"DID MOTHER SAY NOTHING ABOUT US TO YOU?" ASKED BETTY.
And this was what was finally arranged; Molly and Betty both went down to Holly Grange. Nesta wrote them a warm entreaty to make her house at present their home. They arrived at Tiverstoke Station on a cold, windy afternoon in March.
"It was only a year ago we came down with mother," said Molly sadly. "It seems as if we are fated to be in this part."
"Don't you like it?" asked Betty. "We have friends here. I shall much prefer it to London. But I never thought, when we left it last year, that we should come back again."
"There will be nothing to do," said Molly, with a weary sigh. "And the Dormers are abroad. I—I am glad of that."
She did not look glad. Nesta thought, when she met them, that Molly had the saddest face of the two. There had been a great deal to do after their mother's death, and as long as Molly was employed she was content, but with leisure on her hands she was wretched. She seemed for the time to have lost all her sweet placidity. And Betty found that nothing she did or said could please her.
Nesta did not meet them at the station, though she sent her carriage. As they stepped into the hall she came forward with her little son to welcome them, and with a sudden rush of memories Betty seemed to see herself again a little white-frocked child, being led out of the sun into the cool, shady hall. Everything looked just the same. The same old-fashioned pot-pourri pots stood about the hall and stairs, the glass garden doors at the end of the hall showed glimpses of bright hyacinths and tulips, where Betty as a child had seen lilies and roses, and when stately Mrs. Fairfax moved slowly across the drawing-room to greet them, Betty almost fancied time had slipped back to fifteen years ago. There was one small person who soon disturbed this fancy.
"You're Godmother Betty! Granny, have you ever seen her before, and don't you think she—is a very pretty godmother? At least—" here Jossy paused and eyed her doubtfully—"you're not very pretty in that black dress. You had a red dress in London, and your eyes were more laughing. Everybody wears black dresses in England. It's so ugly. We don't wear black in India."
He was holding his grandmother's hand as he spoke, and dancing up and down with excitement.
Mrs. Fairfax had changed little with time. Her hair was white now where it had been grey, her face a little more lined, but her figure was as erect as ever, and her voice exactly the same.
She held Betty's hand in hers for a minute and looked at her keenly.
"I should have known you anywhere," she said. "But I have not seen you since Nesta's wedding."
"No," said Betty, flushing a little under her inspection. "I am glad I have not changed much. I feel just the same—only older, and—sadder."
"You wanted to hurry trouble into your young life when I first made your acquaintance," said Mrs. Fairfax. "I suppose you have found it has come quickly enough."
"This last year it has," answered Betty slowly.
There was a look in her face that told Mrs. Fairfax there had been more to trouble her than her recent bereavement. No more was said, for Nesta came forward to show her to her room.
The girls had a bedroom each side by side. Betty sat down by her window and looked out. A feeling of peace and rest stole into her heart.
"I can enjoy this now," she said to herself. "I am thankful I was prevented from coming before. I should never have forgiven myself had I done so. Oh, mother! I wonder where you are, and what you are doing! Molly and I are lost without you!"
CHAPTER XIV
A Meeting
It gives me wonder, great as my content,
To see you here before me.
Othello.
IT was a very quiet life at Holly Grange. Nesta naturally, in these first days of her widowhood, saw very few people, and did not go out. Mrs. Fairfax kept much to her own rooms, and Molly and Betty were content to wander round the garden and grounds talking over, and making many plans for, their future.
Poor Molly was most to be pitied. All her resources were gone. She would not touch a pen and paper.
"I haven't the heart, Betty," she said piteously. "I can't forgive myself for being so engrossed in it, when mother was dying. It was all rubbish. I wasted hours over it, and I will never attempt to take it up again."
Much as she missed her writing, she missed her occupation of attending on her mother more. Nesta, seeing how languidly she moved about, how uninterested she was in work or books, suggested to her that she should take up some of her mother's work, and carry it on. But Molly shook her head.
"I am not fit for it. I have no head. I can carry out people's wishes and write at their dictation, but I never could be responsible for anything more."
"I am interested in these girls," Mrs. Fairfax said to Nesta one day. "Molly, I fear, will develop into an aimless, hopeless woman unless she marries. She wants to be roused, and to be made to work. It would be better for her if she had to earn her own living, while Betty is just the other way. She has a thousand unpractical schemes in her little head. She has too much enthusiasm. No amount of trouble will crush it."
"We don't want it crushed," said Nests quickly. "We only want to divert it into right channels."
One afternoon Mr. Russell called. Nesta immediately began to consult him about a new organ she wished to have placed in the little village church close to them.
"There is only a harmonium at present. I have promised the vicar to give it—"
Her voice faltered, and Betty finished her sentence.
"It is to be in memory of Colonel St. Clair," she said softly.
Mr. Russell gave all the advice he could about it, and then they walked down to the little church. They met the vicar on the way, and while he was talking to Nesta, Betty dropped behind with Mr. Russell. It was the first time she had seen him alone.
"Well, Betty," he said kindly, "you have had a sad winter, poor child; but I don't think you will have regretted giving in to your dear mother's decision to stay at home."
"No," said Betty earnestly. "I can only be thankful I was not allowed to have my own way, Mr. Russell."
"And what are your plans now?"
"Molly and I make a great many. If were quite by myself it would be very easy; there is so much I want to do, but Molly says she does not want to be separated from me, and it makes it difficult."
"How?"
"I want to spend my money in making people happy, Mr. Russell. I feel now I am a steward with something given to me to use rightly. I don't want to waste or hoard it, and it is a care. I lie awake at night and think about it."
"You want to spend it on the unhappy people in the world?"
"Yes; you understand me, don't you? But it is a puzzle. I think of so many different ways I could use it."
She gave a little laugh as she continued,—
"I think of something different every day. I believe I really should like to build a home of some sort, where I could live myself, and take in cripple children or orphans or workhouse people, or old soldiers and old servants, and anybody who has tried to earn their living and failed, like schoolmistresses and artists, and poor old maids who have lost their money."
"Go on," said Mr. Russell, smiling; "your list is not nearly long enough. You would be like the old woman who lived in a shoe. I have a vision of your happy mixture. Gentle, timid spinsters and 'old soldiers,' tramps and lazy ruffians from the workhouse, with orphan babies, and you in their midst, controlling and managing them all. Your heart is big enough, my child, but I don't think that your home would be, and certainly not your purse!"
"You're laughing at me, of course. I only tell you my thoughts. Then there is another way; I can divide up my income and send subscriptions to every home that has been started, or I can send it to some missionary society, or, better still, I could go myself and take my money with me."
"Go where?"
"To India, or New Zealand," said Betty vaguely. "Anywhere, as long as I could do some good to some one."
"Is that your aim in life?"
Betty was silent for a minute. She seemed to be considering, and then she looked up.
"Well, no, Mr. Russell. I don't believe it is. My aim is to serve God, to do His will."
"That is right. Many people put work for God before His 'will.' I think you were carrying out God's will this winter, when you gave up your time and attention to your mother, and practised 'patience, and long-suffering, with joyfulness.' Don't go ahead; just take your steps slowly. His will can be done every day in the very circumstances in which you are placed. His work will be shown you, if you are doing His will."
There was no opportunity for further talk, for they had joined the others; but, in spite of her keen interest about the proposed organ, Betty was strangely silent and absorbed.
"I am so glad you will be here, Betty," said Nesta to her on the way home. "Mr. Adams has been telling me his difficulty about an organist. He says he has not one parishioner who is sufficiently musical to learn it. I wonder if you will like to help him, and take the services."
"Oh, Mrs. St. Clair, I shall be proud, delighted!" exclaimed Betty. "But how can you ask me? Surely you will love to do it yourself?"
Nesta shook her head.
"Not yet, Betty, and not 'this' organ. I am not brave enough; not sure enough of my self-control. I hope by-and-bye I may conquer my weakness. I shall steal into church when no one is there, and get real comfort and refreshment from it, but I could not play in public—not for a long while to come, I am afraid."
Betty was silent. Nesta touched so little on her own sorrow that it was difficult to allude to it, but Nesta now quietly drew her arm into hers.
"You remember, Betty, how an organ must be for ever associated in my mind with him. You and that brought us together. And he was always so fond of it. It was a dream of ours to come back from India to this dear old house; and he always said that the first thing he would do, would be to put an organ in our little church here, so that he could come and hear me play."
"Oh," said Betty, with trembling lips, "why does God make life so sad? It must be right, but the older I get the more trouble there seems to be."
"But it is only for such a little time," said Nesta, raising her pale face to the spring sky above. "There is no harshness in a Father wishing to have His children with Him. It is a trouble that has more sweetness than bitterness in it, Betty. Do you remember those lines—
"'Love craves the presence and the sight of all its
well-beloved,
And therefore weep we in the homes whence they
are far removed;
Love craves the presence and the sight of each
beloved one,
And therefore Jesus spake the word which caught
them to His throne.'"
"Yes," said Betty slowly, "that comforts one."
"And now," said Nesta brightly, "I want to talk about another matter. You know that Major Stuart has been choosing a pony for Jossy, and another one that I can either ride or drive. He writes to me this morning to say that they are coming down in charge of his groom. He says the mare has been ridden by a lady who is going abroad, and is perfectly safe and quiet, with no vice. I know you like riding. Will you use her while you are here, and take your little godson out with you?"
Betty's face flushed and sparkled with pleasure.
"Oh, how delightful! I shall love to. As you know, when mother was taken ill we gave up our riding. It was expensive, too, in town, as we always had to hire. I have longed sometimes to be on horseback, and was only saying the other day to Molly that we might attempt it again. Will you really trust me with Jossy? Does he like riding?"
Nesta caught her breath.
"Ah, doesn't he? He rode with his father every morning from the time he was four years old, and then after the—the accident I felt I could never let him ride again. I thanked God with all my heart that Jossy wasn't with him that morning. But I talked to your uncle about it, and I have come to the conclusion that it would be wrong to give way to unreasonable fears. So Jossy must have his pony, and in time perhaps I may be able to accompany him. Till then, I shall be so glad if you will. Molly does not seem to care for it at present."
"Molly cares for nothing. Am I heartless, Mrs. St. Clair, because so soon after—our trouble—I am beginning to care for everything so very much again? It is the spring, I think, and the country; and now this organ and the riding—why, it is all delicious!"
Betty looked radiant as she spoke. Nesta found her bright voice and face the sunshine of the house, yet she sometimes puzzled over Betty still, and she would say to herself,—
"There has been something in her life that she has not told me. Her bright winsomeness is not that of an untaught, undisciplined child; it is that which has been acquired and held fast to through real trouble. It is a steady fount of joy, not a fitful ebb and flow."
A few days after, Betty and Jossy took their first ride together. The groom accompanied them the first day, but they soon dispensed with his services, and it was difficult to say who enjoyed it most, godson or godmother.
As they cantered through the lanes, now bursting with their young fresh green, Betty's mirth and chatter were fascinating to the small boy.
"You know how to pretend so beautifully," Jossy said one day. "Some people won't pretend; they won't make themselves into different people. Now, Aunt Betty," (he had substituted "aunt" for "godmother"), "you must be a great lady, and your husband is fighting far-away. I'm his page, and he has sent me to bring you to him."
"All right," responded Betty gaily. "And now, Alphonso, how is my lord? My heart is awearying for him. Am I indeed to be taken to his presence, in the midst of armed men encamped around him?"
"Yes, my mistress," piped Jossy, in all solemnity. "We are now going through the enemy's ground, but I have my pistols, and I'll shoot the first man dead who stops us! Let me ride first. If we meet a woman, I will ask if we're on the right road, but if we meet a man, he must be either friend or foe, and that must be settled at once."
It was characteristic of Jossy that he could throw himself into any one of his fictitious personalities without the slightest difficulty, but it took a long time to bring him back to real life again. Betty and he would ride along personating many characters, for Jossy's imagination was wide and keenly vivid, and Betty entered into his spirit with a zest that enchanted him. Sometimes he was Robin Hood and she Maid Marian, sometimes they were Beauty and the Beast, sometimes he was a bandit chief and she his captive. He drank in stories, "like water" Betty would declare, and she delighted in telling him as many as he could listen to.
Now, as they rode along, his quick eyes were roving to and fro.
"It is a dangerous road, mistress," he said presently. "I spy a horseman in the distance. Is he friend or foe?"
Betty's heart gave a sudden leap, then almost stopped beating. She recognised the distant figure, and it was the one she had feared she must meet sooner or later, but now felt it would be more than she could bear. He was almost upon them before she had the presence of mind to speak, and Jossy was bristling all over with excitement and aggressiveness.
"He shall not pass us. He means foul play!"
"Hush, hush, Jossy! He is a gentleman that I know," Betty said hastily.
The boy was carried away entirely by his game.
"He's a friend, then!" he shouted.
Then, as Gerald Arundel came up, he added excitedly, with a wave of his hand from Betty to Gerald, "Behold your dear husband! And you, sir, this is your faithful wife who has come to meet you!"
Gerald's eyes met Betty's in undisguised astonishment at this introduction. Her face had whitened in her consternation and dismay, and terror peeped out of her eyes. Then she pulled herself together, and turned upon Jossy, who, with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, was the only one who thoroughly enjoyed the situation.
"Now," he exclaimed, reining in his pony and barring Gerald's path, "dismount, my lord, and kiss your lady's hand!"
"Jossy!" Betty gasped. "Mr. Arundel does not understand; do be quiet!"
Then her sense of humour came to her aid, and she laughed at the absurdity of it. To her inexpressible relief; Gerald joined her.
"Oh, what will you think of us, Mr. Arundel?" said Betty, turning to him, with smiles and blushes. "Jossy and I have been playing a game, and he forgets that every one isn't in it."
"But I should like to be in it," said Gerald hastily; then he checked himself, as Betty's mare swerved and shied: her mistress's quivering little hands were tugging at her unmercifully.
"May I be introduced to your young squire?" he asked, in a different tone.
"This is Jossy St. Clair. I am staying with his mother." Betty was steadying her voice and her heart. "Wake up, Jossy, and speak to this gentleman properly."
The boy pulled off his cap.
"It is a pity," he said, with a heavy sigh. "We were getting on so splendidly. You ought to have carried it on properly."
This was added with such a reproachful look at Gerald, that he laughed outright. "Perhaps another day I shall be prepared; and then you will find me all that you can wish."
Betty was moving on.
"I heard from Mr. Russell that you were in these parts again," said Gerald, turning to her gravely. "Are you going to make a long stay?"
"I do not know."
Betty's voice faltered a little, then she braced herself and looked up at Gerald with her old straightforward glance.
"I love the country, as you know; so I hope to be here some time."
He was silent, then said quietly,—
"May I offer my sympathy for your loss?"
"Thank you. It makes this time so sad, when I remember last year."
She passed him. He raised his hat and moved on, then drew up his horse and looked at her retreating figure. Jossy turned round and waved his hat with a shout.
"Next time I shall shoot you. If you won't be a friend, you are a foe!"
Gerald smiled, and there was no bitterness in his smile.
"A friend I shall always be, if nothing more. And the meeting I have so dreaded has come and gone. It was short enough, but I could not trust myself, and she did not wish to prolong it. I wonder if she knows she is passing by my fields, and if she does, will she care?"
His horse fidgeted. He turned his back on Betty resolutely.
"I will not think of her," was his mental resolve; "but oh, how sweet she has grown! It is a cross between joy and torture to set my eyes on her again."
He rode to the town for which he was bound, did his business satisfactorily, and then retraced his steps homewards. Arrived there, he sank into his chair by the fire. Floy crept up, laid his head on his master's knee, and looked the affection and sympathy that he could not utter. Gerald laid his hand on his silky head:
"Still 'too high for me,' Floy. But I am to have the privilege of watching her from afar."
CHAPTER XV
Molly's Invitation
True happiness
Consists not in the multitude of friends,
But in the worth and choice.
BEN JONSON.
Jossy had found Betty very dull for the rest of their ride. She would "pretend" no longer with him.
"You carry it too far, Jossy. You don't know when you ought to stop."
"That man didn't mind. I liked him. Does mother know him? I'd like her to!"
"No, she doesn't, and I don't know him well; and we oughtn't to have stopped him at all. You made a regular muddle of it, Jossy."
"You and him made a muddle of our game!" retorted Jossy ungrammatically.
When they arrived home he went in search of his mother. He found her at her davenport writing a letter.
"Mummy, I've come back."
"I see you have, my boy. Have you had a nice time?"
Nesta laid her pen down, and drew her boy into her arms.
"No, I haven't, not very much. You see, we began well, but we met a stupid man who spoiled it all. And he made Aunt Betty stupid, too, for she wouldn't play properly after."
"Mr. Russell, I suppose?"
"Oh no, quite a strange man. He had a black nose beard." (Jossy's name for moustache.) "He would have done nicely for the husband away at the war, only he wouldn't play at it."
"Oh, Jossy," said Nesta, smiling, "every one doesn't understand your games. Now run upstairs, for the luncheon bell is going to ring."
Nesta had got the clue at last.
At the luncheon table Jossy alluded again to the "strange man."
"It was Mr. Arundel," Betty said, turning to Molly; "he met us."
"Did he?" enquired Molly, with interest. "How did he look, Betty? Was he shabby and sad? And were you very kind to him?"
"Who is this Mr. Arundel?" asked Nesta, noting Molly's eagerness, and Betty's quiet silence.
"Oh," said Molly, "I wish you would ask him to dinner, Mrs. St. Clair. People have been so horrid; they have given him the cold shoulder, and only because he is poor. He used to live in the Red Manor—such a lovely place! Do you know it?"
"I have never been there, but I have heard about it. We only knew old Mr. Arundel very slightly. What has happened, then?"
Molly related the story of Gerald's misfortune, winding up with,—
"His changed prospects ought not to make any difference to his friends, and I had a long talk with the Dormers about it. Mrs. Dormer does not like him staying in the neighbourhood. I admire him for doing it."
"He was looking quite well and happy, Molly. I do not think he needs our pity. Jossy, after lunch I will mend your whip. We must not forget it."
Jossy eagerly began to state several other of his belongings that he would like mended, and Gerald's name dropped out of the conversation.
Later that afternoon Nesta found Betty by herself pacing up and down the green grassy walk outside the garden wall that led through the wood.
She joined her quietly, and slipped her arm through hers.
"I am not interrupting your meditations, am I? Jossy monopolises you so much that I am getting quite jealous. Is it not delicious here?"
Betty looked up at her gravely and sweetly. "I don't wonder that Isaac went out into the fields at eventide to meditate. It is so soothing. I remember when I was here as a little child there always seemed a kind of holy hush about this walk."
Then she added impulsively, with a glow in her grey eyes that made Nesta think them lovely,—
"Oh, Mrs. St. Clair, why do we forget heaven so? Why are we always thinking of our happiness, and what will make it on earth? Why, if I were a homeless, friendless, starving beggar, the hope of heaven would be abundantly satisfying. I do get so disgusted with myself sometimes!"
Nesta had a faint inkling of what Betty's meditations had been about.
"Don't be too hard upon yourself, dear. I am not one of those people who think that God does not wish His children to enjoy their life on earth. I believe He does. He gives us all things richly to enjoy. Our joys and pleasures ought to bring heaven nearer."
There was silence. Betty looked up through the arched green trees above them, then she smiled.
"I always felt solitary as a child, but somehow lately I have felt it is good to recognise that perhaps God may mean me to stand alone all my life, so that I may lean harder on Him. Don't you think so?"
"Do not be anxious about the future, Betty; a little bit of your way may seem lonely. By-and-bye, perhaps, it will not be so. We never know what God will send us, but be sure of this—it will be the very best."
Betty shook off her grave thoughts.
"I have so much to be thankful for. It is so delicious to be here, and I am now longing for the organ to arrive. When do you think it will be ready to use?"
"In another ten days. Have you seen Mr. Russell lately?"
"No; he was to be up in London this week."
"I fancy I heard him mention this Mr. Arundel's name. Is he a friend of his?"
"Yes, a great friend."
There was a little tremor in the hand on Nesta's arm. She felt it, and took note accordingly.
"I suppose you met him a good deal when you were here last year?"
"Not very often. We lunched with him once at the Red Manor."
"It is very sad for him," said Nesta musingly. "I should think he must be bearing his trouble well and bravely, to stay on in this neighbourhood, and work for his living. Most men would not have the pluck to do it."
"He is different from most men."
Betty tried to make her tone indifferent, but she failed entirely.
"I should like to meet him," Nesta said. "I think I must ask Mr. Russell to bring him here."
Betty was absolutely silent, and Nesta, seeing that she was not to be taken into her confidence, began to talk of other things.
It was the day after this that the Dormers returned from abroad, and came down to the Red Manor. Ella was not long before she had appropriated Molly, as of yore, and very quietly Molly dropped into her old ways of driving and riding out with her. When Frank made his appearance on the scene there was no awkwardness; he relapsed into his chaffing, brotherly ways, and Molly no longer shunned his society. Betty occasionally made one of the party, but not often. It was more pain than pleasure to her to go to the Red Manor, and she was happiest at Holly Grange. She amused Jossy for hours together; she read to old Mrs. Fairfax, and waited on her like a daughter; she was always ready to help Nesta in her housekeeping duties, for her long sojourn in India had unfitted her for English servants and their ways. And when the organ was placed in the little church much of her time was taken up in practising for the services, and training the small village choir. The vicar was a busy man, and his wife a great invalid, so that they were only too pleased to have help in many parish matters.
Nesta already had made friends with most of the villagers, and Betty was only too willing to take a little pudding down to an invalid, to read to a bedridden woman, or chat with an old blind man. Her days were filled with such interests, and it was only at times that her brightness failed, and a wistful look stole across her face. Nesta watched her lovingly and carefully, but at such times she kept her well employed, and soon the shadow would pass, and her clear bright laugh would ring out, as if she had not a thought or care.
The first Sunday that she played the organ was rather a trying one to her. She was nervous, and her nervousness had given her a headache. Jossy insisted upon sitting close beside her, and before she had finished her voluntary, he announced to her in a loud whisper,—
"There's that man we met out riding the other day. He's sitting just inside the door, and he won't come higher up."
This announcement did not steady her nerves. She strove to exclude him from her thoughts, and to a great extent she was able to do so, but the consciousness of his presence in church never left her. She purposely prolonged her voluntary when the service was over, and yet when she came out of church and found he had disappeared, felt distinctly disappointed. When the evening service was over she retired to bed, and Nesta went up to her with great concern.
"It is too much for you, Betty dear. I was wrong to let you undertake it. But you have done it so beautifully that I can hardly realise the effort it must have been to you."
Betty raised a white face and throbbing head from the pillow.
"I shall love doing it," she said. "It is only beginning. It has made me anxious."
Nesta smoothed her hair softly off her forehead; and then Betty pushed her hand down, and laying her cheek against it burst into tears.
"Don't mind me. The organ always gives me such longings, and somehow to-day wrong longings got mixed up with it, and I do so want to be contented."
Nesta kissed her lovingly.
"You are contented, dear, I am sure. You are only tired to-night."
"Yes, I am tired," sobbed Betty; "and I feel I have got such a long life to live, and—and it will be so difficult to live it!"
Nesta tried to speak lightly.
"Why, Betty dear, you will soon be finding that the years slip too quickly away, for all you want to do in them."
She kissed her again, and with a few more loving words left her; but she said to herself, as she went downstairs,—
"It is another tangled skein, and I will do my best to unravel it. She unravelled my skein for me years ago. I should like to do the same for her."
"Betty, come into my room; I want you." It was Molly who spoke, one morning after breakfast, and her hands were full of letters.
"Our correspondence is growing," Betty remarked, following her sister into her pretty bedroom, and sitting down in the chintz-covered easy-chair by the window. "Why does every one take it into their heads to write and pester us with their assurances of friendship?"
"I suppose they think our time of seclusion is over, but they all take care to say that they are very quiet. Oh, Betty, don't you feel a forlorn, homeless creature sometimes? I do."
Betty nodded soberly.
"Who has written to you this morning?"
"Mrs. Railley. She is going to the Italian lakes for Easter, and proposes that we should go with her, as the quiet will do us good, and we must be very dull, she presumes."
"Horrid woman! I suppose Reggie is going with them?"
"Yes. Then I have heard from Lady Cecil. She says she knows we cannot go out at present, but we may be making plans, and she offers to chaperon us for the next season."
"I'm never going to stay in town again, if I can help it," said Betty hotly. "But all the same, it is very kind of her."
"And Miss Turnbull has invited us to go over to her Irish castle with her for an indefinite time."
Betty laughed.
"Poor Miss Turnbull! Frank Dormer says her castle is four roofless ivied walls, and at one corner is a kind of Irish cabin, in which she lives. You must write very nicely, Molly, so as not to hurt her feelings."
"They are all very kind," said Molly thoughtfully. "I was telling the Dormers yesterday how many invitations we were getting, and Ella made me cross. She said if it wasn't known that we were both so well off, we shouldn't have so many friends."
"That's a horrid thing to think," Betty said, leaning out of the open window and picking an early rose. "Well, Molly, these letters are easy to answer. What is your difficulty?"
Molly sat down on the edge of her sofa, and looked dreamily into space.
"Mrs. Dormer wants me to go to the Lakes with them next week. I—I told her I would talk to you about it. They will be quite by themselves."
"Who are they?" demanded Betty, looking at her sister curiously.
"Mrs. Dormer and Ella. General Dormer will not leave home."
"And Frank?"
"Frank—er—Frank may be there the first part of the time."
Betty did not speak. Molly continued,—
"I think I shall like to go. I have never seen the Lakes, and early summer is delicious there, they say."
"How long will you be away?"
"I don't know."
Then Molly sprang up, and impulsively threw her arms round Betty.
"Oh, Betty, I'm so miserable here! I try not to be, but I do miss mother so, and I want a home so badly. You are so easily made happy, and every one likes you here—Mrs. Fairfax and Mrs. St. Clair and Jossy and all the poor people! I feel I am in the way. I have nothing to do, and it is a home I want."
Betty kissed her sister affectionately. "Molly dear, I'm so sorry for you! I should like to say something, only I don't know how to say it. Take care you don't do something to get a home that you will be sorry for afterwards. I know how you feel, and how you miss mother. But I would rather be homeless all my life, than have a home with some one I didn't care for."
Molly's cheeks felt hot as they pressed against Betty's.
"I shan't do anything I shall be sorry for," she said unsteadily. "I don't expect I shall do anything at all, only I should like to go with the Dormers."
"Then you shall," said Betty heartily; "and I hope you will enjoy yourself."
Molly went away, and about three weeks afterwards Betty was not at all surprised when she received the following letter from her,—
"DEAREST BETTY,—
"Don't you often find yourself altering your mind about things? I do.
I suppose it is a sign we are growing older—and wiser, I hope! But I
think I am wiser since I left off writing romances. Real life is much
more interesting. I don't know that it doesn't make one selfish. I mean
that where I used to be quite wrapped up in my heroes and heroines, I
am now wrapped up in myself—and in one other. I am sure you will guess,
so I will beat about the bush no longer. I am engaged to Frank, and
everything seems delicious again. Ella told me a dreadful story about
a girl who married a mysterious foreign prince, and it rather shook my
faith in my ideal hero. Don't you know you said to me that Frank would
make a good husband? I am quite sure he will, and he is sure he will
too. I am very happy, Betty, and Mrs. Dormer is so pleased. Frank is
going back to town to work hard, and then we think we may find a little
house in the autumn near town, and perhaps next winter, Betty,—think of
it!—I shall have a home of my own. Frank sends you his love and says
you're to write a 'very' nice sisterly letter to him. He is waiting for
me to go out with him now, so good-bye.
"Your loving
"MOLLY."
Betty read this with mingled feelings. She was sincerely glad that Molly was going to marry Frank. But she was disappointed with the tone of her letter.
"She is not in love with him—not what I should call love—and after all her romantic talk it does not seem right. I feel afraid lest it is a home that she wants, and the husband is the means to the end."
Then she made known the news to Nesta and her mother, and in their congratulations she was a little comforted.
CHAPTER XVI
His Home
All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
Teach thy necessity to reason thus;
There is no virtue like necessity.
SHAKESPEARE.
"Jossy, I think we have ridden far enough. I don't know this part of the country."
"But that's the fun of it. Oh, do come on. Let us have a tiny little gallop, and then we'll turn back."
Betty and Jossy were riding out together, and had come to the edge of a wild bit of common or moorland that seemed to stretch away almost to the horizon without a break. The turf under their horses' feet was soft and springy. Jossy's pony threw his head up and snorted with delight at the prospect in front of him, but Betty demurred.
"It seems rather boggy, Jossy. Look at the rushes over there."
"We won't go near the rushes. Oh, Aunt Betty, come on; we'll have a glorious charge against fifty thousand rebel Roundheads, and we'll be two princely Royalists! One, two, three, away! Charge!"
He galloped off, his fair curls flying in the breeze, and Betty, casting prudence to the wind, followed him recklessly. It was a short, wild gallop, for suddenly, without any warning, Jossy's pony plunged, and sank up to his saddle girth in deep black bog. The boy screamed,—
"Turn back, Aunt Betty! Don't come near me!"
But Betty's one idea was to reach him. The pony was making frantic struggles to extricate himself, but seemed to be sinking deeper in consequence. Betty fortunately found a bit of firm ground.
"Leave your pony and jump over here, Jossy!"
"I can't leave him. He'll drown; it's all water here!"
Another terrific struggle; the pony succeeded in freeing himself, and landed on Betty's bit of dry turf. But his poor little master was unhorsed in the effort, and fell head foremost into the bog. Betty sprang off her horse in a second, and pulled him out, though she sank up to her waist in doing so. Gasping and spluttering for breath, Jossy leant against her, when she had regained her footing, and began to sob with fright and misery.
"Oh, I'm so wet, so cold, so dirty! What shall I do?"
Betty began to laugh, now their danger was past.
"Did you ever see such guys as we are? Why, Jossy, you're a little brown! You must get on your horse—or stop, you had better lead him. That's what people do in bogs, and it is safer. I will go first. Follow me. I'll go back the way I came. Come on. Don't stop to clean yourself, or your pony may slip again. Be careful now."
Very warily they made their way past the treacherous bog; but when they were on safe ground again, Betty's heart misgave her.
Jossy was shivering with fright and cold. He was a delicate child, and she knew what an anxiety his health was to his mother. She tried to wipe his clothes, but it seemed a hopeless task. He was encased in thick black slime, and his courage and pluck had quite deserted him. With difficulty she persuaded him to mount his pony. She was in a sorry plight herself, but tried to make light of it.
"Now, Jossy, let us ride for our lives, and get home as fast as possible. Five hundred rebel Roundheads are chasing us, but we shall escape them yet!"
But even this failed to inspirit Jossy. His Anglo-Indian constitution could not shake off his fright and wetting, and his fastidious taste was outraged.
"It's perfectly disgusting," he sobbed; "the mud is trickling down my neck, and I'm so greasy and slippery that I don't know how to keep to my saddle. I 'must' be washed, Aunt Betty. I can't go home like this."
"We will stop at the first cottage we come to," said Betty cheerfully. "Come on! The quicker we ride, the quicker we shall get there."
She urged him on. They left the common behind them, and were soon cantering along the high road. Betty scanned the fields on either side of the hedges in vain for a farmhouse or cottage. The country seemed deserted, but presently they overtook a stout, respectable-looking country woman with a basket on her arm. She stared at them in astonishment, and Betty pulled up by her side.
"We have fallen into a bog," she explained; "and I am so anxious for this little boy to get into dry clothes. Can you tell me if there is any cottage near at hand?"
"Sakes! Ye do look in a sorry plight, miss! I'm not so far from our place. Ye had best come home with me. The measter be out, and I'll dry your clothes for you. 'Tis the next field; turn in at the white gate and ride close up by the hedge, then through another gate, and ye'll find yourself there. I'll hurry all I can!"
"Thank you so very much," Betty said gratefully; and Jossy brightened up at once.
They turned into the field as she told them, then passed through another, and came out before a quaint, old-fashioned farmhouse, with thatched roof and casement windows, and a wealth of old-fashioned climbing roses and creepers up its walls. The sun was shining full upon it. It seemed strangely quiet. A row of beehives stood along the green lawn in front, and a sweet scent of lavender from some flower beds close to the house was borne upon the air towards them. As they came to a standstill before the door, Betty exclaimed,—
"Oh, Jossy, isn't this a sweet little farm? I do love farmhouses. They always have such peace about them, without being deadly dull. Can you slip off your pony? That is right! Now let us try the door. It is locked. Ah, here comes the farmer's wife!"
The good woman appeared, very warm and breathless.
"Come straight into the kitchen, miss, and take your skirt off. I'll see to the young gentleman."
In an incredibly short time Jossy was sitting before the kitchen fire wrapped up in a blanket. Betty had borrowed a blue serge skirt from Mrs. Winstone, as she was called, and both were enjoying a cup of hot tea. The kitchen with its oak beams and dresser, the shining crockery on its shelves, and its well-scoured floor and tables, was fascinating in Betty's eyes.
She sat in a wooden rocking-chair in perfect content, whilst Mrs. Winstone was bustling about, trying to dry Jossy's suit of clothes before the blazing fire, with many comments and ejaculations.
"I mind a man last Christmas twelvemonth got dropped into the bog out there, by his horse. They said he were a little unsteady from an extra glass or two at the Three Anchors, but he were found nex' mornin' by one boot stickin' up. An' his poor wife went off her head when his corpse were broughted in."
"Oh, please, Mrs. Winstone, don't tell us any more! Jossy will dream of it. What pretty flowers you have in the window!"
"Yes, miss, I be powerful fond o' flowers. But the measter—he only seem to care for roses, and they be the white ones that be climbin' over the house. He allays has a jar on 'em in t'other room, but I haves my favourites in here."
"May I peep into the other room? If I were your husband, I should always sit in the kitchen. I should like it much the best."
Mrs. Winstone opened a door, and Betty walked through into a room that made her look round her with a dazed bewildered glance. Who had described this room to her? The broad wooden staircase going up out of the middle of it; the old-fashioned fireplace with the armchair in front, and a pipe and a book close by. A table with papers, and a bunch of white roses in the middle; a cap and gloves on one chair, an overcoat on another. A gun slung up on the wall, a whip lying on the floor; many other indications of a man's constant presence. Betty stood with white face and quickened breath, then she turned upon Mrs. Winstone like a flash of lightning,—
"Who is your master? This is not your husband's room?"
"Eh, dear no, miss! My good husband be in the churchyard this ten year or more. 'Tis Mr. Arundel—Squire Arundel that used so to be!"
"Then why didn't you say so? We must go this very minute! I wouldn't have dreamed of coming in, if I had known this was a gentleman's house. Jossy, put on your clothes, quick! We have stayed too long already!"
Betty swept back into the kitchen with hot cheeks and flashing eyes. Mrs. Winstone followed her in wonder at her impetuosity.
"Indeed, miss, the measter would wish to befriend any fellow-creature in need, and the young gent's clothes be not dry yet, though they be coming on nicely. The measter will not be in till late, I fancy. Will you not sit down for a half-hour more? One o' the lads be rubbin' down the horses, but they'll not be ready for a bit."
Betty calmed down after her first fright; but she was anxious and ill at ease, starting at every footfall, and longing to be away. What would Gerald think or say, if he came back and found them in possession of his rooms? She paced up and down the kitchen restlessly, then could not resist going back to that room, which for months past had been photographed upon her mind.
She stood in the middle of it, and Jossy, with a boy's curiosity, put his head in at the door to see what she was doing. He saw her move across to the chair by the fireplace, rest her hand on the back of it, then stoop and put her lips to it. After which she took up the book which was lying face downwards, and then for some minutes stood reading a well-worn passage in Tennyson's Love and Duty. Deeply scored in pencil were the lines, and more deeply were they to be scored on Betty's soul.
So let me think 'tis well for thee and me,
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine,
Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow
To feel it I For how hard it seemed to me,
When eyes, love-languid through half tears would dwell
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine,
Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice,
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep
My own full-tuned—hold passion in a leash,
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck,
And on thy bosom (deep desired relief!)
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weighed
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul!
For Love himself took part against himself
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love—
O this world's curse—beloved but hated—came
Like death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,
And crying, "Who is this? behold thy bride,"
She pushed me from thee.
If the sense is hard
To alien ears, I did not speak to these—
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me:
Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.
Could Love part thus? Was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once? It could not but be well.
With parted lips and heaving breast, Betty drank in these pathetic lines, and then she noticed one little word written in the margin against—
It could not but be well.
The word was "No."
She read and re-read the lines in a dream, and tears slowly filled her eyes.
Then she dropped the book with a violent start, for horses' hoofs were heard outside; and she had only time to get back to the kitchen before the master of the house had flung open the door. Jossy was buttoning up his jacket with a wry face.
"Aren't you ready, Jossy? Come along. Oh, never mind your collar; let us get away!"
She hastened his steps. Mrs. Winstone had not heard Gerald's approach, and wondered at their haste, but she accompanied them out to the yard, where their horses were in readiness for them, and in a few minutes they were riding across the fields again, before Gerald was aware that he had had visitors in his domain.
He was very tired, and, sitting down in his chair, took his pipe out and lighted it. What was it that made his thoughts turn to a little figure flitting in and out of these quaint old rooms? He shut his eyes, and seemed to see her tripping up and down the old wooden stairs—a dark curly head, a pure white clinging dress, and a bunch of white roses in her belt.
"Oh," he groaned, "I believe even here I could make her happy!"
Then he picked up his book that was lying on the floor, but he picked up something else as well, and his face was full of bewilderment as he held in his hand a lady's riding glove.
For some minutes, he fingered it thoughtfully, then he strode to the kitchen door.
"Mrs. Winstone, has any one been here this afternoon?"
His tone was so abrupt and fierce that Mrs. Winstone dropped an apologetic curtsey at once.
"If you please, sir, I hope as no harm has been done or said, but I did make free to offer to dry their wet things, for 'twas a reg'lar tumble into the bog they had, and the young gent so small and frail like, and they were that anxious to be gone when they found out 'twas a gen'leman's house that I thought as how you wouldn't have minded them havin' a cup o' tea. And 'tis only five minutes gone that they rode away; and please, sir, I wasn't aware that you be home."
"Who were they?"
"They didn't give no names, sir, and I didn't think it manners to ask. The young lady be a bonny young creature as straight as a dart, and like a bit o' quicksilver, with a proud turn o' the head, and a sweet, merry smile."
"Was she in here?"
"Well, sir, b'lieve me, not above a minute or two. Her were terrible anxious to get away."
Gerald returned to his room, slamming the door violently behind him. He stood at the table, with the glove in his hand. Floy crept up to him and sniffed at it suspiciously, but his master did not heed him.
"She was here in this very room a few minutes ago! And I was just too late. Well—" A deep sigh followed. "It is better so. The less we meet the better."
He looked down at the glove, then he put it into his breast-pocket with a smile.
"I must return her her property, but till I do it will stay there!"
Betty, meanwhile, was riding home as fast as she could, and when they arrived there, Jossy was the object of so much care and attention from his anxious mother, that her own hot cheeks and perturbed spirits were unnoticed.
When she went to bed that night she sat long in thought at her window, with a copy of Tennyson's poems on her lap.
Was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once?
rang through her heart and brain like a chiming bell, and then like a knell rang the one little word written on the page, "No."
At last she rose and put the book away, then, kneeling at her window, she spoke, and her eyes were gazing at the starry heavens outside,—
"O, God, I am happy. Thou hast made me happy. Help me not to dwell on thoughts that bring discontent and longing. Comfort and bless him, comfort and bless me. I don't want to ask Thee for anything that Thou dost not want me to have."
And then she went to bed, and slept peacefully.
CHAPTER XVII
Mr. Russell's Picture
. . . Why ever met,
If they must be strangers yet?
LORD HOUGHTON.
IT was two months later. Mr. Russell was dispensing afternoon tea to a few of his friends on his shady lawn. Nesta and her boy, Betty, Molly, and Frank Dormer were all there. It was the first time Nesta had been persuaded to attend any little festivity, and this was a farewell to Mr. Russell, who was going to Switzerland the next day for his health. He was telling Nesta about it, as he leant against one of the old elms, and she was looking at him with that wonderful interest and sympathy that she showed in every one else's concerns.
"They say I am overworked," he said, with a short laugh. "I suppose as one gets older, one cannot play tricks with one's constitution. I forget I am no longer a young man, and I have had one of my painting fits on lately. I must tell you, Mrs. St. Clair, that for some years I have had no desire to work. I have done a little bit of sculpture occasionally, but my property has taken up my time and thoughts. I am beginning to think that riches and prosperity are foes to genius. However, about three months ago I was seized with an inspiration for a picture, and I have been hard at it ever since. Perhaps I have let my meals slip. One longs at such times for no troublesome interruptions. And my doctor tells me I have not been wise."
"I am sure the change of air will do you good. Are you going alone?"
"I am going to carry off Gerald Arundel with me. You know him, do you not? The nicest fellow that ever lived, but the last year has been a trying one to him. He may be here this afternoon."
"I have never spoken to him," said Nesta, her eyes wandering towards Betty, in spite of herself. "He walks over to our church sometimes on Sunday, generally in the evening. I have had him pointed out to me, but he always seems in a hurry to get away. How is he getting on as a farmer? I have heard his story."
"He is a first-rate farmer. He has the pluck and grit and perseverance that makes a good one."
"But farming is a poor prospect for a gentleman nowadays," said Nesta meditatively.
"Not necessarily, if his tastes are simple, and he does not take upon himself the role of a sporting squire."
"Yes; and as long as he is not a married man."
"Tuts!" exclaimed Mr. Russell impatiently. "Let him look about for a wife with simple tastes like himself; and I would back him amongst a hundred millionaires to make her truly happy!"
Nesta smiled.
"Two of our young people here will have to have simple tastes if they set up housekeeping as soon as they meditate doing."
"Oh!" said Mr. Russell, looking across at Frank and Molly, who were deep in some serious discussion on the same garden seat.
"And when are they going to take the cares of married life upon their shoulders?"
"Next November, I believe. The house has already been chosen close to town."
"He has brains, and will succeed in his profession," said Mr. Russell. "But I should think they will have a very comfortable income between them."
"Not too much for the claims that society will make upon them."
"I dare say not. Is our little friend going to stay on with you?"
"I want her to, but she is very anxious to take up some distinct work. A friend of her mother has written to ask her to give her some help this winter in managing a small home for the blind. Betty wants to go, for she feels her music may cheer them. And I do not want to keep her back."
"She is a cheering little personality anywhere," said Mr. Russell.
"Indeed she is. We shall miss her terribly. She has helped me to get through a sad time, and I cannot be grateful enough."
Betty walked up to them at this minute. "Mr. Russell, will you let me pour out tea? I always like doing the honours of your house for you. Here it comes. May I? Thank you ever so much. Jossy is showing the gardener's boy how to stand on his head. They are practising against a hay-rick in the field, and as I couldn't join them I came away. I can do most things that Jossy does, but I can't do that!"
She laughed merrily, then took her seat by the tea-table with an important air, but a sudden quick change of face and manner made Nesta glance up. Gerald Arundel was crossing the lawn. He looked slightly embarrassed as he came amongst them all.
"You did not tell me you were having company," he said, after he had been introduced to Nesta, and had held Betty's little hand for one instant in his own.
"No," Mr. Russell said, looking at him with a twinkle in his eyes; "I knew you were such a recluse that your fellow-creatures' society would repel rather than attract you. But I had a fancy to gather my friends round me before I went abroad, and I hope you will humour me by staying with us."
Gerald smiled one of his rare smiles, which always lightened both his face and the faces of those near him.
"Miss Betty, you must let me help you with those teacups," he said.
Betty's fingers were rather tremulous for a minute, as she wielded the massive silver teapot, but she soon recovered herself, and she talked as sweetly and gaily to him as if she had been in the habit of meeting him daily.
"When you have all finished your tea," announced Mr. Russell presently, "I am going to take you to see my picture."
"What is it about?" asked Molly, with interest.
"I shall leave it to explain itself."
A few minutes later, and they were standing in his studio. As he drew aside a curtain, a little murmur of surprise and delight made itself heard.
Two boats, side by side on a river. Arched green trees met overhead, but the rays of golden sunshine streamed through on one of the rowers. It was a girl's figure. She poised her oars lightly and well, though there was a little droop in her shoulders, a wistful sadness and weariness on her beautiful face that betrayed itself through her speaking eyes. She was all in white, and was the centre-piece of sunshine in the picture. Only an arm's length from her rowed a man, but his boat was in shadow, and it needed a careful inspection to denote the eager fervent light that seemed to be flashing forth from his keen dark eyes. His whole attitude denoted strength of purpose and will; yet there was hopelessness in his glance, a despairing expression across his earnest face. His eyes were fixed on her, but she was looking away from him, as if her maidenly modesty forbade her to meet his eye.
"It is a beautiful picture," said Nesta softly.
"What shall be its name?" asked Mr. Russell lightly. "I am open to all suggestions."
"'Cross Currents,'" said Frank quickly.
"They haven't quarrelled," said Molly, looking at them with knitted brows. "What is it that they want? For they are not happy, one can see that. I expect—" and she gave a little laugh—"they want to be made into a couple, as Betty used to say. I think I should call it 'So near, and yet so far!'"
"What does Mrs. St. Clair say?"
Nesta smiled rather sadly.
"'Drifting,'" she said.
"Well, Gerald, what do you say?"
Gerald gazed at the picture as if in a dream, then he said slowly,—
"'For Love himself took part against himself,
To warn us off.'"
"And Betty?"
But Betty could not speak for a minute. Gerald's quotation, and the earnestness that vibrated through his tone as he gave it, had brought the tears with a rush to her eyes. She was standing a little behind the others, and now lightly laid her hand on Mr. Russell's arm.
"I do not know," she said, with wonderful self-control. "It is a sad picture, Mr. Russell, but it is a lovely one. Will you not give us your own name for it?"
"I will not have you call it sad. I see a time ahead when those two will be rowing in one boat, and there will be no shadows upon their faces. Now shall we come out into the garden again?"
He kept Betty's hand on his arm, and marched her off to see a new orchid of his, and talked her back into her light, gay humour. Nesta paced the garden paths with Gerald. He found himself involuntarily confiding in her about his life and prospects, in a way that astonished himself. She listened, and gave him not only womanly sympathy, but advice.
"Do not shun your neighbours," she said; "and when your old friends still show themselves friendly, do not repulse them. Friends are easily lost, and not easily made."
"I am not in a position to entertain," said Gerald. "I cannot continue to accept their hospitality, when I am unable to return it."
"But I think that is where you may make a mistake," said Nesta gently. "Surely the highest friendship does not exist on such give-and-take principles. If they do not wish to lose your society for your own sake, why should you hurt their feelings by concluding that they only want your hospitality? There is a lot of pretentious pride about us, and it does us all good to have the highest and best motives ascribed to us. Think the best of your friends, and they will not disappoint you."
"The truth is, I prefer to live my life alone," admitted Gerald.
"Yes, but you will lose many opportunities of helping others if you do so, will you not? And then look on to the future. The time may come when you will bring a wife to your home. She will need the companionship of your friends, and will be the better and the brighter for her intercourse with them. You will be sorry then, for her sake, if you have allowed yourself to drift away from those who really care for you."
"That is a very remote contingency," said Gerald quietly. "Do you honestly think, Mrs. St. Clair, I have anything worth offering a woman?"
"Do you rank money amongst the highest of earth's—no, I will say, God's own gifts?"
"Money brings comfort and ease and absence from care."
"Not always. Some women, I allow, esteem it essential to their happiness. Others would consider honest faithful tender love a far higher gift to offer them. Do not think I am advocating heedless, improvident marriages. Personally, you have enough to keep the wolf from the door, and, provided your wife was content to live a quiet country life, you would be able to shield her from worrying care and anxiety as to all temporal needs, would you not?"
The blood rushed through Gerald's veins at such a possibility.
"Yes," he replied. "She would not be in need of the necessaries of life, but she might be in need of luxuries."
"Which she could very well dispense with," said Nesta; "and she would count herself happy in doing so. I must tell you, Mr. Arundel, I had a shadowed girlhood myself; many years of waiting before I could receive the love that had been rightly mine long, long before. And though I know it was all for the best, I sometimes long that young people should not suffer unnecessarily, that their wedded life should be longer than my own has been."
Gerald did not answer, but his right hand clenched and unclenched itself to hide his emotion, and Nesta's quick eyes noted it. She felt her whole heart go out to this lonely, sorrowful man.
And then she said softly,—
"Men suffer, and are silent: they think they are sparing the one they love, and little realise that her suffering is keener and more intense than their own, for her helplessness is greater. The man has the woman's fate in his hands, if there is mutual love between them. But never let him think that in torturing himself by his restraint and silence he is sparing her."
Then Gerald turned upon her almost fiercely,—
"Would you have a man who has nothing in the world but bare sustenance to offer a woman, drag her down from her comfortable life to his? Would it be true love to link her fate to one who is spoken of, even now, with pitying contempt as a failure?"
"I would give the woman a chance of choosing or refusing such a fate," said Nesta firmly.
"You are a good woman," he said huskily; and abruptly he left her.
Betty was having some last words with her old friend.
"Are you happy, child?" he asked. "Are you still finding it difficult to learn those three lessons—that trio that ought to be interwoven into our lives, and never separated one from the other?"
"You mean 'patience, endurance, and joyfulness'?" said Betty, with shining eyes. "You have helped me so much, Mr. Russell. I think I am learning slowly, that there is a certain joyfulness we get given us, that comes quite apart from our circumstances. It is just as my favourite hymn says—
"'I nothing lack if I am His,
And He is mine, for ever.
"And it is realising this that makes one feel cheerful, even when everything is going wrong."
"And about work? How far on have you got in that school, I wonder?"
Betty looked up at him sweetly.
"You mean, I expect, that you want me to learn that the will of God is His work. But, Mr. Russell, I have been trying to fill up the empty corners at Holly Grange, and I do believe it was God's will that I should do so. Now one by one has been taken from me, and I think it is God's will to give me another corner away from here. Has Mrs. St. Clair told you about it?"
"She has mentioned it. Who has filled your corners at Holly Grange?"
"Let me tell you about them," said Betty brightly. "First, there was Molly. She clung to me, and she has been so lonely that I have tried to be with her as much as possible, and cheer her up. Now she has Frank, and wants me no longer. Then Jossy. I have kept him out of mischief, and have shared his games and pleasures. But he is going to school almost immediately. Then there is the organ—and oh I how I have loved it—but Mrs. St. Clair is going to take the services soon, and it will do her as much good as it has done me. I don't feel she needs me so much as she did. Mrs. Fairfax is with her, and they are so happy together. I don't think I shall be missed."
"In fact, you will soon be feeling that you are a little 'odd one' again, without a corner."
"Oh, but there is one waiting for me, and such a nice one! I have always liked blind people since I knew Mat Lubbock a year ago. By-the-bye, I must tell you. On the way here to-day I met him. Holly Grange is so far off that I hardly ever see him. I stopped and spoke to him, and do you know, Mr. Russell, his face was perfectly radiant? He said to me,—
"'The good Lord is "restoring comforts" to me, missy. The best little woman in our village has promised to be my wife. I shan't be solitary no more, and "His goodness faileth never."'
"It was rather a shock to hear that he was going to marry again, but I am sure it will be a splendid thing for him."
"The best thing in the world," said Mr. Russell heartily.
"And so," continued Betty, in her pretty eager way, "I am going to help a Miss Miller amuse and look after a lot of old blind people. She wants some one who can play and sing to them, and they have a little evening service every day, and they love singing hymns. There is a small organ, and I shall be able to use it. And she is wanting help so badly. Don't you think this bit of work for God is indeed His will?"
Mr. Russell laid his hand on her shoulder. "God bless you, my child." Then, after a minute's silence, he said, with apparent irrelevance, "I am sure I was right in my picture. The girl's face must be in the sunshine."
A little time afterwards Betty was helping Jossy to cut a whistle. They were standing under one of the old elms, and Betty in her broad-brimmed hat and white gown looked the picture of dainty sweetness.