When Sara Currie married Jack Churchill I was broken-hearted...or
believed myself to be so, which, in a boy of twenty-two, amounts
to pretty much the same thing. Not that I took the world into my
confidence; that was never the Douglas way, and I held myself in
honor bound to live up to the family traditions. I thought,
then, that nobody but Sara knew; but I dare say, now, that Jack
knew it also, for I don't think Sara could have helped telling
him. If he did know, however, he did not let me see that he did,
and never insulted me by any implied sympathy; on the contrary,
he asked me to be his best man. Jack was always a thoroughbred.
I was best man. Jack and I had always been bosom friends, and,
although I had lost my sweetheart, I did not intend to lose my
friend into the bargain. Sara had made a wise choice, for Jack
was twice the man I was; he had had to work for his living, which
perhaps accounts for it.
So I danced at Sara's wedding as if my heart were as light as my
heels; but, after she and Jack had settled down at Glenby I
closed The Maples and went abroad...being, as I have hinted, one
of those unfortunate mortals who need consult nothing but their
own whims in the matter of time and money. I stayed away for ten
years, during which The Maples was given over to moths and rust,
while I enjoyed life elsewhere. I did enjoy it hugely, but
always under protest, for I felt that a broken-hearted man ought
not to enjoy himself as I did. It jarred on my sense of fitness,
and I tried to moderate my zest, and think more of the past than
I did. It was no use; the present insisted on being intrusive
and pleasant; as for the future...well, there was no future.
Then Jack Churchill, poor fellow, died. A year after his death,
I went home and again asked Sara to marry me, as in duty bound.
Sara again declined, alleging that her heart was buried in Jack's
grave, or words to that effect. I found that it did not much
matter...of course, at thirty-two one does not take these things
to heart as at twenty-two. I had enough to occupy me in getting
The Maples into working order, and beginning to educate Betty.
Betty was Sara's ten year-old daughter, and she had been
thoroughly spoiled. That is to say, she had been allowed her own
way in everything and, having inherited her father's outdoor
tastes, had simply run wild. She was a thorough tomboy, a thin,
scrawny little thing with a trace of Sara's beauty. Betty took
after her father's dark, tall race and, on the occasion of my
first introduction to her, seemed to be all legs and neck. There
were points about her, though, which I considered promising. She
had fine, almond-shaped, hazel eyes, the smallest and most
shapely hands and feet I ever saw, and two enormous braids of
thick, nut-brown hair.
For Jack's sake I decided to bring his daughter up properly.
Sara couldn't do it, and didn't try. I saw that, if somebody
didn't take Betty in hand, wisely and firmly, she would certainly
be ruined. There seemed to be nobody except myself at all
interested in the matter, so I determined to see what an old
bachelor could do as regards bringing up a girl in the way she
should go. I might have been her father; as it was, her father
had been my best friend. Who had a better right to watch over
his daughter? I determined to be a father to Betty, and do all
for her that the most devoted parent could do. It was,
self-evidently, my duty.
I told Sara I was going to take Betty in hand. Sara sighed one
of the plaintive little sighs which I had once thought so
charming, but now, to my surprise, found faintly irritating, and
said that she would be very much obliged if I would.
"I feel that I am not able to cope with the problem of Betty's
education, Stephen," she admitted, "Betty is a strange
child...all Churchill. Her poor father indulged her in
everything, and she has a will of her own, I assure you. I have
really no control over her, whatever. She does as she pleases,
and is ruining her complexion by running and galloping out of
doors the whole time. Not that she had much complexion to start
with. The Churchills never had, you know."...Sara cast a
complacent glance at her delicately tinted reflection in the
mirror.... "I tried to make Betty wear a sunbonnet this summer,
but I might as well have talked to the wind."
A vision of Betty in a sunbonnet presented itself to my mind, and
afforded me so much amusement that I was grateful to Sara for
having furnished it. I rewarded her with a compliment.
"It is to be regretted that Betty has not inherited her mother's
charming color," I said, "but we must do the best we can for her
under her limitations. She may have improved vastly by the time
she has grown up. And, at least, we must make a lady of her; she
is a most alarming tomboy at present, but there is good material
to work upon...there must be, in the Churchill and Currie
blend. But even the best material may be spoiled by unwise
handling. I think I can promise you that I will not spoil it. I
feel that Betty is my vocation; and I shall set myself up as a
rival of Wordsworth's 'nature,' of whose methods I have always
had a decided distrust, in spite of his insidious verses."
Sara did not understand me in the least; but, then, she did not
pretend to.
"I confide Betty's education entirely to you, Stephen," she said,
with another plaintive sigh. "I feel sure I could not put it
into better hands. You have always been a person who could be
thoroughly depended on."
Well, that was something by way of reward for a life-long
devotion. I felt that I was satisfied with my position as
unofficial advisor-in-chief to Sara and self-appointed guardian
of Betty. I also felt that, for the furtherance of the cause I
had taken to heart, it was a good thing that Sara had again
refused to marry me. I had a sixth sense which informed me that
a staid old family friend might succeed with Betty where a
stepfather would have signally failed. Betty's loyalty to her
father's memory was passionate, and vehement; she would view his
supplanter with resentment and distrust; but his old familiar
comrade was a person to be taken to her heart.
Fortunately for the success of my enterprise, Betty liked me.
She told me this with the same engaging candor she would have
used in informing me that she hated me, if she had happened to
take a bias in that direction, saying frankly:
"You are one of the very nicest old folks I know, Stephen. Yes,
you are a ripping good fellow!"
This made my task a comparatively easy one; I sometimes shudder
to think what it might have been if Betty had not thought I was a
"ripping good fellow." I should have stuck to it, because that
is my way; but Betty would have made my life a misery to me. She
had startling capacities for tormenting people when she chose to
exert them; I certainly should not have liked to be numbered
among Betty's foes.
I rode over to Glenby the next morning after my paternal
interview with Sara, intending to have a frank talk with Betty
and lay the foundations of a good understanding on both sides.
Betty was a sharp child, with a disconcerting knack of seeing
straight through grindstones; she would certainly perceive and
probably resent any underhanded management. I thought it best to
tell her plainly that I was going to look after her.
When, however, I encountered Betty, tearing madly down the beech
avenue with a couple of dogs, her loosened hair streaming behind
her like a banner of independence, and had lifted her, hatless
and breathless, up before me on my mare, I found that Sara had
saved me the trouble of an explanation.
"Mother says you are going to take charge of my education,
Stephen," said Betty, as soon as she could speak. "I'm glad,
because I think that, for an old person, you have a good deal of
sense. I suppose my education has to be seen to, some time or
other, and I'd rather you'd do it than anybody else I know."
"Thank you, Betty," I said gravely. "I hope I shall deserve your
good opinion of my sense. I shall expect you to do as I tell
you, and be guided by my advice in everything."
"Yes, I will," said Betty, "because I'm sure you won't tell me to
do anything I'd really hate to do. You won't shut me up in a
room and make me sew, will you? Because I won't do it."