Further Chronicles of Avonlea

by L. M. Montgomery

  Betty was a woman! Not by virtue of the simple white

  dress that clung to her tall, slender figure, revealing

  lines of exquisite grace and litheness; not by virtue

  of the glossy masses of dark brown hair heaped high on

  her head and held there in wonderful shining coils; not

  by virtue of added softness of curve and daintiness of

  outline; not because of all these, but because of the

  dream and wonder and seeking in her eyes. She was a

  woman, looking, all unconscious of her quest, for love.

  The understanding of the change in her came home to me

  with a shock that must have left me, I think, something

  white about the lips. I was glad. She was what I had

  wished her to become. But I wanted the child Betty

  back; this womanly Betty seemed far away from me.

  I stepped out into the path and she saw me, with a

  brightening of her whole face. She did not rush forward

  and fling herself into my arms as she would have done a

  year ago; but she came towards me swiftly, holding out

  her hand. I had thought her slightly pale when I had

  first seen her; but now I concluded I had been

  mistaken, for there was a wonderful sunrise of color in

  her face. I took her hand - there were no kisses this

  time.

  "Welcome home, Betty," I said.

  "Oh, Stephen, it is so good to be back," she breathed,

  her eyes shining.

  She did not say it was good to see me again, as I had

  hoped she would do. Indeed, after the first minute of

  greeting, she seemed a trifle cool and distant. We

  walked for an hour in the pine wood and talked. Betty

  was brilliant, witty, self-possessed, altogether

  charming. I thought her perfect and yet my heart ached.

  What a glorious young thing she was, in that splendid

  youth of hers! What a prize for some lucky man -

  confound the obtrusive thought! No doubt we should soon

  be overrun at Glenby with lovers. I should stumble over

  some forlorn youth at every step! Well, what of it?

  Betty would marry, of course. It would be my duty to

  see that she got a good husband, worthy of her as men

  go. I thought I preferred the old duty of

  superintending her studies. But there, it was all the

  same thing - merely a post-graduate course in applied

  knowledge. When she began to learn life's greatest

  lesson of love, I, the tried and true old family friend

  and mentor, must be on hand to see that the teacher was

  what I would have him be, even as I had formerly

  selected her instructor in French and botany. Then, and

  not until then, would Betty's education be complete.

  I rode home very soberly. When I reached The Maples I

  did what I had not done for years . . . looked critically

  at myself in the mirror. The realization

  that I had grown older came home to me with a new and

  unpleasant force. There were marked lines on my lean

  face, and silver glints in the dark hair over my

  temples. When Betty was ten she had thought me "an old

  person." Now, at eighteen, she probably thought me a

  veritable ancient of days. Pshaw, what did it matter?

  And yet . . . I thought of her as I had seen her,

  standing under the pines, and something cold and

  painful laid its hand on my heart.

  My premonitions as to lovers proved correct. Glenby was

  soon infested with them. Heaven knows where they all

  came from. I had not supposed there was a quarter as

  many young men in the whole county; but there they

  were. Sara was in the seventh heaven of delight. Was

  not Betty at last a belle? As for the proposals . . .

  well, Betty never counted her scalps in public; but

  every once in a while a visiting youth dropped out and

  was seen no more at Glenby. One could guess what that

  meant.

  Betty apparently enjoyed all this. I grieve to say that

  she was a bit of a coquette. I tried to cure her of

  this serious defect, but for once I found that I had

  undertaken something I could not accomplish. In vain I

  lectured, Betty only laughed; in vain I gravely

  rebuked, Betty only flirted more vivaciously than

  before. Men might come and men might go, but Betty went

  on forever. I endured this sort of thing for a year and

  then I decided that it was time to interfere seriously.

  I must find a husband for Betty . . . my fatherly duty

  would not be fulfilled until I had . . . nor, indeed,

  my duty to society. She was not a safe person to have

  running at large.

  None of the men who haunted Glenby was good enough for

  her. I decided that my nephew, Frank, would do very

  well. He was a capital young fellow, handsome, clean-

  souled, and whole-hearted. From a worldly point of view

  he was what Sara would have termed an excellent match;

  he had money, social standing and a rising reputation

  as a clever young lawyer. Yes, he should have Betty,

  confound him!

  They had never met. I set the wheels going at once. The

  sooner all the fuss was over the better. I hated fuss

  and there was bound to be a good deal of it. But I went

  about the business like an accomplished matchmaker. I

  invited Frank to visit The Maples and, before he came,

  I talked much . . . but not too much . . . of him to

  Betty, mingling judicious praise and still more

  judicious blame together. Women never like a paragon.

  Betty heard me with more gravity than she usually

  accorded to my dissertations on young men. She even

  condescended to ask several questions about him. This I

  thought a good sign.

  To Frank I had said not a word about Betty; when he

  came to The Maples I took him over to Glenby and,

  coming upon Betty wandering about among the beeches in

  the sunset, I introduced him without any warning.

  He would have been more than mortal if he had not

  fallen in love with her upon the spot. It was not in

  the heart of man to resist her . . . that dainty,

  alluring bit of womanhood. She was all in white, with

  flowers in her hair, and, for a moment, I could have

  murdered Frank or any other man who dared to commit the

  sacrilege of loving her.

  Then I pulled myself together and left them alone. I

  might have gone in and talked to Sara . . . two old

  folks gently reviewing their youth while the young

  folks courted outside . . . but I did not. I prowled

  about the pine wood, and tried to forget how blithe and

  handsome that curly-headed boy, Frank, was, and what a

  flash had sprung into his eyes when he had seen Betty.

  Well, what of it? Was not that what I had brought him

  there for? And was I not pleased at the success of my

  scheme? Certainly I was! Delighted!

  Next day Frank went to Glenby without even making the

  poor pretense of asking me to accompany him. I spent

  the time of his absence overseeing the construction of

&nbs
p; a new greenhouse I was having built. I was

  conscientious in my supervision; but I felt no interest

  in it. The place was intended for roses, and roses made

  me think of the pale yellow ones Betty had worn at her

  breast one evening the week before, when, all lovers

  being unaccountably absent, we had wandered together

  under the pines and talked as in the old days before

  her young womanhood and my gray hairs had risen up to

  divide us. She had dropped a rose on the brown floor,

  and I had sneaked back, after I had left her the house,

  to get it, before I went home. I had it now in my

  pocket-book. Confound it, mightn't a future uncle

  cherish a family affection for his prospective niece?

  Frank's wooing seemed to prosper. The other young

  sparks, who had haunted Glenby, faded away after his

  advent. Betty treated him with most encouraging

  sweetness; Sara smiled on him; I stood in the

  background, like a benevolent god of the machine, and

  flattered myself that I pulled the strings.

  At the end of a month something went wrong. Frank came

  home from Glenby one day in the dumps, and moped for

  two whole days. I 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.

  Chapter 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