"And who are your other neighbours?" asked Betty, not feeling quite sure whether she liked this garrulous old woman.
"There be Widder Newcombe and Widder Long, an' they be that thick together that, 'pon me word, us don't know which house belangs to which. If so be you droppeth in to Widder Newcombe's, Widder Long be havin' her cup o' tay by the fireside, if you looketh in at Widder Long, Widder Newcombe be sittin' wi' her knittin' as if her never be goin' to leave. An' then on washin' day there be a gran' bust up, an' they be callin' each other all the bad names they can think on. Us always calleth them the widders, though us be all that, save our newcomer Susan Crane; but they losted their husban's in the same day in a quarry explosion, an' allays have worked on the gentry's feelin's. They be both out, for they be gone to the Red Manor sale, which is onfeelin', to say nothin' of the disrespec', in thinkin' o' buyin' the squire's saucepans an' such like. But Widder Newcombe be very savin', an' her always go to the sales, and nice rubbish her doth pick up at 'em!"
"Susan Crane came from our village, did she not?" asked Betty, wishing to stop this flow of talk.
"Her did that; but her be not much company for us. Her be the village nurse, and maybe it made her turn pious. Her be overmuch that way, if so be it be real, but I have me doubts. Folks can sit wi' the Scriptures open before 'em, when squire cometh by, an' spout streams of tex'es an' hymns till they right daze one; but 'tis a different song when there be none to see an' praise 'em, an' Susan be too holy, I fancy!"
"I don't think any one can be that," said Betty gravely. "I couldn't; could you?"
"No, me dear, Lucy Finch be just a poor sinner, like the rest o' the world. I doth not set meself above me neighbours."
Betty stayed a little longer, but she was glad to leave Mrs. Finch. She did not seem to her to be her ideal old woman in an alms house.
Mary Dunster was a pale, sweet-faced woman, sitting in her chair, stiff with rheumatism. To Betty, her little kitchen perhaps lacked the shine and polish of her neighbour's, but it was clean and comfortable.
She brightened up at the sight of a visitor.
"I heard the voices through the wall, miss; and I hoped you might be looking in here. We get very tired of each other, and the days are long."
"I have been envying you," Betty said brightly. "I thought it must be so restful in these sweet little cottages. Aren't you very happy here?"
Mrs. Dunster gave a heavy sigh.
"'Tis a difficult matter to be happy, when you suffer so, miss. I never spend a night without pain. I am crippled up with rheumatism, just a useless old creature sitting here till I die."
"But," said Betty, with shining eyes, "in all probability you are nearer heaven than I am. You have that to look forward to, haven't you? No more pain."
Mrs. Dunster sighed again.
"It seems unreal to me. I doubt sometimes if I shall get there."
"Why?"
Mrs. Dunster looked uneasy, but said nothing.
"May I come and read to you about heaven, to make it real?" asked Betty eagerly. "Ever since I was quite a little girl I have loved reading about it. It makes everything so bright when you think of it; and it is the way to make it real to one. I have a brother out in India, he is at a place called Quetta. I never took any interest in it before he went there, but he tells us so much about it in his letters, and sends us so many photos of it, and curiosities, that now I feel I know it quite well."
"It would pass the time," said Mrs. Dunster, with a sigh. "It is such a treat to hear a young lady speak. My neighbours have not received any education, and I've always been accustomed to the gentry. What a sad pity 'tis about the squire! Have you heard, miss, whether the place have been bought? I've thought lately how worried the squire has been looking! 'Tis a crying shame to turn him out so sudden like. And they do say he hasn't a penny now! 'Tis a terrible business!"
"Yes," said Betty soberly, "it is. I can't think how he must feel to-day."
"'Tis likely he'll be upset."
Betty stayed some time with Mrs. Dunster, then she went on to Mrs. Button's. Here she met with a surprise. Mrs. Button was seated at a round tea-table, and opposite her, leaning back in a grandfather's chair with a smile on his face, and a cup of tea halfway to his lips, was Gerald Arundel. The tea-table was daintily spread—a snow-white cloth with a glass of old-fashioned moss-roses in the centre. A home-made loaf, some honey in a glass dish, and some clotted cream, all made a cosy picture; and Martha Button, in her snow-white cap and apron, with her rosy cheeks and kindly smile, was the chief attraction in it.
For an instant Betty hesitated, but Gerald was on his feet in an second.
"Why, nurse, here is Miss Stuart come to see you. Do you think you have another cup of your excellent tea to give her?"
"Indeed I have, sir," said Martha, dropping Betty a curtsey; "and I do feel highly honoured to have you both to tea."
"I feel I am intruding," Betty said, as she shook hands with Gerald; "but you do look so cosy that I cannot resist joining you."
"When I am tired or low-spirited, I always come to my old nurse to be heartened up," Gerald said, smiling. "She does me more good than some of the medicines she is fond of recommending."
FOR AN INSTANT BETTY HESITATED, BUT GERALD WAS ON
HIS FEET IN A SECOND.
"Ay, sir, but there be always two ways of looking at life, like both ends of a spyglass—one makes all our trouble bigger than they be by rights, the other smaller."
"You have made mine look much smaller this afternoon."
"She must be a wonderful person!" said Betty, almost under her breath.
Gerald laughed aloud.
"Now, Miss Betty, come and sit down. Do you like honey? Ah, that is right! Nurse keeps bees, and always has a store of it. Well, have you seen any of our inmates here?"
"Yes," said Betty brightly, "I have. Mrs. Finch kept me with her a long time."
Mrs. Button smiled.
"She is a rare talker, is Lucy Finch. I dare say she have told you all about us, miss; and I'm afraid not any of us stand in her good books."
"I didn't like the way she talked."
"'Tis only her tongue, miss. She can't help herself. If any one is really ill or in trouble, Lucy comes to them at once, and is first-rate. But she be a bit jealous of folks."
"So I gathered. And then I went to see Mrs. Dunster. And I am coming another day to read to her. She seems so unhappy."
"She does suffer cruel with rheumatics, and if a body never goes outside the door, 'tis very lonesome."
"I think there is only one more to see," Betty continued, "for two are out."
"Yes," said Gerald quietly. "I met them on their way to the Manor. Pots and pans at any sale are Mrs. Newcombe's specialties. I hope she will pick up some bargain, poor soul!"
Betty wondered that he could speak so calmly. She thoroughly enjoyed her tea, and, taking her cue from Gerald's mood, was as gay and joyous as if no cloud had darkened her sunshine that day.
Mrs. Button's cheery society was certainly inspiriting.
"I've been telling the squire, miss, that he be only on the threshold o' his life, and there be many greater things coming to him than the Red Manor. 'Twas just a trust lent him by the Lord, and when he were found faithful to it, the Lord took it away, to hand on to another and give him a chance; and now another trust be waitin' for the squire. It doesn't matter if it be a high or a low position, 'tis only a stewardship. The Lord have small bits o' land as well as big that want a steward; and 'tis faithfulness He looks for."
"We are all stewards, Miss Betty, are we not?" said Gerald, looking across at her with a smile.
"I am not sure of my stewardship yet," replied Betty thoughtfully. Then she got up to go.
"I was told I was not to miss seeing any one; so I must go to Mrs. Crane. Good-bye, Mrs. Button, and thank you for your delicious tea. May I come and see you another day? Good-bye, Mr. Arundel."
"I shall see you again, for I want to speak to Russell when he comes. Well, nurse, I must be bidding you good-day."
"God bless you, sir! He will. I be quite sure of that. And I'm hopin' that you will find a nice wife one o' these days. She'll be a comfort to you, and make up for all you've lost."
A shadow fell across Gerald's face. He made no response, but crossed the flagstones with Betty to Susan Crane's door.
They were both silent. Betty's smiles and dimples had disappeared. She was thinking over stewardships and their responsibilities, wondering if she were unknowingly wasting or hoarding what had been entrusted to her care.
And Gerald's thoughts had wandered from stewardships to dreams in the future.
He saw himself a lonely man in a dreary farm, forsaken by those who judged a man by his possessions. He wondered if such comfort as his old nurse had mentioned would ever be his lot.
Betty left him outside Susan Crane's door. She found her at her tea, and was welcomed warmly.
"This be a lonesome place, miss. 'Tis right off the high road, and us sees nought go by. I have bin accustomed to live in the middle of a village where there be a good bit o' life goin' on, so I miss it sorely, and get downhearted at times. I fretted to give up my work, but I be gettin' old, and the young squire be good enough to offer me these rooms. It was just an answer to prayer, so I ought to be content, but it do seem nice to see a visitor. Us six old women living here together do rub each other up wonderful. I tries to keep myself to myself, but there be always such a lot o' talk one agen another that I do be fair puzzled which side to take."
"I thought an almshouse was an abode of rest and peace," said Betty. "I am a little disappointed to-day."
"So it be, miss, to most; and 'tis our own fault if us makes it other than that. When us have the Lord and His goodness with us, what more can us want?"
"'I nothing lack if I am His, and He is mine, for ever,'" quoted Betty with a smile. "But we do forget it so, Mrs. Crane. I do, dreadfully."
They chatted on. Mrs. Crane,—for though she was not a married woman, she had always been given that title, in respect for her office of sick nurse,—was a tiny, wiry-looking old woman. She was an earnest Christian, and could not perhaps understand why every one was not the same as herself. She had scant sympathy with Lucy Finch, or with the two friendly widows.
"They be all such ill-natured gossips, miss, and so hard of heart and slow to believe."
"You will be a help to them," Betty suggested.
"Eh dear, no, miss; they don't take no notice of the likes o' me, leastways only to make mock of. Now Mrs. Button and me does have some nice talk together, but they say us holds ourselves too high."
"I shall come and see you all again soon," said Betty, as she departed; "and I think I shall give you a scolding all round, for not living at peace in such a sweet old resting-place."
She laughed merrily when she saw Susan Crane's face of dismay.
"Eh, dearie me! Us be like a set o' quarrelsome children; but us will try to like each other better afore your nex' visit comes round."
The wheels of Mr. Russell's trap were heard on the high road. Betty ran out, and found Gerald already at the gate waiting for his friend.
Mr. Russell insisted upon driving him back to his house to dine and sleep that night.
"And we will drop this young lady on her way. I have just met Mrs. Stuart on her way home."
"Mrs. Stuart is able to drive out again?" Gerald asked Betty.
"Yes," said Betty confusedly. Then with crimson cheeks she blurted out,—
"She was—at the sale to-day."
There was a minute's silence, then Gerald said quietly,—
"I am so glad. I can guess what attracted her there. If you are benefitted by any of my well-worn favourites, Miss Betty, I shall be very pleased."
Betty made no reply. She felt she could not. For the rest of the drive she was strangely silent.
CHAPTER VIII
New Owners
We leave the well-beloved place
Where first we gazed upon the sky;
The roofs that heard our earliest cry,
Will shelter one of stranger race.
In Memoriam.
MR. RUSSELL and Gerald sat out a couple of hours later on the smoking-room verandah. Politics and county news had been discussed during dinner; but now, as dusky silence began to steal over the sweet-scented garden in front of them, Gerald lost his reserve and spoke freely to his old friend.
"You can't think what a relief it will be to me when this day is over. I wish I had gone up to town, but I had so many things to arrange this morning, and then I wanted this talk with you, so I have been hanging about all the afternoon trying to kill time!"
"Yes, I think you would have been better away. Now, about this farm. I hope you are going to take it. You will be doing me a service, for I want a good tenant. It seems to have fallen vacant at the right time."
"It is a generous offer of yours, but I do not know whether it is quite wise to live on in this neighbourhood. I am not proud; it isn't that, for I've lost the estate through no fault of mine, and I'm not ashamed of any honest work. I mean to be a working farmer if I take your place, and I don't care who knows it!"
"It isn't very near the Manor; it's a good eight miles away from it. I don't think you would find it too close."
"It isn't that."
Gerald was looking out into the garden with an unfathomable expression in his eyes. He did not speak for some minutes; then his question sounded rather irrelevant,—
"How long are Mrs. Stuart and her daughters going to stay here?"
"They came for the summer. Why, Gerald, are they the attraction?"
"Good heavens! No!" exclaimed Gerald, almost fiercely. "Rather the reverse. I want time to get over this. If only you would let me defer my taking your farm till the autumn, I think I would go off to Norway in Tom Deane's yacht. He wrote inviting me again yesterday."
"The very best thing you could do," said Mr. Russell, looking at him gravely; "and I think I can tide over the next two months, by keeping on the farm hands, and making my bailiff overseer."
"Thank you."
There was a silence. Then Mr. Russell said,—"Gerald, I hope you are heart whole."
Gerald threw his head back with a little laugh, but it was a forced one.
"It will be a bad business if I'm not. A man in my position is out of the running."
"Not my little Betty?"
Another silence; then, very slowly,—
"I owe you a grudge for taking me over that evening and introducing me—"
"My dear fellow!"
Mr. Russell could say no more; he seemed lost in thought.
"I'm only human," Gerald said, with an effort; "and the plain fact is that I cannot stand meeting her so often."
"I found her weeping over your troubles this afternoon," said Mr. Russell, unguardedly.
Gerald's gaze of astonishment and concern made his friend add hastily,—
"She weeps over everybody. That is one thing she has kept from her childhood—a tender, sympathetic heart. She takes everything in dead earnest—her pleasures, and others' sorrows."
Then, after further thought, he added, "I would give a good deal to see you two brought together; but circumstances are against you at present, and you are wise to go away before she sees too much of you. She has the making of a splendid woman in her, and would be as happy in a farmhouse as in a palace."
"Is she fitted to be a farmer's wife?" exclaimed Gerald. "Do you think I could contemplate it for a moment?"
"I think her mother would very strongly object. Mrs. Stuart is ambitious for her daughters. No, you are right. It is best not to contemplate it at all."
Gerald felt unreasonably provoked by his friend's calmness. He curbed his irritation, however, and began talking about his projected yachting trip.
Betty was not mentioned again; but when the friends had parted for the night, Mr. Russell paced his room with anxious brow.
"I don't half like her interest in him. My poor little Betty! May God preserve you from real trouble coming into your life! It will go hardly with you, if you are not heart whole!"
Betty had arrived home that afternoon, to find Molly in a great state of excitement.
"Oh, Betty, it was a pity you did not come! Every one was there, and fancy! Who do you think has bought the Manor? General Dormer! And Frank was at the sale!"
Betty expressed her astonishment. The Dormers were very old friends of theirs. Frank and Ella had played with them when children, and they had all grown up together.
"But, Molly, the Dormers have their lovely place in Berkshire; why do they want another?"
"Berkshire doesn't suit Mrs. Dormer; she is always ill there, and they are selling it. They know the Fitz Humes here; and it was Mrs. Fitz Hume who told them about the Red Manor. The general came down to see it a week ago, and he settled it all within a very few days. Mother says she can't think why he didn't buy the library as it stood, but I believe he couldn't afford it. Frank told me as much. Frank was delighted to see us. Mother has asked him to dinner to-morrow. He is staying at a country inn, and isn't very comfortable. He has a lot of business to do for his father, and he will be here for a week or two."
"And will they be moving in at once?"
"Yes, in about a month's time. Isn't it delightful? I'm longing to see Ella. It makes me wish that we were going to stay on here altogether."
"I shall hate seeing them in the Red Manor!" Betty exclaimed vehemently. "It doesn't properly belong to them. People have no business to buy old family places and settle in them, when they have no love for, or associations with them."
"But," said Molly, mysteriously and eagerly, "I have been thinking it all out; and Mr. Arundel must fall in love with Ella, and marry her. I shall try and make up the match."
"Don't be so stupid, Molly! What good would that do? The Manor will belong to Frank, not to Ella, after General Dormer dies."
"Oh, Frank must have another place somewhere. I think it can be managed. It could be in a story-book, and people say that facts are stranger than fiction—"
Betty turned away impatiently from her sister, and went to the drawing-room, where her mother was resting.
"Did you buy any books, mother?" she said.
"I was rather disappointed," her mother replied; "there were several old savants down from town, and the most valuable were beyond my means. Mr. Russell bought the greater part of them. I have that illustrated copy of Chaucer we were looking at, and one or two very old editions of Shakespeare and Froissart's 'Chronicles.' It went to my heart to see that library demolished; and I suppose Molly has told you that General Dormer has bought the property?"
"Yes."
"Such a pity! For not one of them have any literary tastes. Of course, they have just let the library go. The collection of two or three generations will now be scattered. I am glad to think that Mr. Russell has taken the best part of it."
Betty took up the old vellum volume of Chaucer, and walked to the window with it in her hand. The quaint woodcuts interested her, and she turned the well-worn pages, wondering whose hand had scored pencil lines here and there. She read the description of the knight in the Canterbury pilgrims, and her heart quickened at the words,—
A knighte there was, and that a worthy man,
That from the tyme that he first beganne
To ryden out had lovèd chivalry,
Truth and honoure, freedom and courtesie.
In the margin was written in round schoolboy hand:
"My father. Gerald Arundel."
Further down, against the words,—
And of his port as meek as is a maid,
He never yet no vilanie ne'er said,
In all his lyfe unto no manner wight,
He was a very perfait gentle knighte!
upon the margin was written,—
"A gentleman's model.
"G. A."
It was the same handwriting, but was dated ten years later.
Betty looked at it with eager interest, then, with flushed cheeks, she murmured to herself,—
"It is a portrait of himself; 'A very . . . gentle knighte.'"
Then, putting the book down, she left the room, for she felt in no mood for talking.
Frank Dormer was very much at the vicarage during the few weeks that followed. He was a barrister by profession, but as yet was not a very busy one, and had a great deal of idle time on his hands. Mrs. Stuart liked him in fact, there were few who did not, for he was one of the bright sunshiny spirits in the world who carry a fresh breeze with them wherever they go, and his life about town had not spoilt his simple straightforward nature.
"Betty," he demanded one morning, coming into the breakfast-room where the two girls were sitting together, "I want you to make your mother bring you over to the Red Manor to a picnic tea this afternoon. I want you and Molly to advise me about a cartload of furniture arriving down. We will have tea on the terrace."
"You won't get me to go," said Betty stoutly. "I don't want to see the place again."
Molly looked up from her pile of manuscript.
"How do you spell inextinguishable?" she asked.
"Who is it?—A man or a woman?" asked Frank deferentially.
"It is 'the inextinguishable lightning fire in his eye,' that's how it comes!"
Frank and Betty burst out laughing.
"Give it to him, Molly. 'The inexpressible roll of murderous thunder that escaped from his soul!' Oh, what rot you waste your time over! Can't you stop her from such folly, Betty? She lives in a world of unreality all her days. She has not heard my invitation. Here! Give me your productions!"
He made a feint of snatching some of her papers. Molly stood at bay, making a pretty picture with her flushed cheeks and disordered hair, as she began to remonstrate.
"Frank! I will never forgive you! You are like a great schoolboy. No one told you to come here in the morning and interrupt us when we are busy!"
"Busy, are you? Here is Betty twirling her thumbs on the window-seat, and counting the flies on the window-panes! And you wasting your ink and paper on love-making between imaginary puppets with 'inextinguishable sparks of fire in their eyes'! You want a little real love-making to come into your life, then you would throw away this rubbish."
"Now, Frank, you are going too far!"
The placid Molly was roused at last, and Frank looked at her hot cheeks in surprise.
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to be too hard on you! Now I must cry forgiveness, or you won't come to tea with me; and you are my only hope, for Betty is obdurate."
Peace was soon made, for no one was ever angry with Frank for long. Betty asked him if he had met Gerald yet.
"Oh yes; he came over yesterday to superintend the removal of a small organ. I believe his mother used it, and he is having it taken to the farm where he is going to settle. It's rather out of place there, and I believe he does not play a note of music himself, so I think it is very stupid of him making such a fuss over it. He is having some other bits of furniture taken over too. He seems a nice friendly, cheerful kind of fellow. I feel rather sorry for him."
"Well," said Molly, putting on a most mournful look, "he is a hero going through the darkest hour of his life; but it is not going to last. And I have a plan for him by-and-bye."
"You're a silly goose!" exclaimed Betty. "He wouldn't thank you for your plans, nor any one else whom they concern."
"I must be off," announced Frank. "Molly, take my best respects to your lady mother, and ask her to bring you over."
Molly left the room.
Betty went to the sideboard and took a plate of pears off it.
"Here, Frank, will you have one? I am going to."
He assented boyishly; Betty sat on the low window-sill and commenced paring hers. As she did so, she swung her feet lightly to and fro, and began singing under her breath,—
Frank looked at her contemplatively.
"Betty, you're improving in looks."
"Thank you," said Betty, laughing. "I know you think there is great room for improvement. You used to call me 'Froggie,'—I remember."
"Yes, because of your big eyes and your jumping ways. You were never still a minute."
"I'm not often still now," Betty said. "I hate it. I always want to be on the move."
"Molly wants to be shaken up with you! Betty, tell me like a sister, has Molly any one after her?"
"What do you mean? You speak as if she is a cook! 'Any one after her!' It sounds quite vulgar."
"Don't fence round the bush. I want to know."
"And why should you want to know? You are most impertinent this morning."
"You are a little spitfire!"
"And you are impudence personified!"
Betty and Frank always engaged in a war of words, which meant very little. When Molly came down from her mother's room, and said that Mrs. Stuart would be glad to help Frank in any way, he rose to go.
"Good-bye, Molly. I wish I could get your 'hero' to meet you this afternoon, but he fights shy of the place. Betty, walk down the drive with me—do!"
Betty was nothing loth. She laughed and chatted as if she had not a care. She accompanied him through the village, and on the way they met Gerald Arundel, followed by his faithful hound Floy.
He did not stop, but only raised his hat and passed on. Betty thought he was looking tired and careworn, and her gay laughter died away.
"Looks glum, doesn't he? Poor chap! I wouldn't be in his shoes for something!"
Frank's tone was a little self-complacent.
Betty turned upon him in a fury.
"He has a good deal more in his shoes than you have! Money and a house and all outside show aren't much to lose! He doesn't count his wealth in the way you do; and I know which is the richest and the wisest and the better man of the two!"
Frank burst into his rollicking laugh.
"You and Molly are a pair! This exalted, ill-treated saint and hero ought to hear you fighting his battles! I am not worthy to enter into the lists with him. I must take a back seat, I see!"
"You are always so sure of yourself," went on Betty scathingly. "If you sometimes realised that you were inferior to men of brains and cultivated intellect, there would be some hope of you."
This was going too far.
Frank stood still in the middle of the road, and made her a grand bow.
"I am sure of one thing, my lady—that my presence is required no longer, so I will dismiss myself. Good morning!"
He walked away from her with offended dignity; but Betty, remembering her woman's privilege, called after him,—
"I never asked you for your-company; you asked for mine, and I shall tell mother and Molly how rudely you have treated me!"
CHAPTER IX
Through a Dark Cloud
To meet, to know, to love—and then to part,
Is the sad tale of many a human heart.
COLERIDGE.
BETTY'S spirits were always variable, but never quite so much as they were in these days. One day she would puzzle and distract Molly by her sparkling mirth; the next she would be plunged into the deepest moodiness and melancholy. She spent a great deal of time at her organ, and would come away from it wistful and sad. Molly always knew that she would be unusually sweet and obliging for some hours following.
Betty went over several times to the old almswomen, and felt herself the better for the interest they gave her. One afternoon she went to the Hall with a message to Mr. Russell from her mother. She was told by the butler that he was in the garden, and being on familiar ground, she went in search of him. She was sauntering through a covered archway of roses, when voices the other side of it brought her to a standstill. It was an old-fashioned garden, and a high box-hedge hid her from view.
"If you are bidding some friends good-bye, I think it would be polite to include Mrs. Stuart."
"I feel I cannot risk it, unless you could guarantee to have 'her' here while I do it."
"Who? My little Betty? My dear fellow, you are bound to come across her. Pluck up your courage. It is the very way to make her suspect your frame of mind."
Betty's heart almost stood still. She realised that she was a listener, yet her tongue seemed to cleave to her mouth, her feet seemed rooted to the ground. She heard Gerald sigh.
"I am a fool, for I expect she considers me old enough to be her father. But, Russell, the older you get, the deeper you feel! I shall be thankful to be away, to have only memories left!"
Betty made a frantic rustle and rush along the path, then, in trying to escape them and make her way back to the house unperceived, she took the wrong turn and came out in front of them.
Mr. Russell turned to her at once.
"I—I have brought you a message from mother, and I told Sims that I would come out and find you; but if you are engaged I can wait."
"We are two idle men," said Gerald, with remarkable self-possession, as he shook hands with her. "We are enjoying a chat and a smoke."
"Come along to the lawn, and we shall have some tea sent out to us," said Mr. Russell.
But Betty refused.
"I will not stop to-day, thank you. Here is mother's note. It is about a book you said you would lend her."
"Oh yes, I remember. I will go and get it; but I insist upon your having a cup of tea. Bring her along, Gerald."
He hastened to the house. Betty felt instinctively that a crucial moment in her life had arrived. Her heart was beating rapidly; her whole soul was in a tumult, from the words that she had heard. And then she felt a longing that this short walk towards the house would last for ever and for ever. It seemed as if it was an eternity before Gerald opened his lips, and then his calm, well-chosen words did much to restore her self-possession and common sense.
"I am glad to have the opportunity of saying good-bye to you, Miss Betty. I am off to-morrow on a trip to Norway, and before I return I expect you will have gone back to London."
Betty plucked some roses that grew along the path nervously.
"I expect we shall," she said, with a slight quiver in her voice. "I—I hope you will enjoy your trip, Mr. Arundel."
"Thank you. I hope I shall."
A pause. Then he said,—
"I must thank you for the pleasure you have given my old women. We shall most likely never meet again, so may I offer you a bit of advice, which I have gained by experience? It you get moody, discontented, or restless with your circumstances, set to work to help or benefit others. It is the surest way to bring happiness to yourself."
Betty struggled to speak, and as they drew near the house she came to a standstill, and looked up at him bravely and sweetly. She did not know that tears were glittering on her eyelashes, but Gerald's quick eyes noted it, and took in, as if for the last time, every bit of the sweet earnest little face raised towards his.
"Thank you, Mr. Arundel. It has done me good knowing you, for it shows me how real trouble can be borne. And I hope that the verse you gave me for Mat will come true to you. 'I will restore comforts to him.' Good-bye; I see Mr. Russell coming, and I can't stay to tea."
She held out her hand. Gerald took it, and kept it for an instant in his. For one moment their eyes met, and their tale was told. Betty caught her breath, and resolutely turned away. Gerald's voice was hoarse with emotion as he said,—
"May God bless and keep you till we meet above!"
And then Betty sped away, and seized the book out of Mr. Russell's hand with the incoherent words,—
"I can't stay. Mother is waiting. I must get home, and I can't stop to say good-bye."
She was off and away before Mr. Russell could understand her haste.
And Gerald was still standing in the same spot where she had left him, and in his hand was one of the white roses she had gathered, and dropped in her confusion.
He put it into his breast-pocket as Mr. Russell came in sight, and he murmured to himself a few lines he had added to Betty's little song of the white rose,—
"'The summer sun had faded
The flowers had drooped and died.
The clouds above were heavy,
And care was by my side,
I longed to shield the rose-bud
From storm and wind around,
But I dared not lift my hand
To drag it to the ground.
"'So through the gath'ring darkness
It hung and smiled on me;
Its fragrance seemed the sweeter,
When its form I could not see.
And I thought, as I gazed upwards,
And scanned the wintry sky,
"The future holds the summer;
There'll be roses by-and-bye.
"'"If my rose is now beyond me,
If my hopes seem all in vain,
There is a bright time coming,
I shall see the bud again;
It may be I shall reach it,
In its nest above so high;
It may be I shall gather
That rose-bud by-and-bye."'"
Mr. Russell joined him with a grave face.
"I am afraid that child must have overheard us."
"I don't think so," Gerald replied quietly; "she would not understand if she did. Can you let me have a 'Baedeker'? I want to look out our first stopping-place."
Mr. Russell wisely fell in with his mood, and though his thoughts were much with Betty, he did not mention her name again.
Betty, meanwhile, had hurried home as if her life depended on it. She tried not to let herself think. She took the book into her mother's room, and Mrs. Stuart expressed her surprise at her quick return.
"I did not stay, mother; Mr. Arundel was there, and he and Mr. Russell were busy talking. Mr. Arundel is going away to-morrow."
"I am glad to hear it. I think he would have shown better taste if he had gone before."
"Why, mother?" asked Molly, looking up from a piece of fancy-work she was doing. "He is going to stay in the neighbourhood; why ought he to go away?"
"I am astonished to hear he is going to live near his old home. I don't think he can realise the difference this will make in his position. He will make it very awkward for all his former friends."
"I don't see why it should," Molly said wonderingly.
"Oh, my dear child, surely you have lived long enough in the world to know that a young man in a penniless state, who is going to turn working farmer, cannot be welcomed into society in the way that he has been before his misfortunes! Mothers would not care to introduce him to their daughters—"
"Mercenary mothers would not," said Betty, from the window where she stood looking out. "People who value a man by his money of course will cut him dead—no one else will."
"It ought to make his friends rally round him," said Molly hotly.
"That is the way all romantic young girls talk. Now, listen both of you, while I tell you of an old schoolfriend of mine. A young fellow to whom she was virtually engaged lost all his money, and honourably, of course, wished to release her. She would not hear of it. Her mother tried to reason with her; but she would not listen, and as her family were all of her mother's mind, she actually persuaded him to marry her secretly. Of course, when it came out, her parents did all they could to help them, though it was more than they deserved. After some years of miserable penury, in which two children came upon the scene to add to their cares, the young wife became a hopeless invalid. The husband took to drink, and the last I heard of her was that she was an inmate of her county infirmary, and the two children in the workhouse."
"Oh, mother," said Molly, half-laughing; "you need not think we are in want of such an awful warning! But if a penniless young man marries a rich wife it is all right, and I have plans about Mr. Arundel."
"My dear child, Mr. Arundel has passed out of our lives; so do not let us discuss him any further."
"He hasn't passed out of mine," thought Betty, as she slipped out of the room.
Upstairs in her own little bedroom, she laid her head down on the low window-sill, and cried as if her heart would break.
Oh, why was life so perplexing and so sad? In turning over the events that had happened since she had come to the old vicarage, Betty almost wished she had not left London. And yet she would not for all the present pain have foregone the experience that had come to her. She knew the secret of her heart now; she knew what had caused her uneasy restlessness, her ceaseless surmises of what each day would bring her. She was not ignorant of the meaning of the few words she had overheard, and she wondered why she had been brought into contact with one who would influence her so powerfully, to be separated from him, and to know that the happiness that might have been hers was only just missed through misfortune. Her cheeks grew hot as she dwelt again upon his farewell look and words. She cried out passionately to herself,—
"I would scrub the farmhouse floors, I would go without servants, and do what a poor farmer's wife does every day of my life, if I could only be with him! And it is only the false ideas people have of money and position that prevents my doing it!"
Life looked very empty and forlorn to her. And then she turned to the One to whom she had always gone in trouble, even when she was quite a little child.
"O God," she murmured, "it must be Thy will, but it seems so hard. Do
have pity upon me; I am so lonely; I have nothing to live for, and I
feel as if I always shall be alone now for the rest of my life. Do
comfort me; do help me! Do make me happy serving Thee. It is all that
is left to me."
Betty stopped here; the selfish spirit of her prayer struck her. And a still, small voice that reached to her heart's depths seemed to say,—
"Am not I sufficient for Thee? Seek ye 'first' the Kingdom of God and
His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you."
Betty bowed her head again in true contrition of soul. She knew lately that thoughts of her own happiness had been absorbing her to the exclusion of all higher things.
"God means to show me," she thought, "that His service must come first, not last. And if He didn't put me into this world to have earthly love and happiness, He must have put me here for something. He has work for me to do, I know, and I will find it and do it; and perhaps He will make me happy doing it."
Then very silently at her bedside, Betty definitely offered herself to be taken body and soul for service for her King; and when she rose a little later, she had the sweet realisation that her service had been accepted.
When Betty came into the drawing-room that evening, Molly wondered what made her look so strangely calm and restful. And when Mrs. Stuart asked one of them to read her the articles in the "Times," Betty offered at once to do it, though usually she would fidget through the whole time of Molly's reading, and declare that the "Times" was a dry old-fashioned paper, with no spark of life or humour in it.
For the next few days Betty's new-found peace brought great restfulness into her life; then when she thought she was quite secure from all moody feelings, they came back in an overwhelming rush, and the struggle began.
Mr. Russell met her walking along the country lanes with a wistful eagerness that went to his heart.
"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" she cried. "Talk to me, and make me feel good and happy again. I am so disappointed in myself."
"That little self of yours must just be pushed into the background," said Mr. Russell playfully. "I have told you before that I think you suffer from want of occupation. Have you been to see your old almswomen?"
"Yes, last week. Mother won't let me go more than once a week. I enjoy seeing them so much; but, Mr. Russell, I want a real serious talk with you!"
"I am ready."
"And you won't laugh at me?"
With those grey eyes raised so trustingly to his, and the slight quiver in the brave young voice, Mr. Russell could confidently assure her that he would be serious.
"I have been thinking lately, and I know you will agree with me, from what you have just said, that I ought to be doing something with my life. I am idle now; there is so little to do here except amuse myself; and I want you to come round and talk to mother; I want to leave home. I think I should like to be a missionary best, if mother would let me go. Because I want to do some work for God, and I know missionaries are wanted, and no one wants me at home; and if I'm not to be a missionary, I think there are other things in towns that I might do. I'm rather afraid of being a hospital nurse, to tell you the truth, because I'm such a coward about pain. I can't help crying when I see any one suffering; but perhaps I would be able to get over that. What do you think?"
Mr. Russell did not answer for a few minutes, then he said,—
"This is rather a sudden resolution on your part, Betty. I do honestly think you want more occupation; but leaving home is a serious step, and I do not think for one moment that your mother would consent. You are too young."
"Oh, don't say that!"
Betty's eyes filled with tears. She slipped her hand into his arm confidingly, and went on in a hushed tone,—
"I do believe that God wants me to do something for Him, Mr. Russell. And I have been so happy since I have believed it. You will help me, will you not? I have never found my corner yet; I have always been the 'odd one' at home, and I am sure a corner is waiting for me somewhere."
Her pathetic voice touched Mr. Russell's heart; he guessed the reason of this desire to work, and admired her courage in thus facing her future.
"I won't be the one to put hindrances in your path, child; but we must think matters over, and must not act in a hurry. I do not think myself that you are fitted to be a missionary. You are too nervously strung. You would be invalided home as soon as you got out abroad. I quite approve of your desire for work, and I will do my best to help you."
"Thank you; and you'll come round and talk to mother to-night. I must tell her. I can't keep it to myself any longer."
"Little Impatience! You must wait till to-morrow. I have an engagement to-night."
Betty sighed.
"I think mother ought to be glad; she is always wanting me to do something. I want to fill my life so full, Mr. Russell, that I shan't ever have time to think!"
Poor little Betty! Her laugh as she spoke had a trembling note in it—a note that was very near tears.
When she had left him, Mr. Russell repeated her words to himself,—
"I want to fill my life so full that I shan't ever have time to think!"
It had come to that, then. Memories must not be allowed full sway, and quiet thought was too full of pain to be borne.
"My poor little Betty! No one can help her; but it has been done by the One who loves her best, and I can leave her to Him."
CHAPTER X
Home Duties
Duty, demands the parent's voice,
Should sanctify the daughter's choice,
In that is due obedience shown;
To choose, belongs to her alone.
THOMAS MOORE.
MR. RUSSELL was as good as his word. He came round to the vicarage the next evening, and Betty's desire for work was discussed. Mrs. Stuart, as her daughter feared, would not hear of her leaving home.
"I know it is the fashion nowadays," she said, "but I will not allow one of my girls to do it. Betty's first duty is to make herself useful at home; and until she does that, she will be of no use anywhere else. I can find plenty of occupation for her. Molly will be glad of more leisure, and Betty can take some of my correspondence off my hands."
"But, mother," pleaded Betty, "you say I write so untidily. I give you more trouble than help when I take Molly's place."
"Is it not possible to improve in that respect?"
Betty coloured at her mother's words. Then, with a little burst of enthusiasm, she made one more effort to obtain her freedom,—
"Oh, mother, don't keep me at home! You don't really want me. You would never miss me if I went, and I want to do great things. I want to take up a vocation. There is so much in the world to be done, and so few to do it! You are always telling us so. You don't want us to be idlers. Let me go!"
"Go where?" asked Mrs. Stuart. "You are not fitted for an independent rôle, Betty. You are too unformed and childish—too uncontrolled. I will never give my consent to your going into the Mission Field. You have neither the health nor qualifications necessary. If you are anxious for work, you can do it from your own home. We are going back to town soon, and I shall be able, through various friends, to find you plenty of occupation. Do not you agree with me, Mr. Russell? Is she fitted to sally out into the world as so many young girls are doing in this present generation, and discard her home and friends as if she had no belongings?"
"I should not be happy if she did that," said Mr. Russell, smiling. "I think she would be better for outside interests, and I am sure they will be given her."
"This discontent with home is very sudden," Mrs. Stuart said. "I can only suppose this country life is not to her taste."
The conversation was not satisfactory. Man like, Mr. Russell felt it was useless to argue with such a woman as Mrs. Stuart. He tried to comfort Betty afterwards.
"Your mother is right in her wish to keep you still under her wing. Your life is all before you. There is plenty of time, and you know I have a great belief in the corners first being filled up at home."
Betty sighed.
"I will try to be willing and patient. But I know what our London life is, and I am sick of it. I love the country; I always feel it is so much easier to be good in it. And can't say it well, Mr. Russell, but I've given myself for God's service, and I did hope He was going to take me."
"You need not doubt that," said Mr. Russell, smiling; "but I think you had better look up the subject of service in your Bible. St. Paul advises some of the converts—in fact, all of them—to 'abide in the calling wherein they are called.' I am certain you can serve God in your own home. Read the first chapter of the Epistle to the Colossians when you get home, and see what was St. Paul's prayer and desire for the young Christians—not that they should go out and do great things, but that they might walk worthy of the Lord unto all pleasing, being fruitful in every good work, and increasing in the knowledge of God."
"Yes, 'good works,'" interrupted Betty; "and that is what I want to do."
"Wait a bit. If I remember rightly the passage goes on, 'Strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power.' Now what does a young Christian want this glorious, mighty strength for? Why should he need God's almighty power? Is he to work miracles, or preach to thousands? No. It is to teach him to practise or bring forth in his own home three fruits of the Spirit—'Patience, long-suffering, joyfulness.'"
"I will look at that chapter," said Betty thoughtfully; "I know I am not patient or long-suffering. Joyfulness seems a strange thing to practise."
"It is most essential to recommend our religion to the world at large. Can't you imagine the young Christian practising a mournful patience, and a melancholy long-suffering, and exasperating all the members of her family thereby."
Betty laughed.
"Yes, Mr. Russell, and I do hope I shan't turn into that type. I know a girl in London who always adopts a superior kind of patience, as if she were a long-suffering martyr, and she drives her sisters nearly mad!"
"Don't lose your gay spirits, Betty. It is a gift for which you will have to account, and very few keep it when their youth slips away. I often think it is such a pity, for it brightens and gladdens all who come in contact with it."
"I was wondering if I had any gifts," said Betty; "but I am afraid joyfulness is not mine now."
"I think it is. There is no reason why it should not be. If clouds come, let them pass; don't hug hold of them, and coax them to stay."
A pink colour rose to Betty's cheeks. She was walking down the drive with Mr. Russell, and her eyes wandered to the hills in the distance, which formed a blue foreground to a golden sky behind them.
"The sun isn't always shining," she said wistfully; "but I'm going to try hard, Mr. Russell, and if I sit indoors all day at mother's writing-desk, and keep happy all the time, you think that will be a kind of service?"
"I don't think your mother will be such a hard task-mistress as that," was Mr. Russell's amused reply; but Betty shook her little curly head very doubtfully.
It was very soon after this that General Dormer and his family came to the Red Manor. Ella Dormer, a bright, handsome girl about Molly's age, appeared very often at the vicarage with her brother, and the request,—
"Please, Mrs. Stuart, may Molly and Betty come over and spend the day with us? We want to make up a set for tennis or croquet."
Molly generally ended by going with them, but Betty withstood all their invitations, and gradually began to take Molly's place in her mother's sick-room. It was a trial to her at first, for Betty, as she acknowledged, "was not an indoor person," and the bright summer weather tempted her sorely to spend her time in the open air. But she had set herself to learn lessons of "patience and long-suffering with joyfulness," and if the little songs that she sang about the house had a somewhat plaintive melody, they sweetened and enlivened her mother's many quiet hours of seclusion and solitude.
The summer faded; the young green leaves turned from their early freshness to their dull August tint, and then to their bright September hues; the woods were clothed in their glorious russet and golden coats, the days began to shorten, and the nights became cold and misty. And Mrs. Stuart announced her intention of returning to town.
Molly was invited to stay at the Red Manor with her young friends for a month later, and so it happened that Betty and her mother went up to London together.
Betty walked over to wish her old women at the almshouses good-bye the day before she left. Her heart was full; she tried to face the future bravely, but it looked dreary and forlorn. There was much lamentation over her departure; for by this time she had endeared herself to their hearts. Even Lucy Finch had learnt to restrain her tongue a little during Betty's visits.
"Eh, me dear, us will say nought about our neighbours to-day. They be no better nor worse than usual, an uninterestin' set, it seems to me, an' the fewer words us do have about 'em, the better you'll be pleased. I've larned that from yer pretty face. For I sez to Mary Dunster yester-morn, 'tis hard work for such a bright young leddy to listen to the groans an' moans of those who make such a clamour over their aches an' pains; an' for meself I allays have kep' a brave heart, an' should be 'shamed to whine like some folks that I could tell on. Yes, me dear, I've done; an' I wipe me hands o' their ways an' their folly! But what us will do when youn'm gone be more than I can tell!"
Mary Dunster had a smile for her.
"You have brought sunshine to my heart, missy, for I'm learnin' fast to look up and on. Hope keeps the heart young, they say; an' hope is makin' my old heart quicken an' throb with expectation. When my rheumatics keep me awake at night, I just count over the blessin's that are comin' to me in the other land, an' my dreams are often on it now. I shall miss our talks sorely."
Widow Newcombe and Widow Long received her with long faces. The latter was always spokeswoman, and her friend echoed her words.
"Well to be sure, Miss Stuart. Us have only just begun to be friendly wi' 'ee, and now you be departin'; an' tis the way o' the world—here to-day and gone to-morrow; an' the young squire be gone too, and a fam'ly already come in his stead. 'Tis to be hoped they have come to stay. Us be very sorry to lose 'ee, miss. It whiles the time away to see a young lady."
"It do," assented Widow Newcombe fervently.
Susan Crane cried as she wished her good-bye.
"It has been good, miss, to have a talk about good things. My prayers will foller you, an' I hope us may see you down in these parts agen. I have picked up wonderful since I had your visits to look to, an' I'm settlin' in most comfortable!"
But Betty lingered longest at Martha Button's.
"Martha," she said, "give me some advice to take up to London. I remember some time ago—the first time I called—you were talking about stewards. Do you think I am one? Have I anything entrusted to me?"
Martha's face beamed.
"Ay, Miss Betty, ye have. Surely your youth and brightness is like dew to the dry, parched ground. You have brought sunshine to us in this little community; take it about you in London, for that be a place that wants a power o' sunshine, I hear. And there be few folks that make the best of life, and pick out their mercies; 'tis always the other way. If only the Lord's people would mind that sunbeams glorify the sun they come from, perchance they might think a bright face and word as much their dooty as hymns an' prayers!"
"But, Martha, one can't always be bright. It is strange your talking to me, too, about being happy. Mr. Russell—a friend of mine—said much the same thing to me the other day. It seems that I am not to be allowed to take life gravely. I hope I shan't be like the clown who looked upon tears as an expensive luxury."
"We'll hope trouble will not touch you for many a day," said Martha.
Betty left her with a brave smile; but she felt that trouble which had to be hidden, and which in a sense was not lawful, was a difficult burden to carry. As she neared home she met Mat Lubbock.
"Arternoon, missy. Have 'ee said good-bye to the organ?"
"I'm afraid I have," Betty said, a sorrowful look coming to her face.
"I have a short time now at your biddin', missy."
"Then let us come into church now for half an hour," said Betty, wondering that Mat should propose what once he had been so loth to do. She was more surprised when, after she had played over several of her favourite refrains, Mat said in his gruffest tone,—
"Will 'ee sing that there hymn, missy, on 'The King o' love my Shepherd is'?"
Betty gladly complied with his request. When her sweet, glad notes rang through the little church,—
"'The King of Love my Shepherd is,
Whose goodness faileth never;
I nothing lack if I am His,
And He is mine, for ever,—'"
she fancied she heard a hoarse echo of her words, but, thinking she was mistaken, she said nothing.
As she was shutting up the organ, Mat came out of his corner, and stood at her elbow. She looked at him, and, seeing he was struggling to speak, said gently,—
"What is it, Mat?"
"I thought I'd tell 'ee that I hath bin up to passon an' given my name for bell-ringer agen."
"Oh, Mat, I am so glad! I thought you were looking happier."
"I be that. Tell 'ee missy, I be fair overcome by the King o' Love. He have bin hammer, hammer at my hard old heart, till He smashed un all to shiver, an' then He have been soothin', an' comfortin', an' puttin' of it together agen, till He have got a heart that'll hold Him, an' bless Him all its days. Do 'ee mind the tex' that the young squire did pass to 'ee to pass on to me?
"'I have seen his ways, and will heal him. I will lead him also, an'
restore comforts unto him.'
"That be a powerfu' tex', missy, and when I heerd the young squire were a holdin' his head so straight an' cheerfu' like, for all his own trouble; an' when he met me the day afore he went ower the sea, an'—
"'Mat, my man,' sez he, 'shake hands, an' wish me well, for I'm beginnin' life at the bottom o' the ladder,' sez he,—
"I fair broke down, an' I sez to un, 'If the Lord have dealt me hard knocks, certain He have thee, an' if thee hath not turned agen Him, more shame to I that have.'
"'Ah, Mat,' he sez, 'we'll both live to thank Him yet, and to own up He did just the very best for us.'
"An' I come home, and the tex' kept repeatin' of itself, till I thought it would send me daft; but thank the Lord,—
"'Perverse an' foolish oft I strayed,
But yet in love He sought me,
And on His shoulder gently laid,
An' home, rejoicin', brought me.'"
Betty's eyes filled with happy tears.
"Oh, I am so glad, Mat,—so glad!"
She could say no more, but just outside the church porch she took the man's hand in hers.
"Good-bye, Mat. I shan't forget you, We must both remember our favourite hymn when things don't go well with us—
"'I nothing lack if I am His,
And He is mine, for ever.'"
"Ay," said Mat, grasping her little hand with both his; "an' I'd thank the King o' Love's messenger for what her hath brought me!"
Betty came into her mother's presence a little later with such a sparkling, radiant face, that Mrs. Stuart asked her where she had been.
"Saying good-bye to the old almswomen and to Mat, mother."
"You seem glad to get back to town," Mrs. Stuart said, looking at her.
"I shall be glad to go or stay now," was the happy reply.
And her mother looked at her again, and wondered.