BETSY DECLINES THE HONOR
For Betsy Gilcrest the year of 1803 dragged along in dreary monotony.
All through the radiant freshness of June, the rich glow of July, the
intense, white heat of August, and the mellow charm of early autumn the
temperature in her veins had been steadily declining; for she had no
message from her betrothed.
In June her father had received Abner's letter. Its manly resignation
of Betty, and its undertone of hopeless sadness, touched Major
Gilcrest; for now that his soul was no longer vexed with apprehension
for his daughter's future, his better nature asserted itself, and he
felt the most profound pity for the unfortunate youth in his undeserved
disgrace. For the time, Major Gilcrest even forgot his suspicions that
Abner had been in league with Wilkinson, Sebastian and Powers in any
traitorous designs against the Government.
A note for Betsy had been enclosed in the letter to her father. He
thought best to withhold this note, lest its tender sadness might have
the opposite effect to that which he desired; and, instead of causing
her to forget her lover, it might make her cling the more tenaciously
to the memory of her lost happiness.
During all these months Major Gilcrest had taken no steps toward
establishing his wife's claim to the Hite inheritance; nor had James
Drane made any move toward this end, since his letter declining to act
as Abner's agent. The reason for this stay of proceedings was due to
Mrs. Gilcrest. Her husband, while refraining from entering into full
particulars, had told her enough of his hopes and intentions to cause
her the greatest apprehension. If this claim was pushed forward openly,
she thought, not only must the world learn her real maiden name, and
that she had been a widow Logan, but, what was far worse to the weak,
timid woman, her husband would learn that she had deceived him all
these years about her clandestine marriage, and regarding all the
shameful details of her connection with John Logan. She begged and
prayed Major Gilcrest to make no claim to the inheritance. They did not
need it, and the publicity and comment and surmise that would follow,
if he tried to enforce her claim, would kill her, she said. He did not
consent at once, but finally, when she became so agitated as to fall
really ill, he, fearing that further agitation in her weak condition
might prove actually fatal to her, decided to make no public move in
the matter, for the present, at least--until her nerves and strength
had recovered their usual tone.
Thus time wore on, and each succeeding day as it passed, bringing no
tidings to poor Betty, carried hope and love and happiness further from
her grasp. Oaklands had never before seemed desolate and drear; and she
could not have believed, had she been told, that she could ever look
with ungracious eyes upon the stately home of her childhood. She missed
the boisterous gayety of her brothers. John Calvin and Martin were
students at Cambridge University, Silas and Philip were absent all day
at the neighborhood school, and only little Matthew was left at home.
None of the family were allowed to attend services at Cane Ridge
meeting-house; Betsy was forbidden to hold intercourse with the Rogers
family; and she had no heart for any of the little merrymakings of the
neighborhood. Her parents urged another visit to Mary Winston, but to
this Betsy would not consent; for at the Winstons James Drane would be
an almost daily visitor, and Betsy now shared fully her lover's
distrust of the young lawyer.
One morning in early October, Betsy, sitting languidly with her sewing
in the long side porch, saw Mr. Drane ride up the avenue. She at once
gathered up her work and slipped away to her room, where she sat
expecting every moment a summons to come down. When an hour had passed,
she supposed that the visitor had departed, and she was folding up her
work, intending to go for a ramble through the woods--for her chief
solace now was to revisit the spot where she, nearly a year before, had
plighted her troth--when little Matthew came with a message from her
father that she was to come down at once to the parlor. "An' I mussen
tum back wid oo, pappy says," added the little fellow; "I'se to doe to
Mammy Dilsey an' det my face washed, an' my hair turled, an' a c'ean
apawn on."
"Who's there, baby, besides father? and where's mother?"
"Her's dere too, an' Mistah Drane, an' he tissed me, an' say I'se a
fine 'ittle man, an' he will tek me a nice wide on his pitty b'ack
hawse; so huwy up, sisser, an' tum an' see him, so's we tan doe
a-widin'."
When the girl entered the parlor, she saw at once that this was to be a
momentous interview. Her mother, dressed in her best silk gown, but
looking pale and nervous, was talking to Mr. Drane, who was seated
beside her on the sofa; while her father, looking more bland than she
had seen him for a long time, was slowly pacing the floor.
Mrs. Gilcrest gave her daughter an appealing, deprecating look as the
girl entered, and then sank back on the sofa with her hands twitching
nervously. Drane rose at once, and, stepping briskly across the room to
meet Betsy, bowed long before her, and then extended his hand. After a
moment's hesitation, she gave him hers in return, which he with
graceful gallantry carried to his lips. Then, still holding her hand,
he led her across the room and placed an arm-chair for her facing her
father. After a slight hesitation, Drane was about to leave the room,
but Major Gilcrest quietly invited him to remain, whereupon the young
man retired to a position in a window-seat.
"My daughter," said Gilcrest, in his most stately manner, "our esteemed
young friend has done us the honor of seeking an alliance with this
family by a marriage with yourself; and, like the honorable gentleman
he is, he has, before addressing you, laid his proposal before your
parents. I have desired him to remain in the room that he may hear me
tell you that there is no one to whom I would more willingly intrust my
daughter's future. You have known him long, and, I dare say, esteem him
highly; for he has everything to recommend him to your favor. Your
mother and I have given our cordial approval, and we will now leave him
to plead his cause with you. Knowing him as I do, and knowing you, I
feel sure he will not plead in vain. Come, my dear," he said to his
wife, "we will now withdraw."
If Gilcrest by this confident manner thought to overawe his daughter
and surprise her into acceptance, he was speedily undeceived.
"Stop, father! Stop, mother!" Betty cried, rising from her chair and
facing her father, her lips firmly set, her face pale, determination in
every line of her graceful figure. "What I have to say to Mr. Drane
must be said in your hearing." Gilcrest, surprised at the firmness of
her voice and the determination and dignity of her bearing, stood
still, facing her; Mrs. Gilcrest sank limply into the nearest chair.
Betsy continued: "I am sensible of the honor Mr. Drane does me in
seeking my hand; but I am surprised at his persisting in a suit which
he must know is displeasing to me. More than once has he so plainly
intimated his intentions that I could not fail to understand, and just
as plainly have I intimated that I could not favor his suit. I now, in
your presence, say what I have so often hinted to him--that I can never
be his wife."
"Tut! tut! girl, have done with these unseemly airs!" said her father,
sharply. "You are not capable of judging. Your parents know best what
is good for you."
"No, sir," said Betty, firmly, "in this matter which involves my whole
future, not even my parents shall choose for me. And you know, too,
that my love is given and my troth plighted to another."
"Stop such maudlin raving! Your 'troth plighted'! Tut! you do not know
what you are saying; and as for your love, it is but the puling
sentimentality of a silly girl, which you will soon outgrow."
"Sir," said Betsy, turning toward the crestfallen young lawyer, "I beg
that you leave us. I have given you my answer; it is irrevocable.
Though humbly thanking you for the honor you would confer upon me, I
can not be your wife."
"No, no! don't go, James. The girl does not know her own mind; but, by
heaven, she shall be made to hear reason!" exclaimed Gilcrest,
furiously. "Wait, man, I beg of you; I wish to confer further with you.
As for you, you undutiful, foolish girl, you may leave the room while I
talk with Mr. Drane."
"No," said James, "it will be better for me to leave you now," and,
bowing low, he took up his hat and departed.
"But, James, I--we----" stammered Hiram; but the discomfited suitor was
out of hearing.
Gilcrest turned angrily to his daughter. "You self-willed, troublesome
baggage!" he ejaculated.
"Father," said Betty, quietly, "it is of no use for you to storm in
this way. I have always been a dutiful daughter; but in this matter I
mean to decide for myself."
"Why don't you speak to her, Jane?" he asked, turning to his wife. "Why
do you sit there listless and dumb? Have you no influence over the
girl?" But Mrs. Gilcrest was dissolved in tears, and leaned back
tremblingly in her chair, saying never a word.
"Is everything going against me?" groaned the old man, pacing the room
excitedly. "I'm thwarted and set at naught on every hand--church,
neighbors, friends. I'll sell out and go back to Massachusetts. To
think that my only daughter!--Truly a man's worst foes are often those
of his own household."
"I grieve to cross you, father," answered Betsy, "for you have until
lately been fond and indulgent."
Trying to control himself to speak gently, he continued: "Betsy, my
daughter, believe me, I know what is best for you. As James Drane's
wife, you will be tenderly loved and indulged in every luxury, and have
every whim gratified; and I do think that my heartfelt desire in this
matter should incline you to at least consider well before you reject a
man whom any other girl in the State would be proud to accept."
"Dear father," said Betty, going up to him and laying her hand
beseechingly upon his arm, "I can never marry James Anson Drane."
The old man wavered as he saw the tears in his daughter's eyes, and
felt the clinging touch of her fingers. "There, there!" he said
soothingly, as he tenderly touched her wet cheek, "dry your eyes, dear,
and be comforted. It is only your welfare and happiness I seek. We'll
say nothing more just now; after awhile you'll see differently; and I
predict that before many months have gone by, you will not only be
reconciled to marrying James, but will be happy in the shelter of his
love, and will thank me for having urged you to accept him."
"Never!" exclaimed Betsy, drawing back defiantly. "I shall never again
listen to him, nor to you even, upon this subject. I dislike him
exceedingly, and I love Abner Dudley with my whole heart. Marry James
Drane! The very thought of such a thing fills me with loathing. I have
no confidence in his truth and integrity. I would beg my bread rather
than be his wife."
"I'll lock you up!" cried Gilcrest, exasperated beyond bounds, his
momentary tenderness completely vanquished by the girl's words. "I'll
starve you on bread and water, you insolent, outrageous fool!"
"O Hiram! Hiram! don't!" wailed Mrs. Gilcrest. "Don't be so hard. I can
not bear it! Oh, what shall I do! what shall I do!" and she wept and
trembled, and wrung her hands, until her husband and her daughter were
alarmed.
"This is your work," he said to Betsy, as he bent over his hysterical
wife. "You are breaking your mother's heart, you obstinate vixen. Ring
the bell for Dilsey, at once. Remain where you are, until I return," he
added to Betsy when Aunt Dilsey had obeyed the summons, and was
assisting him to carry his wife upstairs.
His anger had cooled somewhat when he returned to the parlor half an
hour later. "I can not, of course, force you to marry any one," he said
to his daughter; "nor for the present will I urge upon your
consideration the suit of Mr. Drane, against whom you have taken so
unreasoning and unjust a prejudice; but there's another point upon
which I must do my duty without shrinking. I command you to give up
thinking of Abner Dudley, now and forever."
"I can give you no such obedience," Betsy replied. "I am his promised
wife; but even though loving him as I do, I would give him back his
troth, if you could show just and adequate reason why I should.
Instead, you give no reason whatever."
"Is not my wish reason enough?" he asked, desiring to spare her the
humiliating knowledge of Abner's low birth, and the fact that he had
given her back her freedom.
"No, sir, it is not. I am no longer a child, to be made to obey you
blindly and unquestioningly."
"Then, if you will insist upon knowing my reasons, you willful girl,
you shall be enlightened. Your precious lover has renounced you; and,
what is more, he will never show his face in this community again."
"No, no! It can't be true. He is loyal. I will believe in him above all
the world. He will return. I know he will," cried Betsy, shrinking and
paling, but still strong in her faith.
"But he has renounced you, Betsy, my daughter. He has written me that
he must give you up."
"Let me see the letter," said Betsy, still unbelieving.
Gilcrest crossed the hall to his office, and in a few seconds returned
with Abner's letter. "I would have spared you this, my child, if
possible," her father said as she eagerly seized the letter.
"Oh, what lie is this they have told you, my persecuted, darling
Abner?" she exclaimed. "You, my proud, high-minded, noble lover, a
bastard! Never, never, never! It's all a vile plot to cheat you of your
betrothed wife and your inheritance. Ah! I know whose work this is. It
is that smiling, treacherous Judas, James Anson Drane. I feel it, I
know it."
"You rave, my miserable, deluded child," Gilcrest said sadly, "but even
though you are for the moment well-nigh bereft of reason by the shock
of hearing that your lover has given you up, you must not in your
bitterness utter so wicked, so utterly unfounded an accusation against
an honorable man who loves you truly and would make you his wife."
Nothing her father could say could induce her to believe that Abner was
not laboring under some delusion about his being base-born. She could
give no reason for this belief, she said; but her own heart and her own
instincts told her it was all a mistake, or else a scheme to separate
her and her lover. "This will all be cleared up, I feel that it will,"
she said again and again, "and he will come back to me soon, and
without a stain upon his name. I intend to write to him at once, and
tell him that though all the world should forsake him, I will still be
true to him, and will believe, too, in his right to wear an honorable
name."
Her father reasoned and pleaded in vain. He finally lost all patience,
and grew angrier than he had ever been with her. "Go to your room, you
unreasonable fool," he finally said. "Go! No longer offend my sight by
your presence--but listen, first, and remember I will be obeyed. I
forbid your writing one line to that base-born vagabond. Further, I
forbid your leaving these premises or holding any communication with
any one except members of this household, until you pledge me your word
of honor to have nothing more to do with Abner Dudley."
"Then, I'm a prisoner for life," answered Betty; "for so long as I live
and breathe, I shall love him. I mean to write to him as soon as I can
manage to escape your vigilance and tyranny long enough to post a
letter to him, and when he comes back to claim me, I will marry him in
spite of you and that villain, James Drane."