietly away, "gentleman unafraid."
He has since married and is, I understand, very happy.
Not as happy as I am, of course; that is impossible,
because there is only one Betty in the world, and she
is my wife.
Chapter XII
In Her Selfless Mood
THE raw wind of an early May evening was puffing in and
out the curtains of the room where Naomi Holland lay
dying. The air was moist and chill, but the sick woman
would not have the window closed.
"I can't get my breath if you shut everything up so
tight," she said. "Whatever comes, I ain't going to be
smothered to death, Car'line Holland."
Outside of the window grew a cherry tree, powdered with
moist buds with the promise of blossoms she would not
live to see. Between its boughs she saw a crystal cup
of sky over hills that were growing dim and purple. The
outside air was full of sweet, wholesome springtime
sounds that drifted in fitfully. There were voices and
whistles in the barnyard, and now and then faint
laughter. A bird alighted for a moment on a cherry bough,
and twittered restlessly. Naomi knew that white mists
were hovering in the silent hollows, that the
maple at the gate wore a misty blossom red, and that
violet stars were shining bluely on the brooklands.
The room was a small, plain one. The floor was bare,
save for a couple of braided rugs, the plaster
discolored, the walls dingy and glaring. There had
never been much beauty in Naomi Holland's environment,
and, now that she was dying, there was even less.
At the open window a boy of about ten years was leaning
out over the sill and whistling. He was tall for his