The Complete Short Stories of Lucy Maud Montgomery. Lucy Maud Montgomery

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СКАЧАТЬ and responded to my training with gratifying plasticity. Day by day, week by week, month by month, her character and temperament unfolded naturally under my watchful eye. It was like 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, goodhearted 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 СКАЧАТЬ