PROBLEMS
Up to that point, life had been the simplest of propositions to Betty
Beverley, but from that day it became painfully complex. She had
thought but little and spoken less of the great word "duty," but she
had in her the soul of the soldier, and her duty loomed large before
her, as it did before Fortescue. On this point their understanding was
perfect. Betty, if Fortescue had been ordered into action, would have
buckled his sword about his waist and bade him, with a smile, to go. In
the same way, when Betty spoke of her duty to stay, Fortescue said no
word to make her a traitor. But they were both young and full of hope
and love, and had transcendent confidence in the future. Everything
would come right, was the easy conviction of both.
Betty waited a few days to see if Fortescue's visit had roused any
latent suspicions in the Colonel's mind, but, seeing it had not, one
day when it was soft and mild as on the day of days when Fortescue had
told her of his love, she walked in the little garden with the Colonel
and told him all.
"But I don't mean to desert you, granddaddy," she said firmly. "I don't
know how it is coming out, and neither does Jack"--for by that time
Fortescue had become "Jack" to Betty--"but I hate a deserter, you know."
"It wouldn't be desertion, my dear," said the Colonel. "And it would
be a base thing of me to spoil your life, my little Betty. But, as
you say, a way will be found. Don't let us trouble about it until
Christmas, then, as you say, Fortescue will try to get a leave that
will give him a week at Rosehill, and we shall see. I think perhaps
I could get on pretty well at Holly Lodge with Cesar and Tulip and
Kettle."
"Do you mean," cried Betty indignantly, "that you could get on pretty
well without me? Oh, what a wicked old grandfather you are!"
"But if you will come to see me sometimes," said the Colonel, anxious
to find a way.
In due time the letter to the Colonel came from Fortescue, and the
Colonel answered it in his dignified, old-fashioned manner. He did not
wish and would not permit himself to be a bar to his granddaughter's
happiness. After a time, when their affection had been tested, he would
give his consent to the marriage.
The officers came, and the camp was pitched, and much work was done.
Likewise, much eating, drinking, dancing, riding, boating, and
picnicing with the county people. It was the old story of Christmas
week transferred to spring. Betty appeared to be as keen over the
lieutenants as Sally Carteret or any girl in the county, nor did she
feel any qualms of conscience when two second lieutenants each told
her at different times that he could not live without her. Betty was a
little unfeeling toward her admirers, and her tears were but crocodile
tears when she told the lieutenants that she could not leave her
grandfather--except for that---- Here Betty broke down prettily, and
the lieutenants were in despair. But they speedily recovered from their
disappointment and found other outlets for their affections. Betty, the
trifler, was serious enough, however, where Fortescue was concerned.
The spring melted into summer and on a day black for Sally Carteret
and the other gay young things in the county the camp was broken and
the officers departed. Luckily, though, it was at the season when the
University students returned to the county, bringing many of their
fellow students with them, so that there was balm in Gilead. As for
Betty, she was quite willing to play with the University students,
as she had with the second lieutenants. But deep down in her heart
they mattered little. There was only one man for her, and that was
Lieutenant John Hope Fortescue.
The earth seemed brightening for all at Holly Lodge. The Colonel had
learned more and more to accommodate himself to the little house and
the simple surroundings, and, free from debts and duns, had great
peace. Betty, whose heart had flown about like the larks and thrushes
from bough to bough, had at last made its nest, and she too had great
peace. Kettle turned out to be not only a solid addition to their
comfort, but almost to their happiness. His sturdy little bow-legs
waddled about, bringing wood and water, and doing errands. He was
always cheery and helpful, but with the faults which are necessary to
the typical boy. He would occasionally neglect his work for the sake
of his adored fiddle, and when sent down to the river shore to catch
crabs for dinner would become so absorbed in the sport that he would
forget that it was merely a means to an end. One day, however, he
incurred the wrath of the whole establishment at Holly Lodge. Among
Betty's treasures was a great tall glass bottle of attar of roses, of
which a single drop perfumed a room. Kettle, passing Betty's open door,
the room being empty, saw on the dressing table the beautiful bottle
in which was stored the perfume he loved. The devil tempted him, and
Kettle yielded. He slipped into the room, and, opening the bottle,
rubbed its contents, a gill or two of attar of rose, into his wool.
Downstairs, a pungent odor, so strong that it was almost asphyxiating,
penetrated, and as Kettle's steps were heard approaching the perfume
became overpowering. The Colonel began to sneeze, and even Aunt Tulip
and Uncle Cesar in the kitchen had to run out into the open air. Betty,
with her handkerchief to her face, rushed into the little hall, where
Kettle stood, his eyes bulging out of his head, as he too gasped and
sneezed.
"You've upset my attar of rose upon your head!" screamed Betty. "Go out
of doors this minute, and I'll hand you over to Uncle Cesar for a real
switching this time."
By that time Aunt Tulip had dashed in from the kitchen, and, seizing
Kettle by his woolly head, dragged him out of doors to the pump,
calling meanwhile for Uncle Cesar, working in the garden.
"Cesar! You Cesar! Come heah right away, an' bring my big scissors.
This heah wuffless little black nigger done tooken all Miss Betty's
attar of rose an' done rub it into he haid, an' arter you git the
scissors, cut a switch an' give him a good tunin' up."
This terrifying prospect entirely upset Kettle's moral balance, and
he began to protest, spluttering and stuttering, as Aunt Tulip pumped
water vigorously on his offending head.
"I 'clar ter goodness, I ain' never see Miss Betty's attar of rose. I
ain' never tetch it."
At that, Aunt Tulip stopped pumping on Kettle long enough to shake him
violently.
"Does you know where liars go?" cried Aunt Tulip indignantly. "Doan'
you know nothin' 'bout the lake burnin' wid fire an' brimstone, an'
the devil stan'in' by wid a red hot pitchfork, stickin' it into dem
sinners?"
This awful future, the arrival of Uncle Cesar with the scissors, Aunt
Tulip's merciless use of them on his wool, and Uncle Cesar's going
off after a switch, brought shrieks from Kettle, as if he were being
murdered by inches. Betty, in the house, hearing Kettle's screams,
ran out, and Uncle Cesar reappeared at the same moment with a switch
of horrifying proportions. Poor Kettle, with every scrap of wool cut
off his head, leaving his skull as bare as an egg, was so drenched and
frightened and woebegone, that Betty's heart melted.
"I think, Uncle Cesar," she said, "we won't give Kettle that switching
to-day, though he certainly deserves it."
Uncle Cesar was loth to lay aside the instrument of torture.
"Miss Betty, you better lemme give him a dozen licks anyhow," urged
Uncle Cesar. "You k'yarn' raise boys 'thout licks."
But Betty demurred. Kettle, meanwhile, poured out a flood of
penitential tears, and, moved by Betty's clemency, confessed that he
had emptied the bottle of attar of rose on his head and rubbed it in.
He even offered to produce the empty bottle to corroborate his word,
which nobody doubted. However, the oft-deferred switching was once
more postponed, and the improved prospects raised Kettle's spirits
immediately. Half an hour afterward, when he was in dry clothes, he was
as cheerful as ever, although minus his wool, and, having been sent to
the wood-pile by the still indignant Aunt Tulip, was seen standing on
his head in the intervals of picking up chips.