"Nor send me to a boarding-school," pursued Betty. "Mother's
always threatening to send me to one. I suppose she would have
done it before this, only she knew I'd run away. You won't send
me to a boarding-school, will you, Stephen? Because I won't go."
"No," I said obligingly. "I won't. I should never dream of
cooping a wild little thing, like you, up in a boarding-school.
You'd fret your heart out like a caged skylark."
"I know you and I are going to get along together splendidly,
Stephen," said Betty, rubbing her brown cheek chummily against my
shoulder. "You are so good at understanding. Very few people
are. Even dad darling didn't understand. He let me do just as I
wanted to, just because I wanted to, not because he really
understood that I couldn't be tame and play with dolls. I hate
dolls! Real live babies are jolly; but dogs and horses are ever
so much nicer than dolls."
"But you must have lessons, Betty. I shall select your teachers
and superintend your studies, and I shall expect you to do me
credit along that line, as well as along all others."
"I'll try, honest and true, Stephen," declared Betty. And she
kept her word.
At first I looked upon Betty's education as a duty; in a very
short time it had become a pleasure...the deepest and most
abiding interest of my life. As I had premised, Betty was good
material, and responded to my training with gratifying
plasticity. Day by day, week by week, month by month, her
character and temperament unfolded naturally under my watchful
eye. It was like beholding the gradual development of some rare
flower in one's garden. A little checking and pruning here, a
careful training of shoot and tendril there, and, lo, the reward
of grace and symmetry!
Betty grew up as I would have wished Jack Churchill's girl to
grow--spirited and proud, with the fine spirit and gracious pride
of pure womanhood, loyal and loving, with the loyalty and love of
a frank and unspoiled nature; true to her heart's core, hating
falsehood and sham--as crystal-clear a mirror of maidenhood as
ever man looked into and saw himself reflected back in such a
halo as made him ashamed of not being more worthy of it. Betty
was kind enough to say that I had taught her everything she knew.
But what had she not taught me? If there were a debt between us,
it was on my side.
Sara was fairly well satisfied. It was not my fault that Betty
was not better looking, she said. I had certainly done
everything for her mind and character that could be done. Sara's
manner implied that these unimportant details did not count for
much, balanced against the lack of a pink-and-white skin and
dimpled elbows; but she was generous enough not to blame me.
"When Betty is twenty-five," I said patiently--I had grown used
to speaking patiently to Sara--"she will be a magnificent woman--far
handsomer than you ever were, Sara, in your pinkest and
whitest prime. Where are your eyes, my dear lady, that you can't
see the promise of loveliness in Betty?"
"Betty is seventeen, and she is as lanky and brown as ever she
was," sighed Sara. "When I was seventeen I was the belle of the
county and had had five proposals. I don't believe the thought
of a lover has ever entered Betty's head."
"I hope not," I said shortly. Somehow, I did not like the
suggestion. "Betty is a child yet. For pity's sake, Sara, don't
go putting nonsensical ideas into her head."
"I'm afraid I can't," mourned Sara, as if it were something to be
regretted. "You have filled it too full of books and things like
that. I've every confidence in your judgment, Stephen--and
really you've done wonders with Betty. But don't you think
you've made her rather too clever? Men don't like women who are
too clever. Her poor father, now--he always said that a woman
who liked books better than beaux was an unnatural creature."
I didn't believe Jack had ever said anything so foolish. Sara
imagined things. But I resented the aspersion of
blue-stockingness cast on Betty.
"When the time comes for Betty to be interested in beaux," I said
severely, "she will probably give them all due attention. Just
at present her head is a great deal better filled with books than
with silly premature fancies and sentimentalities. I'm a
critical old fellow--but I'm satisfied with Betty, Sara--perfectly
satisfied."
Sara sighed.
"Oh, I dare say she is all right, Stephen. And I'm really
grateful to you. I'm sure I could have done nothing at all with
her. It's not your fault, of course,--but I can't help wishing
she were a little more like other girls."
I galloped away from Glenby in a rage. What a blessing Sara had
not married me in my absurd youth! She would have driven me wild
with her sighs and her obtuseness and her everlasting
pink-and-whiteness. But there--there--there--gently! She was a
sweet, good-hearted little woman; she had made Jack happy; and
she had contrived, heaven only knew how, to bring a rare creature
like Betty into the world. For that, much might be forgiven her.
By the time I reached The Maples and had flung myself down in an
old, kinky, comfortable chair in my library I had forgiven her
and was even paying her the compliment of thinking seriously over
what she had said.
Was Betty really unlike other girls? That is to say, unlike them
in any respect wherein she should resemble them? I did not wish
this; although I was a crusty old bachelor I approved of girls,
holding them the sweetest things the good God has made. I wanted
Betty to have her full complement of girlhood in all its best and
highest manifestation. Was there anything lacking?
I observed Betty very closely during the next week or so, riding
over to Glenby every day and riding back at night, meditating
upon my observations. Eventually I concluded to do what I had
never thought myself in the least likely to do. I would send
Betty to a boarding-school for a year. It was necessary that she
should learn how to live with other girls.
I went over to Glenby the next day and found Betty under the
beeches on the lawn, just back from a canter. She was sitting on
the dappled mare I had given her on her last birthday, and was
laughing at the antics of her rejoicing dogs around her. I
looked at her with much pleasure; it gladdened me to see how
much, nay, how totally a child she still was, despite her
Churchill height. Her hair, under her velvet cap, still hung
over her shoulders in the same thick plaits; her face had the
firm leanness of early youth, but its curves were very fine and
delicate. The brown skin, that worried Sara so, was flushed
through with dusky color from her gallop; her long, dark eyes
were filled with the beautiful unconsciousness of childhood.
More than all, the soul in her was still the soul of a child. I
found myself wishing that it could always remain so. But I knew
it could not; the woman must blossom out some day; it was my duty
to see that the flower fulfilled the promise of the bud.
When I told Betty that she must go away to a school for a year,
she shrugged, frowned and consented. Betty had learned that she
must consent to what I decreed, even when my decrees were opposed
to her likings, as she had once fondly believed they never would
be. But Betty had acquired confidence in me to the beautiful
extent of acquiescing in everything I commanded.
"I'll go, of course, since you wish it, Stephen," she said. "But
why do you want me to go? You must have a reason--you always
have a reason for anything you do. What is it?"
"That is for you to find out, Betty," I said. "By the time you
come back you will have discovered it, I think. If not, it will
not have proved itself a good reason and shall be forgotten."
When Betty went away I bade her good-by without burdening her
with any useless words of advice.
"Write to me every week, and remember that you are Betty
Churchill," I said.
Betty was standing on the steps above, among her dogs. She came
down a step and put her arms about my neck.
"I'll remember that you are my friend and that I must live up to
you," she said. "Good-by, Stephen."
She kissed me two or three times--good, hearty smacks! did I not
say she was still a child?--and stood waving her hand to me as I
rode away. I looked back at the end of the avenue and saw her
standing there, short-skirted and hatless, fronting the lowering
sun with those fearless eyes of hers. So I looked my last on the
child Betty.
That was a lonely year. My occupation was gone and I began to
fear that I had outlived my usefulness. Life seemed flat, stale,
and unprofitable. Betty's weekly letters were all that lent it
any savor. They were spicy and piquant enough. Betty was
discovered to have unsuspected talents in the epistolary line.
At first she was dolefully homesick, and begged me to let her
come home. When I refused--it was amazingly hard to refuse--she
sulked through three letters, then cheered up and began to enjoy
herself. But it was nearly the end of the year when she wrote:
"I've found out why you sent me here, Stephen--and I'm glad you
did."
I had to be away from home on unavoidable business the day Betty
returned to Glenby. But the next afternoon I went over. I found
Betty out and Sara in. The latter was beaming. Betty was so
much improved, she declared delightedly. I would hardly know
"the dear child."
This alarmed me terribly. What on earth had they done to Betty?
I found that she had gone up to the pineland for a walk, and
thither I betook myself speedily. When I saw her coming down a
long, golden-brown alley I stepped behind a tree to watch her--I
wished to see her, myself unseen. As she drew near I gazed at
her with pride, and admiration and amazement--and, under it all,
a strange, dreadful, heart-sinking, which I could not understand
and which I had never in all my life experienced before--no, not
even when Sara had refused me.
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 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."