Betty’s school fees were paid by an old aunt who was reputed very rich. The aunt was known to be devoted to her. All that she had was sure to be Betty’s when Aunt Prudence died. Wilkenson had even gone so far as to learn much more particularly about the state of Aunt Prudence Mason’s health than Betty herself knew.
One item only escaped Andy Wilkenson’s cunning mind. It was not until they had been married and Wilkenson was driving Betty back to the Hall by unfrequented roads late in the afternoon that the small but appalling oversight on his part broke upon his understanding.
“You know, girlie, I haven’t got much money. I came East yere”—how Betty had loved that drawl then—“to get me a stake. I did a fool thing and threw away—just threw away—my bank roll out in Crescent City.”
“Oh, money!” replied Betty with fine scorn. “You can go to work at something, Andy, and earn more.”
“Ye-as,” he agreed in a tone that might have revealed a good deal to a more sophisticated person than the girl who had so recently been Betty Hunt, “so I can. But I may not make any good connection before you get out of that school. And then I’d like us to go back West. I’m known out there. A man can always do better in his own stamping-grounds.”
“Oh, the West must be wonderful,” murmured Betty, with clasped hands.
“Yep. But no place is wonderful unless you’ve got a good stake. Now, how about it, Betty? This old aunt of yours is pretty well fixed, eh?”
The girl was startled. “Wealthy? I think so. Aunt Prudence has been very kind to me.”
“She’ll keep on being kind to you, I reckon?”
“Of course! The dear soul. You’ll just love her, Andy.”