There was the patter of small feet beyond Betty's door, and little
Steve, who looked more like a nice fat black Cupid than anything else,
rapped softly; at the same time he effected to squint through the
keyhole.
“Supper served, Missy,” he announced, then he turned no less than seven
handsprings in the upper hall and slid down the balustrade to the floor
below. He was far from being a model house servant.
His descent was witnessed by the butler. Now in his own youth big Steve
with as fair a field had cut similar capers, yet he was impelled by his
sense of duty to do for his grandson what his own father had so often
done for him, and in no perfunctory manner. It was only the sound of
Betty's door opening and closing that stayed his hand as he was making
choice of a soft and vulnerable spot to which he should apply it. Little
Steve slid under the outstretched arm that menaced him and fled to the
dining-room.
Betty came slowly down the stairs. Four hours since Jeff had ridden away
with the letter. Already there had come to her moments when, she would
have given much could she have recalled it, when she knew with dread
certainty that whatever her feeling for Charley, it was not love;
moments when she realized that she had been cruelly driven by
circumstances into a situation that offered no escape.
“Mas'r Tom he say he won't come in to supper, Missy; he 'low he's
powerful busy, gittin' ready to go to Memphis in the mo'ning,” explained
Steve, as he followed Betty into the dining-room.
His mistress nodded indifferently as she seated herself at the table;
she was glad to be alone just then; she was in no mood to carry on the
usual sluggish conversation with Tom; her own thoughts absorbed her more
and more they became terrifying things to her.
She ate her supper with big Steve standing behind her chair and little
Steve balancing himself first on one foot and then on the other near the
door. Little Steve's head was on a level with the chair rail and but
for the rolling whites of his eyes he was no more than a black shadow
against the walnut wainscoting; he formed the connecting link between
the dining-room and the remote kitchen. Betty suspected that most of the
platters journeyed down the long corridor deftly perched on top of his
woolly head. She frequently detected him with greasy or sticky fingers,
which while it argued a serious breach of trust also served to indicate
his favorite dishes. These two servitors were aware that their mistress
was laboring under some unusual stress of emotion. In its presence big
Steven, who, with the slightest encouragement, became a medium through
which the odds and ends of plantation gossip reached Betty's ears, held
himself to silence; while little Steve ceased to shift his weight from
foot to foot, the very dearth of speech fixed his attention.
The long French windows, their curtains drawn, stood open. All day a hot
September sun had beaten upon the earth, but with the fall of twilight
a soft wind had sprung up and the candles in their sconces flared at
its touch. It came out of wide solitudes laden with the familiar night
sounds. It gave Betty a sense of vast unused spaces, of Belle Plain
clinging on the edge of an engulfing wilderness, of her own loneliness.
She needed Charley as much as he seemed to think he needed her. The life
she had been living had become suddenly impossible of continuance; that
it had ever been possible was because of Charley; she knew this now as
she had never known it before.
Her thoughts dealt with the past. In her one great grief, her mother's
death, it had been Charley who had sustained and comforted her. She was
conscious of a choking sense of gratitude as she recalled his patient
tenderness at that time, the sympathy and understanding he had shown; it
was something never to be forgotten.
Unrest presently sent her from the house. She wandered down to the
terrace. Before her was the wide sweep of the swampy fore-shore, and
beyond just beginning to silver in the moonlight, the bend of the river
growing out of the black void. With her eyes on the river and her hands
clasped loosely she watched the distant line of the Arkansas coast
grow up against the sky; she realized that the moon was rising on Betty
Malroy for the last time.
She liked Charley; she needed some one to take care of her and her
belongings, and he needed her. It was best for them both that she should
marry him. True she might have gone back to Judith Ferris; that would
have been one solution of her difficulties. Why hadn't she thought of
doing this before? Of course, Charley would have followed her East.
Charley met the ordinary duties and responsibilities of his position
somewhat recklessly; it was only where she was concerned that he became
patiently determined.
“I suppose the end would have been the same there as here,” thought
Betty.
A moment later she found herself wondering if Charley had told
Carrington yet; certainly the Kentuckian would not remain at Thicket
Point when he knew. She was sure she wished him to leave not Thicket
Point merely, but the neighborhood. She did not wish to see him
again--not see him again--not see him again--She found herself repeating
the words over and over; they shaped themselves into a dreadful refrain.
A nameless terror of the future swept in upon her. She was cold and
sick. It was as though an icy hand was laid upon her heart. The words
ran on in endless repetition--not see him again--they held the very soul
of tragedy for her, yet she was roused to passionate protest. She
must not think of him, he was nothing to her. She was to be married to
another man, even now she was almost a wife--but battle as she might the
struggle went on.
There was the sound of a step on the path. Betty turned, supposing it to
be Tom; but it was not Tom, it was Carrington himself who stood before
her, his face haggard and drawn. She uttered an involuntary exclamation
and shrank away from him. Without a word he stepped to her side and took
her hands rather roughly.
For a moment there was silence between them, Betty stared up into his
face with wide scared eyes, while he gazed down at her as if he would
fasten something on his mind that must never be forgotten. Suddenly
he lifted her soft cold hands to his lips and kissed them passionately
again and again; then he held them in his own against his cheek, his
glance still fixed intently upon her; it held something of bitterness
and reproach, but now she kept her eyes under their quivering lids from
him.
“What am I to do without you?”--his voice was almost a whisper. “What is
this thing you have done?” Betty's heart was beating with dull sickening
throbs, but she dared not trust herself to answer him. He took both her
hands in one of his, and, slipping the other under her chin, raised her
face so that he could look into her eyes; then he put his arm loosely
about her, holding her hands against his breast. “If I could have had
one moment out of all the years for my own--only one. I am glad you
don't care, dear; it hurts when you reach the end of something that has
been all your hope and filled all your days. I have come to say good-by,
Betty; this is the last time I shall see you. I am going away.”
All in an instant Betty pressed close to him, hiding her face in his
arm; she clung to him in a panic of pain and horror. She felt something
stir within her that had never been there before, as a storm of
passionate longing swept through her. Her words, her promise to another
man, became as nothing. All her pride was forgotten. Without this man
the days stretched away before her a blank. His arm drew her closer
still, until she felt her heart throb against his.
“Do you care?” he said, and seemed to wonder that she should.
“Bruce, Bruce, I didn't know--and now--Oh, my dear, my dear--” He
pressed his lips against the bright little head that rested in such
miserable abandon against his shoulder.
“Do you love me?” he whispered. The blood ran riot in his veins.
“Why have you stayed away--why didn't you come to me? I have promised
him--” she gasped.
“I know,” he said, and shut his lips. There was another silence while
she waited for him to speak. She felt that she was at his mercy, that
whether right or wrong, as he decided so it would be. At length he said.
“I thought it wasn't fair to him, and it seemed so hopeless after I came
here. I had nothing--and a man feels that--so I kept away.” He spoke
awkwardly with something of the reserve that was habitual to him.
“If you had only come!” she moaned.
“I did--once,” he muttered.
“You didn't understand; why did you believe anything I said to you? It
was only that I cared--that in my heart I knew I cared--I've cared
about you ever since that trip down the river, and now I am going to
be married to-morrow--to-morrow, Bruce--do you realize I have given my
promise? I am to meet him at the Spring Bank church at ten o'clock--and
it's tomorrow!” she cried, in a laboring choked voice. For answer he
drew her closer. “Bruce, what can I do?--tell me what I can do.”
Carrington made an involuntary gesture of protest.
“I can't tell you that, dear--for I don't know.” His voice was steady,
but it came from lips that quivered. He knew that he might have urged
the supreme claim of his love and in her present desperate mood she
would have listened, but the memory of Norton would have been between
them always a shame and reproach; as surely as he stood there with his
arms about her, as surely as she clung to him so warm and near, he would
have lived to see the shadow of that shame in her eyes.
“I can not do it--I can not, Bruce!” she panted.
“Dear--dear--don't tempt me!” He held himself in check.
“I am going to tell you--just this once, Bruce--I love you--you are my own
for this one moment out of my life!” and she abandoned herself to the
passionate caressing with which he answered her. “How can I give you
up?” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. He put her from him almost
roughly, and leaning against the trunk of a tree buried his face in his
hands. Betty watched him for a moment in wretched silence.
“Don't feel so bad, Bruce,” she said brokenly. “I am not worth it. I
tried not to love you--I didn't want to.” She raised a white face to
his.
“I am going now, Betty. You--you shouldn't stay here any longer with
me.” He spoke with sudden resolution.
“And I shall not see you again?” she asked, in a low, stifled voice.
“It's good-by--” he muttered.
“Not yet--oh, not yet, Bruce--” she implored. “I can not--”
“Yes--now, dear. I don't dare stay--I may forget--” but he turned again
to her in entreaty. “Give me something to remember in all the years
that are coming when I shall be alone--let me kiss you on the lips--let
me--just this once--it's good-by we're saying--it's good-by, Betty!”
She went to him, and, as he bent above her, slipped her arms about his
neck.
“Kiss me--” she breathed.
He kissed her hair, her soft cheek, then their lips met.
He helped her as she stumbled blindly along the path to the house,
and half lifted her up the steps to the door. They paused there for a
moment. At last he turned from her abruptly in silence. A step away he
halted.
“If you should ever need me--” “Never as now,” she said.
She saw his tall figure pass down the path, and her straining eyes
followed until it was lost in the mild wide spaces of the night.
Another hot September sun was beating upon the earth as Betty galloped
down the lane and swung her horse's head in the direction of Raleigh.
Her grief had worn itself out and she carried a pale but resolute face.
Carrington was gone; she would keep her promise to Charley and he should
never know what his happiness had cost her. She nerved herself for their
meeting; somewhere between Belle Plain and Thicket Point Norton would be
waiting for her.
He joined her before she had covered a third of the distance that
separated the two plantations.
“Thank God, my darling!” he cried fervently, as he ranged up alongside
of her.
“Then you weren't sure of me, Charley?”
“No, I wasn't sure, Betty--but I hoped. I have been haunting the road
for more than an hour. You are making one poor unworthy devil happy,
unless--”
“Unless what, Charley?” she prompted.
“Unless you came here merely to tell me that after all you couldn't
marry me.” He put out his hand and covered hers that held the reins.
“I'll never give you cause to regret it--you know how I love you, dear?”
“Yes, Charley--I know.” She met his glance bravely.
“We are to go to the church. Mr. Bowen will be there; I arranged with
him last night; he will drive over with his wife and daughter, who will
be our witnesses, dear. We could have gone to his house, but I thought
it would seem more like a real wedding in a church, you know.”
Betty did not answer him, her eyes were fixed straight ahead, the last
vestige of color had faded from her face and a deathly pallor was there.
This was the crowning horror. She felt the terrible injustice she was
doing the man at her side, the depth and sincerity of his devotion was
something for which she could make no return. Her lips trembled on the
verge of an avowal of her love for Carrington. Presently she saw the
church in its grove of oaks, in the shade of one of these stood Mr.
Bowen's horse and buggy.
“We won't have to wait on him!” said Norton.
“No--” Betty gasped out the monosyllable.
“Why--my darling--what's the matter?” he asked tenderly, his glance bent
in concern on the frightened face of the girl.
“Nothing--nothing, Charley.”
They had reined in their horses. Norton sprang to the ground and lifted
her from the saddle.
“It will only take a moment, dear!” he whispered encouragingly in the
brief instant he held her in his arms.
“Oh, Charley, it isn't that--it's dreadfully serious--” she said, with a
wild little laugh that was almost hysterical.
“I wouldn't have it less than that,” he said gravely.
Afterward Betty could remember standing before the church in the fierce
morning light; she heard Mr. Bowen's voice, she heard Charley's voice,
she heard another voice--her own, though she scarcely recognized it.
Then, like one aroused from a dream, she looked about her--she met
Charley's glance; his face was radiant and she smiled back at him
through a sudden mist that swam before her eyes.
Mr. Bowen led her toward the church door. As they neared it they caught
the clatter of hoofs, and Tom Ware on a hard-ridden horse dashed up; he
was covered with dust and inarticulate with rage. Then a cry came from
him that was like the roar of some mortally wounded animal.
“I forbid this marriage!” he shrieked, when he could command speech.
“You're too late to stop it, Tom, but you can attend it,” said Norton
composedly.
“You--you--” Words failed the planter; he sat his horse the picture of a
grim and sordid despair.
Mr. Bowen divided a look of reproach between his wife and daughter; his
own conscience was clear; he had told no one of the purpose of Norton's
call the night before.
“I'll tie the horses, Betty,” said Norton.
Ware turned fiercely to Bowen.
“You knew better than to be a party to this, and by God!--if you go on
with it you shall live to regret it!”
The minister made him no answer, he thoroughly disapproved of the
planter. It was well that Betty should have a proper protector, this
half-brother was hardly that measured by any standard.
Norton, leading the horses, had reached the edge of the oaks when from
the silent depths of the denser woods came the sharp report of a rifle.
The shock of the bullet sent the young fellow staggering back among the
mossy and myrtle-covered graves.
For a moment no one grasped what had happened, only there was Norton who
seemed to grope strangely among the graves. Black spots danced
before his eyes, the little group by the church merged into the
distance--always receding, always more remote, as he, stumbled
helplessly over the moss and the thick dank myrtle and among the round
graves that gave him a treacherous footing; and then he heard Betty's
agonized cry. He had fallen now, and his strength went from him, but he
kept his face turned on the group before the church in mute appeal, and
even as the shadows deepened he was aware that Betty was coming swiftly
toward him.
“I'm shot--” he said, speaking with difficulty.
“Charley--Charley--” she moaned, slipping her strong young arms about
him and gathering him to her breast.
He looked up into her face.
“It's all over--” he said, but as much in wonder as in fear. “But I knew
you would come to me--dear--” he added in a whisper. She felt a shudder
pass through him. He did not speak again. His lips opened once, and
closed on silence.