CHAPTER I_Betty's Virginia Christmas

E-text prepared by D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading

Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by

Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this

file which includes the original illustrations.

See 59594-h.htm or 59594-h.zip:

(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/59594/pg59594-images.html)

(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/59594/59594-h.zip)

Images of the original pages are available through

Internet Archive. See

https://archive.org/details/bettysvirginiach00seawiala

BETTY'S VIRGINIA CHRISTMAS

MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL

Author of "The Sprightly Romance of Marsac," "Papa Bouchard," "The

Jugglers," "Little Jarvis," etc.

With Illustrations in Color by Henry J. Soulen

And Decorations by Edward Stratton Holloway

Philadelphia & London

J. B. Lippincott Company

1914

BETTY'S VIRGINIA

CHRISTMAS

THIRD EDITION

[Illustration: NOW BETTY KNEW EXACTLY HOW TO DESCEND THE STAIRS INTO

THE DANCING HALL _Page 48_]

PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1914

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS

PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.

TO BETTY RANDOL

A TALL SISTER OF THE LILIES

THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. CAPTIVATING BETTY 9

II. A YOUNG SOLDIER 19

III. THROUGH A DORMER WINDOW 31

IV. KETTLE 38

V. CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR 46

VI. KETTLE AND OTHER THINGS 64

VII. FORTESCUE AND ROSES AND BIRDSEYE 71

VIII. THE SHADOW OF THE PAST 83

IX. LOVE AND THE CHASE 89

X. THE FLYING FEET OF THE DANCERS 96

XI. THE DREAM OF LOVE 105

XII. KETTLE ACTS HIS OWN ILIAD 110

XIII. IT WAS THE SPRINGTIME 119

XIV. PROBLEMS 130

XV. THE BROKEN DREAM 138

XVI. PRIDE PAYS THE PRICE 150

XVII. THE HAND OF DESTINY 166

XVIII. "DOAN' YOU CRY, MISS BETTY!" 173

XIX. CALM WEATHER 179

XX. TWILIGHT 185

XXI. RECOMPENCE 189

XXII. GLORIA 198

XXIII. SUNSHINE 206

ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

NOW BETTY KNEW EXACTLY HOW TO DESCEND THE

STAIRS INTO THE DANCING HALL _Frontispiece_

HER GRACEFUL FIGURE MAKING TO FORTESCUE THE

PRETTIEST PICTURE HE HAD EVER SEEN 87

THE SCENT LAY ACROSS THE OPEN FIELDS AND

STRAGGLING WOODLANDS 93

"BUT IF YOU LOVE ME----" 125

CHAPTER I

CAPTIVATING BETTY

It was as cold as Christmas, and Christmas Eve it was. A thin crust of

snow lay over the level landscape of lower Virginia, and the declining

sun cast a lovely rose-red light upon the silver world. Afar off lay

the river that led to the great bay, both river and bay frozen hard

and fast as steel. The crystal air was sharp and still, and in the

opaline sky a little crescent moon smiled at the sparkling stars. Along

the broad lane that led from the wooded heights to the spacious brick

mansion of Rosehill, seated on the river bank, a great four-horse team

trotted merrily, the stout farm-horses snorting with delight, and the

negro driver and his helpers laughing, and singing Christmas catches,

their voices echoing in the clear, cold air. The Rosehill mansion

itself seemed to radiate Christmas cheer. From the warm, wide-throated

chimneys curled delicate wreaths of blue smoke, and a venturesome

peacock had climbed upon the flat roof and stood on one leg, warming

himself comfortably against the hot chimney. The panes of the many

windows glittered in the sinking sun, and on the frozen river a couple

of skaters flew back and forth like birds upon the wing, their shrill

little cries and laughter resounding gaily in the crisp cold.

A mile down the river lay another cheerful homestead, not stately

and wide and long, with marble steps and a fine carriage drive, like

Rosehill, but little and low and with a single chimney. No gorgeous

peacock huddled against its one chimney, but a family of blue pigeons,

finding the pigeon-cote chilly, circled about the solitary chimney,

and were as merry as if they had been great splendid peacocks instead

of the humble little birds that they were. The tall holly trees in all

their Christmas glory of red and green, on each side of the little

porch, gave the place its name of Holly Lodge. From its windows, too,

streamed cheerfulness, and a golden fire sang and danced upon the

broad hearth in its one small sitting-room. But Holly Lodge could not

be otherwise than gay, because in it dwelt Betty Beverley, the gayest

young creature alive.

Now, Betty had a splendid dowry; that is to say, she had youth, health,

gaiety of heart, an indomitable spirit, and a pair of the softest,

loveliest, most misleading dark eyes that were ever seen. Betty was the

soul of sincerity and truth, yet she was also an arrant hypocrite and

flatterer to those she loved. Likewise, she had the heart of a lion

concerning burglars, tramps, runaway horses, and dangers of all sorts;

but when it came to caterpillars and daddy-long-legs, small spiders and

frightened mice, Betty was cowardly beyond words, and shrieked and fled

at the mere sight of those harmless creatures. Music and dancing were

like foretastes of Heaven to Betty, who could dance twenty-five miles

a night without the slightest fatigue. But she was the same gay little

Betty in the long wintry days at Holly Lodge, with no one for company

except her grandfather, Colonel Beverley, and his rheumatism, and Uncle

Cesar and his wife, Aunt Tulip, the two old servants who had followed

them into exile. For Colonel Beverley was born and reared in the great

house of Rosehill, and Betty, too, was born there, and had passed the

whole of her short life in its stately rooms and its old walled garden,

except the last year. Evil times had come upon Colonel Beverley, and

the piled up mortgages at last drove him forth. The Colonel, tall and

straight as an Indian, grim to look at, but gentle at heart, said truly

that for himself he minded not Holly Lodge, with its few cramped rooms

and its mite of a garden patch; but for little Betty---- Here, the

Colonel's voice would break, and whenever this point was reached in the

discussion, Betty always rushed at the Colonel and kissed him all over

his handsome clear-cut, pallid face, and declared that he had insulted

her by his hateful remarks, and that she would a thousand times rather

live at Holly Lodge with him, than live at Rosehill with millions of

dollars, without him. As Betty was very young and unsophisticated, she

really believed this, and it comforted the Colonel's weary heart to

hear it.

This was their first Christmas at Holly Lodge, but as Betty said to the

Colonel on the afternoon of Christmas Eve:

"Granddaddy, I mean this to be the very happiest Christmas we ever had,

because we are together, and your rheumatism is better, and I am going

to a dance every night this week, and have a perfectly brand new white

muslin gown to wear, and goodness knows what will be left of it after

six dances, because I never really begin to enjoy myself until I have

torn my gown all to pieces!"

While Betty was saying this, she was standing, delicately poised, on a

table, putting a wreath of laurel leaves around the portrait of Colonel

Beverley, taken in his youth, when he was a boy officer, with his first

epaulets, his hand sternly grasping his sword. Above the portrait hung

the same sword, and Betty was wont to decorate the hilt with a sprig of

laurel, too. The portrait was a handsome picture, and the Colonel was

secretly proud of it. A part of Betty's outrageous flattery of Colonel

Beverley was that to assure the Colonel, solemnly, that nothing would

induce her to marry until she could find a man as handsome as he was

in his youth. The Colonel, sitting in his great chair, listened to

this for the hundredth time with the greatest pleasure. Since that St.

Martin's summer of his youth, there had been a long period of tranquil

life at Rosehill. Then had come the great tragedy of the wartime, and

Colonel Beverley had put on a gray uniform, and ridden at the head

of the regiment the county raised, his stalwart son, Betty's father,

riding by his bridle. The Colonel came back in four years to Rosehill,

but the young son lay buried on the Bed of Honor, with a bullet through

his brave young heart. Betty was a dark-eyed baby girl in those days.

Now, she was a dark-eyed girl of twenty, and was all the Colonel had

left in this world. Even Rosehill went with the rest. The back of

Colonel Beverley's chair was against the window which looked toward

Rosehill, for the Colonel was sixty-eight, and could not forget wholly

the sixty-seven years when Rosehill had been his home, and did not like

to look toward the place. To make it worse, Rosehill had been bought

by some rich Northern people, who had wickedly and sacrilegiously, as

the Colonel considered, put a furnace in the house, electric lights and

many other modern and devilish inventions, which harrowed the Colonel's

soul. So, like a wise man, he turned his eyes away.

Within the plain little room were some relics that had survived

the universal wreck. There was Betty's harp, to which she sang the

old-fashioned ballads the Colonel loved. Then, there was the Beverley

punch-bowl--a great bowl of old Lowestoft porcelain, with three

medallions, representing hunting scenes, and an inscription in faded

gilt, "For John Beverley, Esq., of Virginia." It had belonged to

many John Beverleys, Esquires, before it came to the Colonel, and

was regarded as a sort of fetich in the family. Betty alone had the

responsibility of dusting it, and Uncle Cesar would say solemnly:

"I'd heap ruther break my arm than break that thur bowl."

Beside the bowl, there was some quaint old silver and the 1807

decanters, huge things of pink and white cut glass, that had known

good vintages in their day. By Betty's harp lay her grandfather's

fiddle-case, for the Colonel loved his fiddle, and he and Uncle Cesar,

his "boy," fiddled seriously together, as they had done since they were

small boys together, sixty years before, and had got rapped over the

head with the same fiddle-bow.

There were a plenty of windows in the little room, and, as muslin

curtains are cheap, there were plenty of curtains, and geraniums

and verbenas too were abundant, as they cost nothing at all. On the

walls was a pretty paper, all roses and green leaves, pasted on by

Betty's own hands, with Uncle Cesar holding the stepladder while

Betty had worked, singing while she worked. It was Betty too who had

painted the shabby woodwork white, daubing away gaily, and laughing

at her blunders. Nevertheless, she had succeeded, for Betty was a

very efficient person. The chimney had a wide throat and drew like

a windlass. So, on the whole, the sitting-room at Holly Lodge was a

cheerful place.

Betty, standing on a little table, was so engrossed in her occupation

of getting the laurel wreath straight over the Colonel's picture, that

she did not hear the tramp of a horse's hoofs outside, nor a knock at

the front door, nor Uncle Cesar opening it and a man's tread in the

little hall. In her eagerness, she reached up very far, and although

she was a slim creature, the rickety table trembled under her light

foot, and the Colonel cried out:

"Mind, Betty, mind!"

But it was too late. The table swayed, and Betty uttered a little

shriek and came down with a crash, not upon the floor, but in the arms

of a handsome young officer in his cap and military cloak, who appeared

to have dropped down the chimney.