Further Chronicles of Avonlea by Lucy Maud Montgomery (book series for 12 year olds .txt) 📕

rode down myself on the third. I had not gone much to Glenby that month; but, if there were trouble Bettyward, it was my duty to make smooth the rough places.

As usual, I found Betty in the pineland. I thought she looked rather pale and dull…fretting about Frank no doubt. She brightened up when she saw me, evidently expecting that I had come to straighten matters out; but she pretended to be haughty and indifferent.

“I am glad you haven’t forgotten us altogether, Stephen,” she said coolly. “You haven’t been down for a week.”

“I’m flattered that you noticed it,” I said, sitting down on a fallen tree and looking up at her as she stood, tall and lithe, against an old pine, with her eyes averted. “I shouldn’t have supposed you’d want an old fogy like myself poking about and spoiling the idyllic moments of love’s young dream.”

“Why do you always speak of yourself as old?” said Betty, crossly, ignoring my reference to Frank.

“Because I am old, my dear. Witness these gray hairs.”

I pushed up my hat to show them the more recklessly.

Betty barely glanced at them.

“You have just enough to give you a distinguished look,” she said, “and you are only forty. A man is in his prime at forty. He never has any sense until he is forty—and sometimes he doesn’t seem to have any even then,” she concluded impertinently.

My heart beat. Did Betty suspect? Was that last sentence meant to inform me that she was aware of my secret folly, and laughed at it?

“I came over to see what has gone wrong between you and Frank,” I said gravely.

Betty bit her lips.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Betty,” I said reproachfully, “I brought you up…or endeavored to bring you up…to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Don’t tell me I have failed. I’ll give you another chance. Have you quarreled with Frank?”

“No,” said the maddening Betty, “HE quarreled with me. He went away in a temper and I do not care if he never comes back!”

I shook my head.

“This won’t do, Betty. As your old family friend I still claim the right to scold you until you have a husband to do the scolding. You mustn’t torment Frank. He is too fine a fellow. You must marry him, Betty.”

“Must I?” said Betty, a dusky red flaming out on her cheek. She turned her eyes on me in a most disconcerting fashion. “Do YOU wish me to marry Frank, Stephen?”

Betty had a wretched habit of emphasizing pronouns in a fashion calculated to rattle anybody.

“Yes, I do wish it, because I think it will be best for you,” I replied, without looking at her. “You must marry some time, Betty, and Frank is the only man I know to whom I could trust you. As your guardian, I have an interest in seeing you well and wisely settled for life. You have always taken my advice and obeyed my wishes; and you’ve always found my way the best, in the long run, haven’t you, Betty? You won’t prove rebellious now, I’m sure. You know quite well that I am advising you for your own good. Frank is a splendid young fellow, who loves you with all his heart. Marry him, Betty. Mind, I don’t COMMAND. I have no right to do that, and you are too old to be ordered about, if I had. But I wish and advise it. Isn’t that enough, Betty?”

I had been looking away from her all the time I was talking, gazing determinedly down a sunlit vista of pines. Every word I said seemed to tear my heart, and come from my lips stained with life-blood. Yes, Betty should marry Frank! But, good God, what would become of me!

Betty left her station under the pine tree, and walked around me until she got right in front of my face. I couldn’t help looking at her, for if I moved my eyes she moved too. There was nothing meek or submissive about her; her head was held high, her eyes were blazing, and her cheeks were crimson. But her words were meek enough.

“I will marry Frank if you wish it, Stephen,” she said. “You are my friend. I have never crossed your wishes, and, as you say, I have never regretted being guided by them. I will do exactly as you wish in this case also, I promise you that. But, in so solemn a question, I must be very certain what you DO wish. There must be no doubt in my mind or heart. Look me squarely in the eyes, Stephen—as you haven’t done once to-day, no, nor once since I came home from school—and, so looking, tell me that you wish me to marry Frank Douglas and I will do it! DO you, Stephen?”

I had to look her in the eyes, since nothing else would do her; and, as I did so, all the might of manhood in me rose up in hot revolt against the lie I would have told her. That unfaltering, impelling gaze of hers drew the truth from my lips in spite of myself.

“No, I don’t wish you to marry Frank Douglas, a thousand times no!” I said passionately. “I don’t wish you to marry any man on earth but myself. I love you—I love you, Betty. You are dearer to me than life—dearer to me than my own happiness. It was your happiness I thought of—and so I asked you to marry Frank because I believed he would make you a happy woman. That is all!”

Betty’s defiance went from her like a flame blown out. She turned away and drooped her proud head.

“It could not have made me a happy woman to marry one man, loving another,” she said, in a whisper.

I got up and went over to her.

“Betty, whom do you love?” I asked, also in a whisper.

“You,” she murmured meekly—oh, so meekly, my proud little girl!

“Betty,” I said brokenly, “I’m old—too old for you—I’m more than twenty years your senior—I’m—”

“Oh!” Betty wheeled around on me and stamped her foot. “Don’t mention your age to me again. I don’t care if you’re as old as Methuselah. But I’m not going to coax you to marry me, sir! If you won’t, I’ll never marry anybody—I’ll live and die an old maid. You can please yourself, of course!”

She turned away, half-laughing, half-crying; but I caught her in my arms and crushed her sweet lips against mine.

“Betty, I’m the happiest man in the world—and I was the most miserable when I came here.”

“You deserved to be,” said Betty cruelly. “I’m glad you were. Any man as stupid as you deserves to be unhappy. What do you think I felt like, loving you with all my heart, and seeing you simply throwing me at another man’s head. Why, I’ve always loved you, Stephen; but I didn’t know it until I went to that detestable school. Then I found out—and I thought that was why you had sent me. But, when I came home, you almost broke my heart. That was why I flirted so with all those poor, nice boys —I wanted to hurt you but I never thought I succeeded. You just went on being FATHERLY. Then, when you brought Frank here, I almost gave up hope; and I tried to make up my mind to marry him; I should have done it if you had insisted. But I had to have one more try for happiness first. I had just one little hope to inspire me with sufficient boldness. I saw you, that night, when you came back here and picked up my rose! I had come back, myself, to be alone and unhappy.”

“It is the most wonderful thing that ever happened—that you should love me,” I said.

“It’s not—I couldn’t help it,” said Betty, nestling her brown head on my shoulder. “You taught me everything else, Stephen, so nobody but you could teach me how to love. You’ve made a thorough thing of educating me.”

“When will you marry me, Betty?” I asked.

“As soon as I can fully forgive you for trying to make me marry somebody else,” said Betty.

It was rather hard lines on Frank, when you come to think of it. But, such is the selfishness of human nature that we didn’t think much about Frank. The young fellow behaved like the Douglas he was. Went a little white about the lips when I told him, wished me all happiness, and went quietly away, “gentleman unafraid.”

He has since married and is, I understand, very happy. Not as happy as I am, of course; that is impossible, because there is only one Betty in the world, and she is my wife.

 

XII. IN HER SELFLESS MOOD

The raw wind of an early May evening was puffing in and out the curtains of the room where Naomi Holland lay dying. The air was moist and chill, but the sick woman would not have the window closed.

“I can’t get my breath if you shut everything up so tight,” she said. “Whatever comes, I ain’t going to be smothered to death, Car’line Holland.”

Outside of the window grew a cherry tree, powdered with moist buds with the promise of blossoms she would not live to see. Between its boughs she saw a crystal cup of sky over hills that were growing dim and purple. The outside air was full of sweet, wholesome springtime sounds that drifted in fitfully. There were voices and whistles in the barnyard, and now and then faint laughter. A bird alighted for a moment on a cherry bough, and twittered restlessly. Naomi knew that white mists were hovering in the silent hollows, that the maple at the gate wore a misty blossom red, and that violet stars were shining bluely on the brooklands.

The room was a small, plain one. The floor was bare, save for a couple of braided rugs, the plaster discolored, the walls dingy and glaring. There had never been much beauty in Naomi Holland’s environment, and, now that she was dying, there was even less.

At the open window a boy of about ten years was leaning out over the sill and whistling. He was tall for his age, and beautiful—the hair a rich auburn with a glistening curl in it, skin very white and warm-tinted, eyes small and of a greenish blue, with dilated pupils and long lashes. He had a weak chin, and a full, sullen mouth.

The bed was in the corner farthest from the window; on it the sick woman, in spite of the pain that was her portion continually, was lying as quiet and motionless as she had done ever since she had lain down upon it for the last time. Naomi Holland never complained; when the agony was at its worst, she shut her teeth more firmly over her bloodless lip, and her great black eyes glared at the blank wall before in a way that gave her attendants what they called “the creeps,” but no word or moan escaped her.

Between the paroxysms she kept up her keen interest in the life that went on about her. Nothing escaped her sharp, alert eyes and ears. This evening she lay spent on the crumpled pillows; she had had a bad spell in the afternoon and it had left her very weak. In the dim light her extremely long face looked corpse-like already. Her black hair lay in a heavy braid over the pillow and down the counterpane. It was all that was left of her beauty, and she took a fierce joy in it. Those long, glistening, sinuous tresses must be combed and braided every day, no matter what came.

A girl of fourteen was curled