Battle Ground

by Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow

  VIII

  BETTY'S UNBELIEF

  "Dear God, let him love me," she prayed again in the cool twilight of herchamber. Before the open window she put her hands to her burning cheeks andfelt the wind trickle between her quivering fingers. Her heart flutteredlike a bird and her blood went in little tremours through her veins. For asingle instant she seemed to feel the passage of the earth through space."Oh, let him love me! let him love me!" she cried upon her knees.

  When Virginia came in she rose and turned to her with the brightness oftears on her lashes.

  "Do you want me to help you, dear?" she asked, gently.

  "Oh, I'm all dressed," answered Virginia, coming toward her. She held alamp in her hand, and the light fell over her girlish figure in its muslingown. "You are so late, Betty," she added, stopping before the bureau."Were you by yourself?"

  "Not all the way," replied Betty, slowly.

  "Who was with you? Champe?"

  "No, not Champe--Dan," said Betty, stooping to unfasten her boots.

  Virginia was pinning a red verbena in her hair, and she turned to catch aside view of her face.

  "Do you know I really believe Dan likes you best," she carelessly remarked."I asked him the other afternoon what colour hair he preferred, and hesnapped out, 'red' as suddenly as that. Wasn't it funny?"

  For a moment Betty did not speak; then she came over and stood beside hersister.

  "Would you mind if he liked me better than you, dear?" she asked,doubtfully. "Would you mind the least little bit?"

  Virginia laughed merrily and stooped to kiss her.

  "I shouldn't mind if every man in the world liked you better," she answeredgayly. "If they only had as much sense as I've got, they would, foolishthings."

  "I never knew but one who did," returned Betty, "and that was the Major."

  "But Champe, too."

  "Well, perhaps,--but Champe's afraid of you. He calls you Penelope, youknow, because of the 'wooers.' We counted six horses at the porticoyesterday, and he made a bet with me that all of them belonged to the'wooers'--and they really did, too."

  "Oh, but wooing isn't winning," laughed Virginia, going toward the door."You'd better hurry, Betty, supper's ready. I wouldn't touch my hair, if Iwere you, it looks just lovely." Her white skirts fluttered across thedimly lighted hall, and in a moment Betty heard her soft step on the stair.

  Two days later Betty told Dan good-by with smiling lips. He rode over inthe early morning, when she was in the garden gathering loose rose leavesto scatter among her clothes. There had been a sharp frost the nightbefore, and now as it melted in the slanting sun rays, Miss Lydia's summerflowers hung blighted upon their stalks. Only the gay October roses werestill in their full splendour.

  "What an early Betty," said Dan, coming up to her as she stood in the wetgrass beside one of the quaint rose squares. "You are all dewy like aflower."

  "Oh, I had breakfast an hour ago," she answered, giving him her moist handto which a few petals were clinging.

  "Ye Gods! have I missed an hour? Why, I expected to sit waiting on thedoor-step until you had had your sleep out."

  "Don't you know if you gather rose leaves with the dew on them, theirsweetness lasts twice as long?" asked Betty.

  "So you got up to gather ye rosebuds, after all, and not to wish me Godspeed?" he said despondently.

  "Well, I should have been up anyway," replied Betty, frankly. "This is theloveliest part of the day, you know. The world looks so fresh with thefirst frost over it--only the poor silly summer flowers take cold and die."

  "If you weren't a rose, you'd take cold yourself," remarked Dan, pointing,with his riding-whip, to the hem of her dimity skirt. "Don't stand in thegrass like that, you make me shiver."

  "Oh, the sun will dry me," she laughed, stepping from the path to the bareearth of the rose bed. "Why, when you get well into the sunshine it feelslike summer." She talked on merrily, and he, paying small heed to what shesaid, kept his ardent look upon her face. His joy was in her brightpresence, in the beauty of her smile, in the kind eyes that shone upon him.Speech meant so little when he could put out his arm and touch her if hedared.

  "I am going away in an hour, Betty," he said, at last.

  "But you will be back again at Christmas."

  "At Christmas! Heavens alive! You speak as if it were to-morrow."

  "Oh, but time goes very quickly, you know."

  Dan shook his head impatiently. "I dare say it does with you," he returned,irritably, "but it wouldn't if you were as much in love as I am."

  "Why, you ought to be used to it by now," urged Betty, mercilessly. "Youwere in love last year, I remember."

  "Betty, don't punish me for what I couldn't help. You know I love you."

  "Oh, no," said Betty, nervously plucking rose leaves. "You have been toooften in love before, my good Dan."

  "But I was never in love with you before," retorted Dan, decisively.

  She shook her head, smiling. "And you are not in love with me now," shereplied, gravely. "You have found out that my hair is pretty, or that I canmix a pudding; but I do not often let down my hair, and I seldom cook, soyou'll get over it, my friend, never fear."

  He flushed angrily. "And if I do not get over it?" he demanded.

  "If you do not get over it?" repeated Betty, trembling. She turned awayfrom him, strewing a handful of rose leaves upon the grass. "Then I shallthink that you value neither my hair nor my housekeeping," she added,lightly.

  "If I swear that I love you, will you believe me, Betty?"

  "Don't tempt my faith, Dan, it's too small."

  "Whether you believe it or not, I do love you," he went on. "I may havebeen a fool now and then before I found it out, but you don't think thatwas falling in love, do you? I confess that I liked a pair of fine eyes orrosy cheeks, but I could laugh about it even while I thought it was love Ifelt. I can't laugh about being in love with you, Betty."

  "I thank you, sir," replied Betty, saucily.

  "When I saw you kneeling by the fire in free Levi's cabin, I knew that Iloved you," he said, hotly.

  "But I can't always kneel to you, Dan," she interposed.

  He put her words impatiently aside, "and what's more I knew then that I hadloved you all my life without knowing it," he pursued. "You may taunt mewith fickleness, but I'm not fickle--I was merely a fool. It took me a longtime to find out what I wanted, but I've found out at last, and, so help meGod, I'll have it yet. I never went without a thing I wanted in my life."

  "Then it will be good for you," responded Betty. "Shall I put some roseleaves into your pocket?" She spoke indifferently, but all the while sheheard her heart singing for joy.

  In the rage of his boyish passion, he cut brutally at the flowers growingat his feet.

  "If you keep this up, you'll send me to the devil!" he exclaimed.

  She caught his hand and took the whip from his fingers. "Ah, don't hurt thepoor flowers," she begged, "they aren't to blame."

  "Who is to blame, Betty?"

  She looked up wistfully into his angry face. "You are no better than achild, Dan," she said, almost sadly, "and you haven't the least idea whatyou are storming so about. It's time you were a man, but you aren't, you'rejust--"

  "Oh, I know, I'm just a pampered poodle dog," he finished, bitterly.

  "Well, you ought to be something better, and you must be."

  "I'll be anything you please, Betty; I'll be President, if you wish it."

  "No, thank you, I don't care in the least for Presidents."

  "Then I'll be a beggar, you like beggars."

  "You'll be just yourself, if you want to please me, Dan," she saidearnestly. "You will be your best self--neither the flattering Lightfoot,nor the rude Montjoy. You will learn to work, to wait patiently, and tolove one woman. Whoever she may be, I shall say, God bless her."

  "God bless her, Betty," he echoed fervently, and added, "Since it's a manyou want, I'll be a man, but I almost wish you had said a President. Icould have been
one for you, Betty."

  Then he held out his hand. "I don't suppose you will kiss me good-by?" hepleaded.

  "No, I shan't kiss you good-by," she answered.

  "Never, Betty?"

  Smiling brightly, she gave him her hand. "When you have loved me two years,perhaps,--or when you marry another woman. Good-by, dear, good-by."

  He turned quickly away and went up the little path to the gate. There hepaused for an instant, looked back, and waved his hand. "Good-by, mydarling!" he called, boldly, and passed under the honeysuckle arbour. As hemounted his horse in the drive he saw her still standing as he had lefther, the roses falling about her, and the sunshine full upon her bendedhead.

  Until he was hidden by the trees she watched him breathlessly, then,kneeling in the path, she laid her cheek upon the long grass he had troddenunderfoot. "O my love, my love," she whispered to the ground.

  Miss Lydia called her from the house, and she went to her with some looseroses in her muslin apron. "Did you call me, Aunt Lydia?" she asked,lifting her radiant eyes to the old lady's face. "I haven't gathered verymany leaves."

  "I wanted you to pot some white violets for me, dear," answered Miss Lydia,from the back steps. "My winter garden is almost full, but there's a spotwhere I can put a few violets. Poor Mr. Bill asked for a geranium for hiswindow, so I let him take one."

  "Oh, let me pot them for you," begged Betty, eager to be of service. "SendPetunia for the trowel, and I'll choose you a lovely plant. It's too bad tosee all the dear verbenas bitten by the frost." She tossed a rose into MissLydia's hands, and went back gladly into the garden.

  A fortnight after this the Major came over and besought her to return withhim for a week at Chericoke. Mrs. Lightfoot had taken to her bed, he saidsadly, and the whole place was rapidly falling to rack and ruin. "We needyour hands to put it straight again," he added, "and Molly told me on noaccount to come back without you. I am at your mercy, my dear."

  "Why, I should love to go," replied Betty, with the thought of Dan at herheart. "I'll be ready in a minute," and she ran upstairs to find hermother, and to pack her things.

  The Major waited for her standing; and when she came down, followed byPetunia with her clothes, he helped her, with elaborate courtesy, into theold coach before the portico.

  "It takes me back to my wedding day, Betty," he said, as he stepped inafter her and slammed the door. "It isn't often that I carry off a prettygirl so easily."

  "Now I know that you didn't carry off Mrs. Lightfoot easily," returnedBetty, laughing from sheer lightness of spirits. "She has told me the wholestory, sir, from the evening that she wore the peach-blow brocade, thatmade you fall in love with her on the spot, to the day that she almostbroke down at the altar. You had a narrow escape from bachelorship, sir, soyou needn't boast."

  The Major chuckled in his corner. "I don't doubt that Molly told you so,"he replied, "but, between you and me, I don't believe it ever occurred toher until forty years afterwards. She got it out of one of those sillyromances she reads in bed--and, take my word for it, you'll find itsomewhere in the pages of her Mrs. Radcliffe, or her Miss Burney. Molly's asensible woman, my child,--I'm the last man to deny it--but she always didread trash. You won't believe me, I dare say, but she actually tried tofaint when I kissed her in the carriage after her wedding--and, bless mysoul, I came to find that she had 'Evelina' tucked away under her cape."

  "Why, she is the most sensible woman in the world," said Betty, "and I'mquite sure that she was only fitting herself to your ideas, sir. No, youcan't make me believe it of Mrs. Lightfoot."

  "My ideas never took the shape of an Evelina," dissented the Major, warmly,"but it's a dangerous taste, my dear, the taste for trash. I've always saidthat it ruined poor Jane, with all her pride. She got into her head allkind of notions about that scamp Montjoy, with his pale face and his longblack hair. Poor girl, poor girl! I tried to bring her up on Homer andMilton, but she took to her mother's bookshelf as a duck to water." Hewiped his eyes, and Betty patted his hand, and wondered if "the scampMontjoy" looked the least bit like his son.

  When they reached Chericoke she shook hands with the servants and ranupstairs to Mrs. Lightfoot's chamber. The old lady, in her rufflednightcap, which she always put on when she took to bed, was sitting uprightunder her dimity curtains, weeping over "Thaddeus of Warsaw." There was alittle bookstand at her bedside filled with her favourite romances, and atthe beginning of the year she would start systematically to read from thefirst volume upon the top shelf to the last one in the corner near thedoor. "None of your newfangled writers for me, my dear," she would protest,snapping her fingers at literature. "Why, they haven't enough sentiment togive their hero a title--and an untitled hero! I declare, I'd as lief havea plain heroine, and, before you know it, they'll be writing about theirSukey Sues, with pug noses, who eloped with their Bill Bates, from thenearest butcher shop. Ugh! don't talk to me about them! I opened one of Mr.Dickens's stories the other day and it was actually about a chimneysweep--a common chimney sweep from a workhouse! Why, I really felt as if Ihad been keeping low society."

  Now, as she caught sight of Betty, she laid aside her book, wiped her eyeson a stiffly folded handkerchief, and became cheerful at once. "I warnedMr. Lightfoot not to dare to show his face without you," she began; "so Isuppose he brought you off by force."

  "I was only too glad to come," replied Betty, kissing her; "but what must Ido for you first? Shall I rub your head with bay rum?"

  "There's nothing on earth the matter with my head, child," retorted Mrs.Lightfoot, promptly, "but you may go downstairs, as soon as you take offyour things, and make me some decent tea and toast. Cupid brought me up twowaiters at dinner, and I wouldn't touch either of them with a ten-footpole."

  Betty took off her bonnet and shawl and hung them on a chair. "I'll go downat once and see about it," she answered, "and I'll make Car'line put awaymy things. It's my old room I'm to have, I suppose."

  "It's the whole house, if you want it, only don't let any of the darkieshave a hand at my tea. It's their nature to slop."

  "But it isn't mine," Betty answered her, and ran, laughing, down into thedining room.

  "Dar ain' been no sich chunes sense young Miss rid away in de dead er denight time," muttered Cupid, in the pantry. "Lawd, Lawd, I des wish you'dteck up wid Marse Champe, en move 'long over hyer fer good en all. I reckondar 'ud be times, den, I reckon, dar 'ould."

  "There are going to be times now, Uncle Cupid," responded Betty,cheerfully, as she arranged the tray for Mrs. Lightfoot. "I'm going to makesome tea and toast right on this fire for your old Miss. You bring thekettle, and I'll slice the bread."

  Cupid brought the kettle, grumbling. "I ain' never hyern tell er sich amouf es ole Miss es got," he muttered. "I ain' sayin' nuttin' agin erstomick, case she ain' never let de stuff git down dat fur--en de stomickhit ain' never tase it yit."

  "Oh, stop grumbling, Uncle Cupid," returned Betty, moving briskly about theroom. She brought the daintiest tea cup from the old sideboard, and leanedout of the window to pluck a late microphylla rosebud from the creeper uponthe porch. Then, with the bread on the end of a long fork, she sat beforethe fire and asked Cupid about the health and fortunes of the houseservants and the field hands.

  "I ain' mix wid no fiel' han's," grunted Cupid, with a social pridebefitting the Major. "Dar ain' no use er my mixin' en I ain' mix. Dey stayin dere place en I stay in my place--en dere place hit's de quarters, en myplace hit's de dinin' 'oom."

  "But Aunt Rhody--how's she?" inquired Betty, pleasantly, "and Big Abel? Hedidn't go back to college, did he?"

  "Zeke, he went," replied Cupid, "en Big Abel he wuz bleeged ter stay behint'case his wife Saphiry she des put 'er foot right down. Ef'n he 'uz gwineoff again, sez she, she 'uz des gwine tu'n right in en git mah'ed agin. Sheain' so sho', nohow, dat two husban's ain' better'n one, is Saphiry, en shegot 'mos' a min' ter try hit. So Big Abel he des stayed behint."

  "That was wise of Big Abel," remarked Betty. "Now open the do
or, UncleCupid, and I'll carry this upstairs," and as Cupid threw open the door, shewent out, holding the tray before her.

  The old lady received her graciously, ate the toast and drank the tea, andeven admitted that it couldn't have been better if she had made it with herown hands. "I think that you will have to come and live with me, Betty,"she said good-humouredly. "What a pity you can't fancy one of those uselessboys of mine. Not that I'd have you marry Dan, child, the Major has spoiledhim to death, and now he's beginning to repent it; but Champe, Champe is agood and clever lad and would make a mild and amiable husband, I am sure.Don't marry a man with too much spirit, my dear; if a man has any extraspirit, he usually expends it in breaking his wife's."

  "Oh, I shan't marry yet awhile," replied Betty, looking out upon thefalling autumn leaves.

  "So I said the day before I married Mr. Lightfoot," rejoined the old lady,settling her pillows, "and now, if you have nothing better to do, you mightread me a chapter of 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'; you will find it to be a book ofvery pretty sentiment."