GILCREST'S ATTITUDE
Several weeks wore away, and still no one except Major Gilcrest, his
daughter, the Rogers family and James Drane was aware of the change in
Abner's worldly prospects. As to his business affairs, he felt no
uneasiness; for he knew that his interests in Virginia were being
looked after by Dr. Dudley; and in regard to the Henderson County land,
he agreed with Drane that as it was still in the hands of tenants,
nothing need be done at present towards making known his ownership. But
he became extremely impatient over the unsettled state of his love
affair.
Major Gilcrest, instead of growing more like his former self, became
sterner, if possible, and had little to do with his neighbors. Betsy,
strong in the belief that time would effect a favorable change in her
father's attitude, still pleaded with Abner not to speak with him.
James Drane was often at Oaklands, and Abner, aware of this, while he,
Betsy's betrothed husband, was prohibited from visiting her, grew more
and more moody and impatient, and sometimes in his despondency he
pictured the girl as listening with growing interest to Drane's
entertaining talk, and yielding more and more to his fascination.
"With her headstrong old father so set against me, and so confoundedly
wrapped up in Drane, it would be no great wonder if Betty were finally
stolen from me," thought Abner bitterly, one afternoon when he knew
that the lawyer was at Oaklands. He had little heart for social
gayeties of the neighborhood, although he sometimes went to these
gatherings in the hope of seeing Betsy. Yet these meetings amid a crowd
of young people were very unsatisfactory.
"I reckon Betsy holds herse'f above common fo'ks, now she's visitin'
'mong the big bugs," Abner heard Mrs. Rogers say one day in answer to
Lucy's remark that Betsy never came to see them now.
"No, ma," Susan ventured, "Betsy is not one to change. She loves us as
well as ever, I feel sure."
"Well, ef she ain't too stuck up to notice us, her ma's too proud to
let her," retorted Mrs. Rogers. "I allus said thet in spite uv Jane's
meechin' ways, she felt herse'f above us. We ain't got blue blood in
our veins. We ain't kin to the Temples an' Blairs an' Goodloes, and the
rest uv them ristahcrats."
"Mrs. Gilcrest always treats me well when I go there," answered Susan,
"and as for Betsy," she continued, her cheeks flushing and her eyes
shining, "she's the truest, sweetest girl that ever lived."
"Then, why don't she come to see us lak she usetah?" demanded Mrs.
Rogers.
Susan said nothing, but involuntarily glanced at Abner. Their eyes met;
Susan quickly averted hers, and he thought, "I wonder if Susan knows!"
"Thah's her pap, too," Mrs. Rogers went on, "he's gittin' crusty an'
stiff-lipped ez a sore-eyed b'ar."
"Hiram ain't hisse'f jes' now," interposed Mason; "he's plum crazy kaze
folks ain't ready to jump on Brothah Stone an' t'ar him limb frum limb.
Hiram's daft on whut he calls pure faith an' docturn, an' is allus
boastin' thet his ancestry wuz burnt et the stakes, way back in them
dark ages, fur ther religion."
"Religion! sich carryin'-on ain't no religion," exclaimed Mrs. Rogers.
"'Tain't nothin' but stubbunness an' devilment, an' it'd be a good
thing, I say, ef Hirum could be tied up an' sco'ched a bit hisse'f."
"Well, well, he's a good man et bottom," replied her husband. "We hev
lived neighbors ovah twenty year, an' he's allus been ready to do us a
good turn, in sickness, in health an' in trouble. As fur his wife, I
wondah, Cynthy Ann, thet you kin find it in yer heart to say aught
ag'in her. Hev you furgot thet wintah the twins wuz borned, an' I wuz
crippled up with rheumatiz, an' the niggahs down with the measles, how
she sent ole Dilsey (though Jane hed a young baby herse'f, an' could
ill spar' the niggah) to wait on us? Ez fur Betsy," with a sly look at
Abner, "I agree with Cissy; she's the smartest, purtiest gal in these
parts, an' good an' true ez she is purty."
One Saturday afternoon in February, Betsy did come to see Susan Rogers.
Mrs. Rogers had gone to spend the afternoon at a neighbor's, and Abner,
who had been felling trees at his own place, did not return to the
house until just as Betsy was leaving. With a timidity born of
self-consciousness, Betsy grew still and embarrassed, and soon
afterwards rose to go. "It gets dark so early now," she said, "and I
came alone through the fields."
Abner caught up his hat while she was donning cloak and hood.
"Let's walk part way with Betsy," cried Lucindy. "Come, Lucy, an' you
too, Cissy. Maybe we'll meet ma comin' home." But Susan said she must
attend to supper; nor would she let the twins go.
"Instead of taking the short cut through the fields, let's go around by
the woods, dearest," Abner proposed as soon as he and Betsy had set out
on their walk.
"Very well, we have plenty of time," she agreed happily. "There's no
telling when we may have another such chance, and I have much to say to
you. You may walk as far as the upper woods with me, if you are good."
"No farther than that?" he asked reproachfully.
"Only to the bars this time, I think, dear," she answered gently,
slipping her hand into his.
In spite of her loving little gesture, he still looked gloomy. "Oh,
these long, wretched weeks when I have so hungered for a sight of your
face and the sound of your voice!" he presently exclaimed. "And now
when I am at last alone with you, you appoint boundaries and limits,
and place restrictions upon my walk with you!" and he grasped her hand
in a tighter clasp and looked at her somewhat sternly. "Oh, my
darling," he broke off, as she turned a wistful, tearful gaze upon him,
"forgive my harsh words," and he gathered her into his arms and kissed
her tenderly. "It is only because I love you so passionately, my life,
my sweetest one. Won't you speak to me, dearest?" he asked, as she
continued silent.
"'Speech is silver, silence is golden,' according to some wise
authority," Betsy at last said meaningly and rather reproachfully,
although she smiled faintly and looked at him with love-lit eyes.
"But the oracle, when he uttered that bit of questionable wisdom,
wasn't, I dare say, walking with his sweetheart after dreary weeks of
separation," said Abner, squeezing her hand. "If he had, he would have
preferred silvery speech to golden silence--or, rather, the utterances
of his beloved one would have been to him as doubly refined gold; and
I'm perfectly certain that his sweetheart could not have compared with
my piquant, peerless Betty. Besides, you declared awhile ago that you
had much to say to me."
"So I had, Sir Flatterer," the girl answered with a radiant smile, her
momentary sadness completely banished by his fond words, "but at the
present moment the delight of being in your improving society has
robbed me of all desire to talk. And what greater proof could I give
that I love you?" she continued with an arch glance. "It is surely a
mighty power indeed that makes a chatterbox like me to revel in
silence."
"How I love this dear old forest!" was Abner's exclamation presently.
"Every tree, every stick and stone, every foot of ground, seems sacred.
Do you not love it all, my darling?"
"I do indeed," she acknowledged. "In fact," she added laughingly, "I
think, by rights, this woods belongs exclusively to us and our love,
and I consider any one else guilty of sacrilegious effrontery in even
walking through its sacred precincts. But you don't appear in
especially radiant spirits, my friend, even though we are together in
our hallowed woods," she said presently as he walked silently by her
side.
"How can I be in radiant humor, Betty?" he retorted sadly. "This
restraint and concealment are becoming unendurable to me. We are nearly
to the bars now where you say I must turn back, and I must first have
some serious words with you. For three months and more, I have obeyed
your behest and have kept aloof from your house; but patience ceases to
be a virtue. I am no nearer winning your father to a more cordial frame
of mind than I was at first. On the contrary, in the few times I have
encountered him of late, he has appeared to be getting colder and more
formal, and I really believe this is due in a great measure to his
suspecting that there is a secret understanding between you and me. He
is a straightforward man and likes straightforward courses. Moreover,
how can I ever win his consent to our marriage unless I ask him? That's
only common sense; and furthermore, anything underhanded or clandestine
is as obnoxious to me as to him."
"Oh," she begged with a frightened look, "please wait a little longer.
He's sure to be in a more pliable humor after awhile, when this horrid
old church difficulty is settled. Oh, Abner, my love, I know it is
hard, but----"
"How hard," he interrupted gloomily, "you are far from realizing. These
miserable weeks of suppression and concealment have worn my patience
and self-control to the breaking-point. Now," he went on firmly, "I
will wait no longer. I will see your father to-morrow. Patience,
forsooth!" he ejaculated in answer to her further pleading, "when I'm
debarred from entering your home, must be satisfied with an occasional
stolen interview like this; when, too, I know that James Drane is a
frequent and welcome guest at Oaklands! How can I help being moody and
bitter and harassed? Sometimes I think I have overcome my former
dislike for Drane; for he is, to give him his due, invariably cordial
to me--in fact, he seems to seek and to enjoy my company--but when I
think of him as a favored guest at your father's house while I'm
prohibited from entering its doors, and while you, my betrothed wife,
beg me not to come near the house, is it any wonder I am harassed? He
was at Oaklands again yesterday, was he not?"
"Yes, he was; but that is of no moment," Betty answered frankly. "He is
dad's friend, not mine. I treat him courteously, of course; but that----"
"Your father may consider himself the magnet that draws Drane to
Oaklands," sneered Abner; "but I know better, and so do you, my girl.
The attraction for him is very different. The fellow's in love with
you. That's plain. 'He who runs may read.'"
"And he who reads had better run!" retorted Betsy, now thoroughly
nettled, "if this reading construes anything I do or say into
encouragement of this lawyer." And her eyes snapped wickedly, she drew
herself up haughtily, and her face grew pale and set.
"No, dear," Abner replied, undaunted by her anger. "I do not mean that.
You must not catch up my words in that way. I know the truth and
steadfastness of your nature too well to believe that you encourage or
coquette with Drane or any other man. My meaning is this: your father
likes Drane and thinks so highly of his brilliant prospects that the
mere fact that he is a possible suitor for your hand will dispose your
father to think with the less favor of my pretensions. And indeed,
Betty dear, though I do not for a moment think you encourage the
fellow, still what I have said of the situation is true in regard to
his feelings and intentions; he wears his heart upon his sleeve."
"That he does not!" returned Betty with spirit; "not all of his heart,
at any rate; only such portions as are fit for public perusal. There's
much in his heart that would, I'm convinced, make queer reading, if one
could see into the depths of that well-controlled organ of his. You
see, I haven't got over my original instinct of distrust of James
Drane, if you have. Let him make love to me! Bah! I'd sooner listen to
the uncouth love phrases of the veriest clodhopper in Bourbon County
than to his honeyed, courtly utterances. Oh, there comes father!" she
broke off abruptly, looking across the woods.
When Major Gilcrest came up to the couple, his conduct fully justified
what Abner had been telling Betty. He nodded curtly to the young man,
asked Betty where she had been, and appeared little pleased when she
told him. Then, reminding her that it was getting late and that her
mother would be anxious, he advised her not to linger.
When the three reached the stile, Gilcrest, instead of inviting Abner
in, gave him another cool nod, and with a wave of his hand indicated
that Betty was to enter the house. Abner, however, detained him a
moment to request an interview on the morrow, which Gilcrest
hesitatingly granted, and in a way that boded ill for the lover's
hopes.
At the appointed hour next morning, the young man, screwing up his
courage to the sticking-place, knocked at the door of Oaklands. The
servant ushered him at once into her master's private office. Gilcrest
received his caller with extreme hauteur. Abner at once made known his
business.
Gilcrest heard him through without question or comment. Then, after a
pause, he said, "I have other plans for my daughter, Mr. Dudley."
"But--but--if--if--she herself--" stammered poor Abner, striving to
find the right words for Betty as well as for himself.
"There are no 'buts' nor 'ifs' about it, sir," Gilcrest answered
haughtily. "Betsy will do as I wish. She's at times rather self-willed,
and no doubt has been led away for the moment by some romantic
nonsense; but she's a sensible girl in the main, and knows what's best
for her. If she doesn't, I do, and I'm master of my own household, I
assure you."
"Has she other suitors?" Abner ventured.
"That, sir, if you will permit my saying so, is no affair of yours. She
shall not marry any one against my will, you may be sure; and when she
does marry, it will be a man whose social position and worldly
prospects are such as to preclude all suspicion of his seeking her from
any selfish motives."
"Sir," Abner broke forth hotly, "do you mean to insinuate that I have
self-seeking motives in wishing to marry your daughter?"
"I mean to insinuate nothing, young man."
"But you do, sir; by God, you do insinuate that my love is founded upon
self-interest, and that is something I can not permit."
"Come, come, Mr. Dudley, keep your temper, and don't talk to me about
not permitting. Let your motives be what they may, we will not discuss
that. Suffice it to say, I refuse my consent."
"At least tell me this, Major Gilcrest: do you object to me personally,
or is your refusal due to other reasons? I'm of as good blood as
yourself, and I can maintain your daughter in comfort."
"Understand this, young sir, once for all," replied Gilcrest, "I
decline positively to accept any proposal from you. If you will have a
plain answer, I now tell you that aside from any other matrimonial
views which I may or may not have for my daughter, I should in any case
decline the honor of an alliance with you. I bid you good morning, sir.
Polly, open the door for Mr. Dudley."
From an upper window Betsy was watching for Abner; and the angry flush
on his face, and the way he flung himself into the saddle, told her
that he had fared ill. She raised the window, and he looked up. He
gazed at her yearningly, then, with a wave of his hand toward her
father's room, rode down the long avenue.
Betsy waited in her room an hour, then sought her father. He was
fumbling with some papers, too busy to take any notice of her. Finally,
as he would not speak, she went to him. "Father, why have you sent
Abner away?"
Major Gilcrest was proud of his only girl, and, in his own way,
extremely fond of her; but he would listen to no plea in behalf of her
lover. He gave no reason, but simply said that the young man was no
suitable match for her, and that she would one day be thankful that she
had not been allowed to marry him.
Betsy, at first gentle and pleading, grew indignant. Her father, even
more indignant, finally ordered her to her room, forbidding her to hold
further communication with her lover.
Next day, Abner wrote her. He assured her of his unchangeable love, and
bade her have courage. He wrote also to Major Gilcrest, stating that
although he would not at present seek Betsy or urge his claim in any
way, he nevertheless considered that they were pledged to one another,
and that he would never give her up unless she herself asked for her
release.
One day, a month after this, Betsy from her window saw Mr. Drane riding
up the avenue. She got her bonnet and stole out the back way to where
her horse was saddled. Coming back after a gallop, she met Abner, and
they rode together a short while. Then her father overtook them.
Without even a bow to her escort, Major Gilcrest told his daughter she
was wanted at home, and, laying hold of her bridle, compelled her to
ride on with him. This was intolerable to Betty's lover, and, after
tossing all night in a tumult of indignation, he again sought her
father.