years, during which The Maples was given over to moths
and rust, while I enjoyed life elsewhere. I did enjoy
it hugely, but always under protest, for I felt that a
broken-hearted man ought not to enjoy himself as I did.
It jarred on my sense of fitness, and I tried to
moderate my zest, and think more of the past than I
did. It was no use; the present insisted on being
intrusive and pleasant; as for the future . . . well,
there was no future.
Then Jack Churchill, poor fellow, died. A year after
his death, I went home and again asked Sara to marry
me, as in duty bound. Sara again declined, alleging
that her heart was buried in Jack's grave, or words to
that effect. I found that it did not much matter . . .
of course, at thirty-two one does not take these things
to heart as at twenty-two. I had enough to occupy me in
getting The Maples into working order, and beginning to
educate Betty.
Betty was Sara's ten year-old daughter, and she had
been thoroughly spoiled. That is to say, she had been
allowed her own way in everything and, having inherited
her father's outdoor tastes, had simply run wild. She
was a thorough tomboy, a thin, scrawny little thing
with a trace of Sara's beauty. Betty took after her
father's dark, tall race and, on the occasion of my
first introduction to her, seemed to be all legs and
neck. There were points about her, though, which I
considered promising. She had fine, almond-shaped,
hazel eyes, the smallest and most shapely hands and
feet I ever saw, and two enormous braids of thick, nut-
brown hair.
For Jack's sake I decided to bring his daughter up
properly. Sara couldn't do it, and didn't try. I saw
that, if somebody didn't take Betty in hand, wisely and
firmly, she would certainly be ruined. There seemed to
be nobody except myself at all interested in the
matter, so I determined to see what an old bachelor
could do as regards bringing up a girl in the way she
should go. I might have been her father; as it was, her
father had been my best friend. Who had a better right
to watch over his daughter? I determined to be a father
to Betty, and do all for her that the most devoted
parent could do. It was, self-evidently, my duty.
I told Sara I was going to take Betty in hand. Sara
sighed one of the plaintive little sighs which I had
once thought so charming, but now, to my surprise,
found faintly irritating, and said that she would be
very much obliged if I would.
"I feel that I am not able to cope with the problem of
Betty's education, Stephen," she admitted, "Betty is a
strange child . . . all Churchill. Her poor father
indulged her in everything, and she has a will of her
own, I assure you. I have really no control over her,
whatever. She does as she pleases, and is ruining her
complexion by running and galloping out of doors the
whole time. Not that she had much complexion to start
with. The Churchills never had, you know." . . . Sara
cast a complacent glance at her delicately tinted
reflection in the mirror. . . . "I tried to make Betty
wear a sunbonnet this summer, but I might as well have
talked to the wind."
A vision of Betty in a sunbonnet presented itself to my
mind, and afforded me so much amusement that I was
grateful to Sara for having furnished it. I rewarded
her with a compliment.
"It is to be regretted that Betty has not inherited her
mother's charming color," I said, "but we must do the
best we can for her under her limitations. She may have
improved vastly by the time she has grown up. And, at
least, we must make a lady of her; she is a most
alarming tomboy at present, but there is good material
to work upon . . . there must be, in the Churchill and
Currie blend. But even the best material may be spoiled
by unwise handling. I think I can promise you that I
will not spoil it. I feel that Betty is my vocation;
and I shall set myself up as a rival of Wordsworth's
'nature,' of whose methods I have always had a decided
distrust, in spite of his insidious verses."
Sara did not understand me in the least; but, then, she
did not pretend to.
"I confide Betty's education entirely to you, Stephen,"
she said, with another plaintive sigh. "I feel sure I
could not put it into better hands. You have always
been a person who could be thoroughly depended on."
Well, that was something by way of reward for a life-
long devotion. I felt that I was satisfied with my
self-appointed guardian of Betty. I also felt that, for
the furtherance of the cause I had taken to heart, it
was a good thing that Sara had again refused to marry
me. I had a sixth sense which informed me that a staid
old family friend might succeed with Betty where a
stepfather would have signally failed. Betty's loyalty
to her father's memory was passionate, and vehement;
she would view his supplanter with resentment and
distrust; but his old familiar comrade was a person to
be taken to her heart.
Fortunately for the success of my enterprise, Betty
liked me. She told me this with the same engaging
candor she would have used in informing me that she
hated me, if she had happened to take a bias in that
direction, saying frankly:
"You are one of the very nicest old folks I know,
Stephen. Yes, you are a ripping good fellow!"
This made my task a comparatively easy one; I sometimes
shudder to think what it might have been if Betty had
not thought I was a "ripping good fellow." I should
have stuck to it, because that is my way; but Betty
would have made my life a misery to me. She had
startling capacities for tormenting people when she
chose to exert them; I certainly should not have liked
to be numbered among Betty's foes.
I rode over to Glenby the next morning after my
paternal interview with Sara, intending to have a frank
talk with Betty and lay the foundations of a good
understanding on both sides. Betty was a sharp child,
with a disconcerting knack of seeing straight through
grindstones; she would certainly perceive and probably
resent any underhanded management. I thought it best to
tell her plainly that I was going to look after her.
When, however, I encountered Betty, tearing madly down
the beech avenue with a couple of dogs, her loosened
hair streaming behind her like a banner of
independence, and had lifted her, hatless and
breathless, up before me on my mare, I found that Sara
had saved me the trouble of an explanation.
"Mother says you are going to take charge of my
education, Stephen," said Betty, as soon a
s she could
speak. "I'm glad, because I think that, for an old
person, you have a good deal of sense. I suppose my
education has to be seen to, some time or other, and
I'd rather you'd do it than anybody else I know."
"Thank you, Betty," I said gravely. "I hope I shall
deserve your good opinion of my sense. I shall expect
you to do as I tell you, and be guided by my advice in
everything."
"Yes, I will," said Betty, "because I'm sure you won't
tell me to do anything I'd really hate to do. You won't
shut me up in a room and make me sew, will you? Because
I won't do it."
I assured her I would not.
"Nor send me to a boarding-school," pursued Betty.
"Mother's always threatening to send me to one. I
suppose she would have done it before this, only she
knew I'd run away. You won't send me to a boarding-
school, will you, Stephen? Because I won't go."
"No," I said obligingly. "I won't. I should never dream
of cooping a wild little thing, like you, up in a
boarding-school. You'd fret your heart out like a caged
skylark."
"I know you and I are going to get along together
splendidly, Stephen," said Betty, rubbing her brown
cheek chummily against my shoulder. "You are so good at
understanding. Very few people are. Even dad darling
didn't understand. He let me do just as I wanted to,
just because I wanted to, not because he really
understood that I couldn't be tame and play with dolls.
I hate dolls! Real live babies are jolly; but dogs and
horses are ever so much nicer than dolls."
"But you must have lessons, Betty. I shall select your
teachers and superintend your studies, and I shall
expect you to do me credit along that line, as well as
along all others."
"I'll try, honest and true, Stephen," declared Betty.
And she kept her word.
At first I looked upon Betty's education as a duty; in
a very short time it had become a pleasure . . . the
deepest and most abiding interest of my life. As I had
premised, Betty was good material, and responded to my
training with gratifying plasticity. Day by day, week
by week, month by month, her character and temperament
beholding the gradual development of some rare flower
in one's garden. A little checking and pruning here, a
careful training of shoot and tendril there, and, lo,
the reward of grace and symmetry!
Betty grew up as I would have wished Jack Churchill's
girl to grow - spirited and proud, with the fine spirit
and gracious pride of pure womanhood, loyal and loving,
with the loyalty and love of a frank and unspoiled
nature; true to her heart's core, hating falsehood and
sham - as crystal-clear a mirror of maidenhood as ever
man looked into and saw himself reflected back in such
a halo as made him ashamed of not being more worthy of
it. Betty was kind enough to say that I had taught her
everything she knew. But what had she not taught me? If
there were a debt between us, it was on my side.
Sara was fairly well satisfied. It was not my fault
that Betty was not better looking, she said. I had
certainly done everything for her mind and character
that could be done. Sara's manner implied that these
unimportant details did not count for much, balanced
against the lack of a pink-and-white skin and dimpled
elbows; but she was generous enough not to blame me.
"When Betty is twenty-five," I said patiently - I had
grown used to speaking patiently to Sara - "she will be
a magnificent woman - far handsomer than you ever were,
Sara, in your pinkest and whitest prime. Where are your
eyes, my dear lady, that you can't see the promise of
loveliness in Betty?"
"Betty is seventeen, and she is as lanky and brown as
ever she was," sighed Sara. "When I was seventeen I was
the belle of the county and had had five proposals. I
don't believe the thought of a lover has ever entered
Betty's head."
"I hope not," I said shortly. Somehow, I did not like
the suggestion. "Betty is a child yet. For pity's sake,
Sara, don't go putting nonsensical ideas into her
head."
"I'm afraid I can't," mourned Sara, as if it were
something to be regretted. "You have filled it too full
of books and things like that. I've every confidence in
your judgment, Stephen - and really you've done wonders
with Betty. But don't you think you've made her rather
too clever? Men don't like women who are too clever.
Her poor father, now - he always said that a woman who
liked books better than beaux was an unnatural
creature."
I didn't believe Jack had ever said anything so
foolish. Sara imagined things. But I resented the
aspersion of blue-stockingness cast on Betty.
"When the time comes for Betty to be interested in
beaux," I said severely, "she will probably give them
all due attention. Just at present her head is a great
deal better filled with books than with silly premature
fancies and sentimentalities. I'm a critical old fellow
- but I'm satisfied with Betty, Sara - perfectly
satisfied."
Sara sighed.
"Oh, I dare say she is all right, Stephen. And I'm
really grateful to you. I'm sure I could have done
nothing at all with her. It's not your fault, of
course, - but I can't help wishing she were a little
more like other girls."
I galloped away from Glenby in a rage. What a blessing
Sara had not married me in my absurd youth! She would
have driven me wild with her sighs and her obtuseness
and her everlasting pink-and-whiteness. But there -
there - there - gently! She was a sweet, good-hearted
little woman; she had made Jack happy; and she had
contrived, heaven only knew how, to bring a rare
creature like Betty into the world. For that, much
might be forgiven her. By the time I reached The Maples
and had flung myself down in an old, kinky, comfortable
chair in my library I had forgiven her and was even
paying her the compliment of thinking seriously over
what she had said.
Was Betty really unlike other girls? That is to say,
unlike them in any respect wherein she should resemble
them? I did not wish this; although I was a crusty old
bachelor I approved of girls, holding them the sweetest
things the good God has made. I wanted Betty to have
her full complement of girlhood in all its best and
highest manifestation. Was there anything lacking?
I observed Betty very closely during the next week or
so, riding over to Glenby every day and riding back at
night, meditating upon my observations. Eventually I
concluded to do what I had never thought myself in the
least likely to do. I would send Betty to a boarding-
school for a year. It was necessary that she should
learn how to live with other girls.
I went over to Glenby the next day and found Betty
under the beeches on the lawn, just back from a canter.
She was sitting on the dappled mare I had given her on
her last birthday, and was laughing at the antics of
her rejoicing dogs around her. I looked at her with
much pleasure; it gladdened me to see how much, nay,
how totally a child she still was, despite her
Churchill height. Her hair, under her velvet cap, still
hung over her shoulders in the same thick plaits; her
face had the firm leanness of early youth, but its
curves were very fine and delicate. The brown skin,
that worried Sara so, was flushed through with dusky
color from her gallop; her long, dark eyes were filled
with the beautiful unconsciousness of childhood. More
than all, the soul in her was still the soul of a
child. I found myself wishing that it could always
remain so. But I knew it could not; the woman must
blossom out some day; it was my duty to see that the
flower fulfilled the promise of the bud.
When I told Betty that she must go away to a school for
a year, she shrugged, frowned and consented. Betty had
learned that she must consent to what I decreed, even
when my decrees were opposed to her likings, as she had
once fondly believed they never would be. But Betty had
acquired confidence in me to the beautiful extent of
acquiescing in everything I commanded.
"I'll go, of course, since you wish it, Stephen," she
said. "But why do you want me to go? You must have a
reason - you always have a reason for anything you do.
What is it?"
"That is for you to find out, Betty," I said. "By the
time you come back you will have discovered it, I
think. If not, it will not have proved itself a good
reason and shall be forgotten."
When Betty went away I bade her good-by without
burdening her with any useless words of advice.
"Write to me every week, and remember that you are
Betty Churchill," I said.
Betty was standing on the steps above, among her dogs.
She came down a step and put her arms about my neck.
"I'll remember that you are my friend and that I must
live up to you," she said. "Good-by, Stephen."
She kissed me two or three times - good, hearty smacks!
did I not say she was still a child? - and stood waving
her hand to me as I rode away. I looked back at the end
of the avenue and saw her standing there, short-skirted
and hatless, fronting the lowering sun with those
fearless eyes of hers. So I looked my last on the child
Betty.
That was a lonely year. My occupation was gone and I
began to fear that I had outlived my usefulness. Life
seemed flat, stale, and unprofitable. Betty's weekly
letters were all that lent it any savor. They were
spicy and piquant enough. Betty was discovered to have
unsuspected talents in the epistolary line. At first
she was dolefully homesick, and begged me to let her
come home. When I refused - it was amazingly hard to
refuse - she sulked through three letters, then cheered
up and began to enjoy herself. But it was nearly the
end of the year when she wrote:
"I've found out why you sent me here, Stephen - and I'm
glad you did."
I had to be away from home on unavoidable business the
day Betty returned to Glenby. But the next afternoon I
went over. I found Betty out and Sara in. The latter
was beaming. Betty was so much improved, she declared
delightedly. I would hardly know "the dear child."
This alarmed me terribly. What on earth had they done
to Betty? I found that she had gone up to the pineland
for a walk, and thither I betook myself speedily. When
I saw her coming down a long, golden-brown alley I
stepped behind a tree to watch her - I wished to see
her, myself unseen. As she drew near I gazed at her
with pride, and admiration and amazement - and, under
it all, a strange, dreadful, heart-sinking, which I
could not understand and which I had never in all my
life experienced before - no, not even when Sara had
refused me.