TWILIGHT
The spring came on apace, but instead of bringing with it the joy of
the springtime, an atmosphere of settled sadness seemed to descend upon
the little house at Holly Lodge, where a year ago there had been so
much of cheerfulness and merriment. The fire had been a severe shock to
Colonel Beverley, and all at once the blight of age appeared to be laid
upon him. It was the same with Uncle Cesar, and master and man, who
had spent nearly seventy years together, both seemed passing into the
shadowy path. Oftener than ever the Colonel would send for Uncle Cesar,
and the two old men would talk of their youth and of the four years of
starvation and marching and fighting during the war, and of times and
events long passed, of which they were the sole survivors. When they
fiddled together in the evenings, the music was faint; their bow arms
were feeble, and their fingering weak. Kettle, now almost recovered,
was able to do much of Uncle Cesar's work, and would have done it all
if he had been allowed. Even old Whitey suddenly seemed to falter under
the burden of years, and had to be coddled as old creatures should
be. As for Betty, it was as if in the midst of a spring morning the
soft and purple twilight had descended, as if all sounds of life were
stilled and the silence of the night were at hand. She could hardly
believe herself the same Betty that had laughed and danced and sung
so merrily during her short life. There were the same friends, the
same generous hospitality, the same kindly attentions from her friends
and neighbors as ever, but Betty now kept close to Holly Lodge. She
had a very good excuse. The Colonel was growing more and more infirm,
and upon Betty's delicate shoulders rested all the responsibilities
of three old persons and a child. She was quite equal to it, but she
could no longer go to dances and picnics like Sally Carteret and the
other girls of her acquaintance. It was true that a way for her to
go about was always provided by the kindness of those who remembered
that Whitey was an old horse, and that Uncle Cesar was an old man. But
Betty was rather glad of the excuse to stay at home. She had plenty to
keep her occupied all day, but in the soft spring dusk and the moonlit
midsummer nights, and the cool autumn twilights she would go into the
garden and walk up and down the path bordered by the box hedge. In
all that time Fortescue was never absent from her mind. She could see
with the eyes of the mind his lithe, military figure, his clear-cut,
aquiline face, his close-cropped dark head, and could hear his rich,
pleasant voice. A painful and humiliating conviction was forcing itself
upon Betty's mind; she began to fear that she had played the fool.
At heart, she was the soul of good, practical sense, and an act of
folly mortified and offended her as it does those who are sound and
sane. After a while, she faced the hateful truth that she had acted
arrogantly and foolishly, and apparently without heart. Fortescue had
been clearly within his rights, and what he had said about providing
for the Colonel and everything being made easy by the power of money,
instead of being dictatorial and purse-proud, as Betty had thought, was
really generous and provident. To lose perfect happiness by accident
or the fault of another is hard enough, but to lose it by one's own
folly and rashness was heartbreaking to Betty's frank soul and candid
temperament.
"But, after all," thought Betty, when in these twilight walks she
glanced toward the pile of Rosehill, mute and dark and uninhabited,
"it could not have been. How is it possible that I, Betty Beverley,
should ever be the mistress of Rosehill, and have Grandfather with me
and be the wife of Fortescue? No, it was too much. The gods are none
too generous. I had a treasure in the hollow of my hand, and I threw it
away. I shall not have it again."
A subtle change came over Betty's look and manner. She was as brave
as ever, but instead of the daring light in her eyes and the joyous
laughter on her lips, were the calm courage of endurance and a softness
and gentleness greater than she had ever before known. She spent every
hour that was possible with the Colonel, sitting by him with her
sewing--for Betty did all her own sewing--or reading to him, or playing
and singing to him; and to all in the little house, from the Colonel
down to little black Kettle, Betty was their light and strength, their
guardian angel. Life had turned its stern face upon her, and Betty was
learning bravely and quietly the meaning of that sternness.