Crestlands: A Centennial Story of Cane Ridge

  CHAPTER XIX.

  THE BETROTHAL

  "For I'll believe I have his heart, As much as he has mine."

  Betsy came home the last week in October. Even her mother, the leastobservant of women, noticed her daughter's unusual silence andrestlessness for the first few days after her return, and, attributingit to loneliness, wished Betty had brought Mary Winston home with herfor a visit.

  "Rantin' 'roun' 'mong fine folks doan seem to 'gree wid you, honey,"old Aunt Dilsey said one morning when she found Betsy in the parlor,her hands folded listlessly on the unheeded sewing in her lap, as shegazed dreamily before her. "You'se all onsettled sence you'se comehome. Things would go tah rack an' ruin heah, wid yo' ma allus ailin',an' you so no-'count, ef 'twan't fur ole Dilsey tah keep dese lazyniggahs frum gwinetah sleep en thah tracks. I usetah think you'd be ahe'p an' a comfo't to yo' old brack mammy, an' turn out ez fine aman'ger an' housekeepah ez Miss Abby; but you hain't been yo'se'f sencethet camp-meetin'. I 'lowed et fust 'twuz too much 'ligion wuckin' inyou, an' thought it would bring you all right to go to Miss MaryWinston's fine place; but you'se come back wussen evah. You hain'tgwinetah be sick, is you, chile? One minit you looks lak thah warn't adrap o' blood in yo' body, then suddent lak, you flash up an' look sonarvous an' so excited thet I fears you'se tekin' the fevahs."

  "No, mammy, I'm not the least sick. Nothing ails me, except that I feelthe change a little from the gay times I've been having at Maybrook.I'll be all right presently."

  Soon after dinner upon the first day of November, Betsy, evading AuntDilsey's watchful eyes, called Jock, the old house-dog who was dozingin the south porch, and set off for a ramble. The balmy air and thebrisk walk refreshed her, and by the time she reached the barsseparating the upper from the lower woods, she felt lighter heartedthan she had for a long time. Her eyes glowed with exercise, a brighttinge showed in her cheeks, and her red cloak and brown quilted bonnetlined with crimson made a warm bit of color in the landscape, andblended harmoniously with the rich shades of the trees. Nature wassteeped in that tender, dreamy haze peculiar to Indian Summer, and theair held a pleasing odor like that of burning leaves. The songbirds hadgone away to winter homes in the South, and the stillness of the forestwas broken only by the dropping of nuts from the hickory-trees.

  "The first day of November!" she thought, as she stood leaning on thebars, with old Jock lying at her feet. "I wonder how soon he willcome," and she smiled tenderly. "Not to-day or to-morrow, I know; forhe has gone to Lexington again, so Susan said, and will not be backuntil the last of the week. It has been four months since I saw him.Perhaps I should not have kept him so long in suspense, but a girlshould not be too easily won, and he must never know how nearly I cameto complete surrender when he rode by my side that May day. How hard itwas to resist the pleading tenderness of his eyes! Oh, Abner, Abner!how I love you!" she murmured, leaning her head upon the bars.

  Approaching footsteps made no noise on the carpeting of leaves and mossin the pathway over which she had come; and Betty, absorbed in her loveand yearning, did not look up, even when Jock gave a joyous bark ofwelcome to the young man standing behind her.

  "_I have come for my answer, Betty._"]

  "I have come for my answer, Betty," he said, laying his hand over hersclasped on the topmost bar.

  Her eyes lit up with gladness as she raised her face, suffused withcrimson, toward him; but she uttered no word of welcome.

  "You surely expected me," he said; "you did not think I'd wait one hourbeyond the time, did you? Ah, sweetheart, did you but know what atorment of suspense and longing these last six months have been,you'd---- But now it's November, your favorite month, you said, becauseThanksgiving comes in it. So now, my darling, say the word that alonecan give me a thankful heart. You'll listen to me now, won't you,dear?" he asked of her as she still stood in trembling silence.

  "I suppose I must, sir," she said, dimpling and blushing, with a saucytoss of her head. "I can't very well stop my ears, seeing that you haveimprisoned both hands. Oh, don't! don't! I haven't pledged myself yet,"she stammered, as he, raising her hands, drew them around his neck,folded her in his arms, and kissed her brow. Then, still holding herclosely in one arm, with the other he turned her face to meet his,murmuring, "Not just your forehead, sweetness--O sweetheart! darling!wife!" as his lips closed over hers in a clinging kiss. "It is thus Itake my pledge. You are mine, mine, you bewildering, tormenting Betty."

  "No! no!" she protested stammeringly, as she struggled to free herself."Oh, you're too--too--you hold me so close! You lose count of time andseason, sir," she added presently with an attempt at playfulness, andtrying to assume an ease and nonchalance she was far from feeling."This is November, remember--solemn, quiet Thanksgiving time. Thesummer of fulfillment hasn't come yet."

  "Yes, it has," boldly asserted her lover. "Winter is past, and summeris here--glorious, satisfying harvest time--and--and--it is thus Igarner in my wealth," he murmured with tender rapture, gathering herstill closer, and kissing the sweet eyes and throat and mouth. "No morehalf-way measures between us now! No more tormenting reserve! You trustme, sweetheart? You give yourself to me, do you not?"

  "I don't seem to have much liberty of choice," she replied with aresumption of her old sauciness, as she again freed herself from hisembrace. "As you have already stolen my heart, I may as well trust youwith the rest--and I do, I do," she added solemnly. "My welfare, myhappiness, my life itself, I commit to your keeping," placing bothhands in his. "I give all unreservedly. You are worthy the trust."

  "No," she said presently, in answer to the inevitable question as towhen she had first begun to love him; "I shan't tell you that. You'retoo conceited and masterful as it is."

  "But you have promised to tell me everything," he said teasingly.

  "No, some things are better left unsaid, and if I were to tell youthat, I'd never be able to get the upper hand with you again."

  "But you know you always did obey me," he answered, smilingreminiscently, "though it was often with a sweet rebellious look inyour eyes; and besides, a wife is bound to obey her husband."

  "I don't know about that, sir. If that is the rule, I mean to be theexception that proves it; for I fully intend that you shall be thesubmissive one in our future relationship."

  "In that case, fair lady mine, the sooner you marry me, the better; foreven with so competent a ruler as yourself, it will take long and closeapplication on my part to learn the role of submissive husband. Yousee, my position of schoolmaster has weakened my natural talent formeekness and submission, so that at present these qualities are farfrom being in perfect condition."

  "You needn't tell me that," rejoined Betsy, with a demure smile andnodding her head sagely. "Cupid hasn't so blindfolded me but that I canstill see a wee bit out of the corner of my eye--well enough, at least,to perceive that my lover has several imperfections in addition to alack of meekness."

  "That, my dear, isn't the fault of Cupid's bandages, but it is due toyour always having held me at a distance," he answered placidly,drawing her nearer to him. "Seen at close range, these littlepeculiarities of mine, which you have labeled defects, will turn out tobe budding virtues of the finest quality."

  "Ah, then, most perfect and approved good master, you must give me backmy pledge. I could stand a few faults and minor vices in my futurelord; but such an array of excellencies appals me. I wed you not, SirParagon," she said, looking him full in the face and then dropping hima mocking little courtesy.

  "'By my troth and holidame,' I could have better spared a betterBetty!" Abner exclaimed with mock fervor. "No, no, sweet mistress mine,rather than resign this dimpled hand of thine, I'll begin at once touproot all my promising little sprouts of virtue, and plant in theirstead an assortment of fine, robust misdemeanors, for which, in truth,the soil is well adapted."

  "Very well, then," she said with an air of resignation, "I foresee thatI shall have to grow a few additional faults myself, to compete withyou."

  "And I
don't think, my dearest, that you'll have much difficulty indoing so," was his audacious rejoinder, as he pinched her cheek."Natural aptitude counts for a great deal, you know."

  "Methinks, my lord, too much happiness hath weakened thy brain; whatnonsense thou dost chatter," and she laughed with joyous abandon.

  "Oh, anybody can talk sense, but it takes a heap o' sense to talknonsense sensibly," he said suavely, with a fine air ofself-complacency. "Until to-day I did not know I had it in me to be sobrilliant a conversationalist. Happiness is bringing out all my latentabilities. Ah, Betty, sweetest, dearest, most bewitching of girls," headded, fervently, "how happy you have made me!"

  They were now seated on a fallen tree, he indulging in a blissful senseof happiness realized, she sitting quiet and somewhat pensive.Presently he asked: "Of what are you thinking? Your brown eyes arefilled with something that is almost sadness. Have you any regrets, anyunfilled wish? I haven't--except that November might have come sooner."

  "Yes, I have a regret," said Betty, laying her hand upon his shoulderand looking wistfully at him. "I give you everything--my present, myfuture, and my past; but you--I know you love me now, but I am not theone you loved first. That is what makes me sad. I want your past aswell as your present and future. Perhaps you think I didn't see. Yousupposed, when you were so miserable after Abby went away, that Ididn't understand! Many and many a night have I lain awake, sorrowingover your sorrow and my inability to help you."

  "Listen to me, Betty dear. My feeling for your cousin, though pure andtender, was as nothing compared to what I have for you. Even when I wasmost under the spell of her beauty and sweetness, I thought of you asone who might well stir the pulse and thrill the heart of any man notmade armor-proof by love for another."

  "But you did love Cousin Abby?" she questioned with another wistful,half-timid look.

  "Yes, I did, in a dreamy, poetical way. Or, rather, I was in love withlove and romance, and all that, and she seemed the embodiment of beautyand poetry. But I never touched even the outer edges of hersusceptibilities, and it was this complete unresponsiveness that healedmy wound, even before I was aware. A man, warm-blooded, ardent, as Iam, must have an answering love to keep his own alive. There wasnothing in that first romantic feeling that need give you a pang ofregret. It was a mere boyish fancy; this, dear, is the love of mymanhood. And in fact, my darling, I don't believe there is so much as akiss to choose between your love for me and mine for you. If there is,"he added humorously, "this will restore the balance," and he kissed herfondly. "And now, my dear girl," he went on, speaking soberly, but witha glad light in his eyes, "I have great news for you; but first, let meask, by what name do you propose to be known when we are married?"

  "Well," exclaimed the girl in some bewilderment, "I said awhile agothat happiness had addled your brains; but I really did not suspect thetrouble to be so serious as this. By what name, pray, should I be knownbut that of Mistress Betsy Dudley--ugly though it be? Oh, I see!" shecried, thinking she understood his meaning. "You don't like the nameBetsy. Neither do I. It's perfectly horrid; and it is my standinggrievance against my parents that they saddled upon their innocent babeso uncouth a prenomen. If father did wish to honor his mother byendowing his first-born with the name, why could he not have softenedit into Betty, or Bettina, or Bessie, or, better still, have christenedme Elizabeth, instead of insisting, as he always does, that I shall becalled Betsy? I'll tell you what," she added archly, "when I'm married,I shall insist that everybody shall address me as Elizabeth. Isn't thatmore to your taste, my lord?"

  "Elizabeth what?" he persisted.

  "Upon my word, I begin to think you really are daft! Why, ElizabethDudley, of course," she said, flushing and looking shy and embarrassed;"that is, unless you mean for me to wed some saner man than this AbnerDudley, Esquire," she added saucily.

  "Would not the name Elizabeth or Betty or Betsy Logan suit you better?"asked her lover, who then proceeded to tell her all.

  She was greatly astonished, and rejoiced to learn of his brightenedworldly prospects; but when he told her his full name, her countenancechanged.

  He was too absorbed to note this, and went on: "The question now is, mydearest, how soon will you marry me? I need you now. Every day, everyhour, I long for you, my pet. So I shall speak to your father at once.For some time he has been rather cool with me--ever since last summer,when I argued with him about Barton Stone's views. But he's too justand reasonable to refuse me your hand, upon no other objection thanthat I did not side with him in a church quarrel. I will see himto-morrow, and----"

  "No, no!" Betsy interrupted, "do not speak with him yet; and please donot let him know that your name is Logan. Let me tell him that, andalso about your new inheritance."

  "But, my dear girl, why should not I tell him?"

  "I can't make it plain to you, I'm afraid," answered Betty; "but I havean instinctive feeling that things will not run at all smoothly--justat first, you know--when he learns your news."

  "All the more reason, then," Abner said, "for my telling him at once,and thus get over this rough part as soon as possible."

  "No, please let me speak to father first," urged Betsy.

  "I fail to see why you should wish to do so," Abner said; "and itcertainly is my duty to speak to your father myself. Nor would it bemanly in me to shirk this duty off upon you."

  "As I said," Betsy persisted, "I can't make my meaning clear to you. Intruth, I can't understand myself why I wish this; but of one thing I amquite sure, both my father and mother, for some unknown cause, aregreatly prejudiced against the name 'Logan.' Mother, in particular,abhors it. At some period of her life, she must have had some terribleknowledge of some one of the name--you know there are many Logans inthis State and in Virginia--but whatever the reason for her extremeaversion to the name, that aversion certainly exists. Therefore, itbehooves us to be very tactful in telling father and mother that youare a Logan. Just now I feel sure it would be unwise to tell them; formother is unusually weak and nervous this fall, and father is soharassed over this church trouble that he is irritable andunreasonable, even with mother and me. We can't very well be marriedbefore spring, anyway; and long before then father'll be as cordial asever with you; and he and mother will be fully reconciled to your newname, too. I'm your promised wife, and--and--I love you with all myheart. Isn't that happiness enough for you for awhile?"

  "But, dearest, I think your parents should be told at once that you aremy betrothed wife. I don't like any appearance of secrecy. I'm tooproud of my love for that."

  "No," Betsy still urged, "I know father better than you do. Please beguided by me in this, and say nothing to him for awhile."

  "But I can not delay much longer to make public that my name is Logan,and about my newly acquired property. There's business to be transactedin regard to this Henderson County land; and your father mustinevitably soon hear of my name, from some one; and it would be betterfrom me than from an outsider."

  However, Abner finally yielded to Betsy's pleadings, and agreed thatthey should take no one into their confidence at present in regard totheir engagement; and that he should tell the Rogerses and James Draneabout his real name, and of the inheritance left him by the will of thelate Colonel Hite.

  "And you mustn't even come to see me," said Betty. "In father's presentmood it would only irritate him to have you come. Besides, if you didcome, they'd be sure to find us out; for we couldn't act toward eachother just in the old, quiet, friendly way--at least, I couldn'tand--and--oh, I know it will be hard, this restraint, this secrecy; notto see you, and not to let every one know that we are pledged to eachother. But for my sake, and because it is for the best, you will bepatient, won't you?"

  "I will try; but Heaven send your father a speedy change of hearttoward your poor lover!" Abner fervently exclaimed as he kissed Bettygood-by.