Gerald Arundel striding up to them, with a purpose in his face, drew his breath hard, as he gazed upon them.
"Jossy," he said quietly, "your mother wants to speak to you."
The boy looked up.
"Does she? I'm coming. That's first-rate, Betty!"
He sped away, ear-splitting shrieks issuing from his new toy.
Betty looked after him and smiled.
"Why do boys love any noise so much?" she asked.
"The love of power," said Gerald, drawing a wicker chair forward. "Will you sit down, Miss Betty? I have hardly seen you this afternoon."
Betty's heart began to beat, but she laughed gaily.
"I have been wandering about with Mr. Russell, and then Jossy carried me off. You will take care of my old friend, will you not, Mr. Arundel? He is not looking well. I hope he will enjoy himself. He seems to leave home so seldom now, and it is always such a lonely life for him here."
"I will take the best care of him that I can, I promise you," said Gerald, leaning against the elm, and looking down upon her with wistful longing in his eyes. "Do you think he is lonely, Miss Betty? Not more lonely than I am."
Betty looked up. Her little sympathetic soul overcame the strange wave of shyness that was stealing over her.
"I am so sorry. I am sure you must be lonely too. It will be good for you to get away with him for a little while."
Her eyes met the look in his; she dropped them at once.
"What did you think of the picture?" Gerald asked.
He was putting strong restraint upon himself.
"It was beautiful," said Betty softly.
"Did you like my title for it?"
"No," she said, with an effort. "It was too sad. I like people to be happy."
"But life is not always happy," said Gerald.
Then he added, trying to speak lightly,—
"Let us make a story about that young couple in the picture, Miss Betty. The man is poor, he has nothing to offer her. He dare not tell her what is in his heart. She has been accustomed to luxury; he knows she will find it lacking if she links her life to his. She has many friends; he has none. She may meet some one who can offer her everything that the world can give. Is he to spoil this possibility, and expect her to listen to him? Is it likely that she will prefer his boat to her own? Is it not his duty to be silent, and let her glide on down life's stream, passing him as he rows by her side in the shade?"
"It might be his duty," said Betty tremulously, as she interlaced her fingers tightly in her lap, "but it wouldn't be love."
"'Could Love part thus? Was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once? It could not but be well.'"
She almost breathed these words.
Gerald's eyes glowed. He leant forward.
"Would the speaking bring pain to her?" he said. "Would it be but the prelude of bidding 'adieu for ever'?"
Betty's nerves were highly strung. She was frightened at the audacity of her last words, and following an impulse for which she could not account, she said, with a little laugh,—
"You must ask Mr. Russell. It is his story, not mine."
And then she rose from her seat.
Gerald drew his breath in sharply, but he said not a word, only followed her in silence to the little group on the lawn.
Betty seemed in the highest spirits; she laughed and she chattered so much that Nesta, with her quick intuition, saw that something had gone wrong.
Gerald looked on silently. In his heart he was murmuring,—
"'In vain I strove to reach it
Through the tangled mass of green;
It only smiled and nodded
Behind its thorny screen.'"
And Betty, poor Betty, was nearer tears than laughter; for she had a dull miserable ache in her heart, and was keenly conscious that with her light indifferent words she had put away a great happiness from herself, and wounded to the quick the one she would have given her life to comfort. She was glad when Nesta's carriage came round.
Gerald did not speak to her till he held out his hand to say good-bye, and then Betty's forced cheerfulness forsook her. He looked down upon her so kindly, and with such a tender reverence in his eyes, that her sensitive little soul was filled with remorse, and tears trembled on her eyelashes as she looked up at him.
"Good-bye, Mr. Arundel. I—I hope you will have a nice time."
"I hope we shall," he said; "and I promise you to look after Mr. Russell."
That gentleman came up and laid his hand affectionately on Betty's shoulder.
"Good-bye, little woman. You must be here to welcome me back. We shall only be gone six weeks. God bless you."
Why did a sudden cold fear sweep down upon Betty's heart as she looked into the face of her friend? He stood there in the sunshine, smiling at her, and then, seeing a distressed look in her eyes, he did what he had never done before—stooped down and kissed her.
"That is in memory of my little short-frocked Betty many years ago," he said.
"Just tell me that I'm the same," said Betty, clasping her hands round his arm; "tell me I'm every bit the same to you."
"Every bit the same," he repeated, smiling at her; "the 'little odd one' still!"
They drove away; the evening shadows were already falling, the sun slowly faded; and darker shadows hovered over Betty's soul, and for the time reduced her to pensive, brooding silence.
CHAPTER XVIII
Terrible News
Ah! when the infinite burden of life descendeth upon us,
Crushes to earth our hope, and under the earth, in the
graveyard—
Then it is good to pray unto God; for His sorrowing
children,
Turns He ne'er from His door, but He heals and helps
and consoles them.
LONGFELLOW.
THE days glided by. Betty, always occupied and busy, did not find time heavy on her hands. She corresponded with Mr. Russell, and his letters were her great delight. She followed them in imagination through all their wanderings; especially over the ground that was familiar to her. Mr. Russell told her that he was growing stronger daily, and was enjoying the exhilarating air of the Swiss mountains with increasing pleasure.
"And it is pleasant to have intercourse with such a well-stored mind as Gerald Arundel's," he wrote. "I tell him he ought not to miss the Red Manor library, for though the books are no longer his, their contents are stored in his brain. He and I find our walks and talks give us mutual benefit and satisfaction."
They had been staying at Lucerne when he last wrote, and were making their way up the Rhone Valley to Zermatt, where they hoped to do a little mountaineering.
One morning after breakfast Nesta was looking at the daily paper, when she gave an exclamation of dismay.
Betty was filling a china bowl with roses. "What is the matter?" she asked carelessly. "No horrible catastrophe, is there?"
Nesta did not answer, and when Betty came over to her, she closed the paper hastily.
"There is no need for us to be anxious," she said.
"What about? Is there prospect of another war? Don't be so mysterious, please!"
Then Nesta recovered her self-possession.
"It is about our travellers."
Betty's face blanched at once.
"Give me the paper. Oh, let me see!"
Nesta pointed to a small paragraph, headed "Zermatt."
"A party of Englishmen yesterday started to scale the Matterhorn.
A very heavy storm of snow, however, made them retrace their steps.
During the descent the party divided. Two Englishmen and two guides
arrived in safety early this morning at the hotel, after experiencing
great difficulty in finding their way home. No tidings have as yet
been received of the others, and it is feared that some accident has
befallen them. A rescue party has been out all day, but up to the
present has been unsuccessful in the search. The names of the missing
Englishmen are Mr. Russell and Mr. Arundel. They had one guide with
them."
Betty read it, and seemed unable to speak.
"We must hope that they are safe," said Mrs. St. Clair, putting an arm round her. "Perhaps they have been found by this time. We will not think the worst."
"But how can we know?" Betty said at last, in a strangely quiet tone. "Who can tell us?"
"We will telegraph to the hotel," said Nesta promptly. "Let us drive to the station and do it at once."
Betty drew a breath.
"Oh yes," she said feverishly; "don't let us waste a minute. Do let us go!"
It took a certain time for the carriage to be brought round, and to Betty, who was pacing the hall in agony of mind, it seemed as if it were years. She tried to control herself, but her face of hopeless misery as she sat opposite to Nesta made her friend's heart ache.
They telegraphed and paid for the reply; then came home to wait for news.
Betty went about the house trying to do her usual little duties, but her eyes were far-away, and she did not seem to hear when spoken to. Nesta left her alone; she felt it was the kindest thing to do. Once she said to her,—
"Pray, Betty dear; don't forget to pray."
Betty nodded. She started and shivered at every bell-ring, but the day wore slowly away and the evening was well on before the message came. Betty stepped into the hall herself; and took the yellow envelope from the boy. She did not open it. She carried it with a trembling hand into the drawing-room to Nesta, and she stood with her hands lightly clasped behind her back, whilst Nesta read it in a faltering voice,—
"Bodies just found and brought in. Will friends come and identify?"
There was a dead silence. Neither Mrs. Fairfax nor Molly were in the room.
Betty's face whitened to her very lips.
"It can't be true!" she gasped. "Oh, say it isn't! It is too sudden, too unreal!"
Nesta took her straight into her arms.
"My poor darling, God will comfort you! Look straight up to Him!"
Betty clasped her hands over her eyes, and shuddered from head to foot. No tears would come. Her head was throbbing and well-nigh bursting with sudden pain. For a minute she leant it against Nesta's shoulder. Then she raised it.
"May I go to bed?" she asked wearily. "There is nothing to wait for now."
Nothing to wait for! As Betty crept upstairs and sought the solitude and darkness of her own room she felt that an end had come to her own life as well as theirs.
She could not at first think of any details.
Mr. Russell was with his little girl at last, the child whom he had never forgotten or ceased to mourn. Surely it was well with him! His life had been a sad and lonely one. It was bright now with infinite possibilities of increasing joy. Was it not selfish to wish him back?
And as she thought thus, she could not but own that it was well with him.
But with Gerald Arundel? She felt stunned and voiceless. She knew as she had never known before how her own life had secretly been twining round his. Not exactly unbidden. She had realised long ago that Gerald's heart was given to her, that it was only his prospects had made him tongue-tied; and she could not forget how flippantly she had stopped him, when he was trying to tell her of his diffidence in approaching her.
Oh, to unsay those words! How many times through life the powerlessness to remedy some thoughtless speech has made us realise the awful responsibility of our tongues!
She sat by her window, gazing out in speechless misery upon the still darkness without.
Nesta at last came to rouse her.
"Do not think me unsympathising, darling!" she said, coming over to her and putting her hand softly on her curly head. "But I have had a great deal to do. Frank has been here, and is such a help. He has found out the address of Mr. Russell's cousin, his nearest relative, and has wired to him, and Frank has offered to go over to Zermatt himself. Mr. Russell is such an old friend of ours. Frank is going up to town by the late mail train, and leaves Dover to-morrow morning."
"And has Mr. Arundel no friends to think of him?" demanded Betty, looking at Nesta with wide-open, tearless eyes. "Has no one given him a thought?"
"He seems to have no relatives in England," said Nesta sadly, as she pressed Betty's head lovingly against her shoulder; "but, of course, Frank is going on his account as well."
Betty shook off Nesta's hand, and began to pace the room restlessly, two spots of colour burning in her cheeks.
"If Frank can go, I can go. Why should I not? I must go. I must see them again. Oh, Mrs. St. Clair, you will take me; will you not? I know how they bury people abroad! I must see them once again; it will be too late if I do not go at once. I never said good-bye to him; I thought he was coming back again. I thought I should be able to tell him how sorry I was for what I said. I was afraid I had been too forward, so I was cruel to him. I saw it in his eyes, as if I had struck him. I can see him now, and he never said one word. Not one word, though I had killed all the hope in his heart; and when he shook hands, though I had been so unkind, he looked at me as kindly as ever. Oh, I can never, never, never forgive myself! If I could only tell him just a little of what I have always thought of him! I feel I could bring him back to life, if I could only—only touch him, cry to him, beseech him for forgiveness!"
Betty poured this forth excitedly and incoherently. Nesta, with aching heart, could only listen.
But when she besought her again to take her out to Switzerland, Nesta spoke quietly and firmly.
"No, Betty dear; it is not to be thought of. Frank will do all that is necessary, and will tell us all we wish to know."
"Let me see the telegram once more," urged Betty. "Do you think they may be still alive? It doesn't say they are dead."
Nesta placed the telegram in her hand. Betty read it and shuddered. Her talkativeness died away. She relapsed into hopeless silence, and at last was persuaded to go to bed. She did not sleep; hour by hour went by, and she lay with open eyes in the darkness. She could not pray. She seemed to lose the realisation of the Presence that always comforted her. It was a dark hour in her life, and when the next morning dawned fair and sunny, and a blackbird perched under her window on a bush and burst into song, and the village chimes began to ring out, reminding all that it was Sunday morning, it seemed to her perfect mockery.
She rose from her bed unrefreshed, and with an aching head. Half-way through her dressing she opened her window and leant out. Then she looked from the dew-laden garden below to the serene blue above.
"O God," she murmured, "I am wicked and rebellious. I gave myself
long ago to Thee for Thy service, and I ought to want nothing more! I
thought I was going to be quite happy in doing work for Thee, and I was
content. Now it is worse than ever! I am miserable—and I always shall
be miserable. Nothing will ever be the same to me again! And why, oh
why, need such a dreadful thing have happened? Just when everything
seemed going right!"
It was more a meditation than a prayer, perhaps; the clouds did not seem to lift, and Betty came down to breakfast with white face and tired eyes.
She persisted in going to church, though Nesta suggested her staying at home. Molly was full of horror and concern at it all; but her incessant surmises and conjectures as to what had really taken place rasped and irritated Betty's nerves. She maintained a stolid, imperturbable silence; only Nesta saw how she was suffering.
Nesta took the organ herself. Betty mechanically joined in the responses and singing. She never heard a word of the sermon. Her thoughts were entirely upon crevasses, precipices, and avalanches; step by step she was pursuing in imagination that ill-fated little party trying to ascend the Matterhorn. She walked home in silence, ate her luncheon as in a dream, and announced her intention of going to the afternoon service again.
"Why are you going, dear?" Nesta asked her gently. "You did not enjoy the service this morning."
"Enjoy it?" Betty looked at her friend in a dazed kind of way. "I think it would be a miracle if I did. I never meant a word of what I said or sung. I can't believe in the love of it, Mrs. St. Clair. It is too sudden and too awful!"
"It has been a great shock," said Nesta, looking at her with tears of sympathy; "but, Betty darling, it was a gloriously quick entrance into the kingdom above. Think of their joy!"
"Oh, why can't we all be taken?" exclaimed Betty. "I wish—oh, I wish some accident would happen to me!"
Nesta did not reproach her, as another might have done. She knew that it was too soon for her to see things as she would by-and-bye. She let her go to church with her, and offered no further remonstrance. When the service was over Betty waited in her seat whilst Nesta played the voluntary. The rector was in haste to leave, as he had to go over to a neighbouring parish and take the evening service, so the two of them were left in the church alone. The sexton lingered at the door. Nesta told him to go, as she would bring him the keys, and then she asked Betty to wait whilst she played on.
There was nothing that Betty loved better as a rule. Now she sat up in her seat, white and tearless.
Nesta played softly one sacred refrain after another—"O rest in the Lord," "Comfort ye, comfort ye My people," and then she sang David's pathetic refrain in "Resignation."
Betty listened, but none of them touched her; she felt herself that grief and misery were turning her to stone.
Nesta paused, then suddenly she began to play and sing the beautiful anthem that had so touched Betty as a little child. She had not sung it for years, but she threw her whole soul into it, and her beautiful voice rose and fell in the silent church, till the arched roof seemed to send back sweet mysterious echoes of the words,—
"'These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed
their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'"
Betty shivered at first, then a light came into her eyes. She lifted her head, with a long-drawn sigh. The horror of death had left her; she saw her old friend, after his long, sad life, entering that blood-bought, happy throng; his little child, with outstretched arms, coming to meet him. How could she—how could she wish him back? The old associations and fascination of the verse took possession of her. The gate of heaven seemed thrown open to her, and standing by that golden portal she was conscious of the exquisite bliss of those within.
"'These are they—these are they which came out of great tribulation.'"
Nesta's voice rang out triumphantly, assuredly. Doubts and fears of the unknown world vanished; Betty's soul escaped from the snare of the fowler, and when the last notes died away, Nesta looked round and saw that tears had come to her relief. Betty was sobbing in her seat.
She stole up to her and put her arms round her. "My dear little Betty," she whispered, "God is love."
"All love," Betty sobbed; "all love, and I have pained Him by my wicked, selfish, unbelieving thoughts!"
Nesta let her cry on; she knew that her tears would relieve the tension of her nerves and brain.
And then, shortly after, when Betty had sufficiently recovered herself, they walked home together.
Nesta was not afraid when Betty shut herself up in her bedroom again. Deep though her grief would be still, it would be untainted with bitterness and despair.
When Mrs. Fairfax asked anxiously after her, Nesta was able to say,—
"She is better, mother dear. She will be her dear little self to-morrow."
CHAPTER XIX
For Little Betty's Sake
Love sacrifices all things
To bless the thing it loves.
BULWER LYTTON.
Two days passed without a word from Frank. Then came a letter for Nesta. She took it to her own room, and read it before she told Betty she had received it.
"DEAR MRS. ST. CLAIR,—
"I have been waiting to write till I knew what to write. Poor Russell
was buried to-day, and the guide as well. But Arundel is living, though
it is touch and go whether he will last another day. It appears they
lost their way, and the guide went on ahead. He never came back, having
fallen over the edge of a crevasse, and they, roped together, followed
in his steps. When I got here, I must tell you, Arundel was conscious,
and able to give me details. He seemed anxious to do so, though he
spoke with difficulty.
"Russell went first, and suddenly vanished into space. The jerk to the
rope nearly pulled Arundel over, but he steadied himself and tried with
all his might and main to pull Russell up. Russell, as you know, was the
heavier man of the two, and Arundel, inch by inch, was being dragged over.
Russell was clinging to the rope in mid-air; he looked up and grasped the
situation instantly. In a second he had out his clasp-knife, and cut the
rope as he might have cut a piece of string. He dropped, and Arundel—how
he did it, no one can imagine—scrambled down over forty feet after him.
He reached his body, but found him dead; and then he collapsed himself.
He was insensible when he was found, and they thought him dead, so sent
the telegram. He was lying out all night, and has some broken ribs, for
he had more than one nasty fall descending after Russell. Now fever has
set in, and the doctor thinks badly of him. I won't leave him till it's
one thing or the other. Russell's cousin here. No time for more.
"Yours very sincerely,
"FRANK DORMER."
Nesta sat with this letter in her lap fully ten minutes before she could decide what to do. Her mother coming in advised her.
"You had better let Betty read it. Is this Mr. Arundel much to her? I cannot think that Mr. Russell is her chief and only cause for grief."
"Yes, I think he is a great deal to her, and that is why it will torture her afresh to hear he is alive, when the second letter may be to say that he has gone. It will be such suspense again. Still, I think she ought to see it."
Betty was called in.
She took the tidings with wonderful composure.
"I am glad Frank is with him," she said quietly; "but oh, Mrs. St. Clair, dear, dear Mr. Russell! Was it not just like him? I shall never have such a friend again—never!"
She hardly seemed to take in that Gerald was alive, for later on she said to Nesta,—
"They will be buried together, and then, Mrs. St. Clair, do you think I could go and see their graves?"
Nesta felt she dared not instil any feelings of hope in her breast, so wisely said little, but she noticed Betty's breathless anxiety when the post came in, and her look of patient disappointment when it brought nothing from Zermatt.
Then, by the late post one evening, Frank wrote again, and this time Molly was the recipient of his letter.
She came in delightedly to Betty, as she sat in the drawing-room, winding wool for Mrs. Fairfax.
"Oh, Betty, he has turned the corner and is doing well, and he has got a splendid nurse, and Frank is coming home. The doctors say he will get on all right now."
Betty dropped her wool and fled from the room. Out into the garden she went; her heart and pulses all throbbing with excitement and joy. She was ashamed that any one should see her face, but she was not ashamed to lift it up to the One who had so mercifully dealt with her. And her prayer of thanksgiving and of praise burst forth from her, in a flood of happy tears, when she found herself on her favourite grass walk in the wood.
"I won't even wish to see him again; he is alive—he is going to live—he will come back to his farm. I don't care what becomes of me, but I shall be living in the same world with him still. It is enough."
Such were some of her thoughts.
She confided in Nesta later.
"And, Mrs. St. Clair, may I go up to London now to Miss Miller? I want to work. I want to do something to show I am grateful. And, please—" here she buried her hot cheeks on Nesta's shoulder—"don't let people know how very happy I am."
Nesta came to the conclusion that work would be the best thing for her. So in a very short time Betty was in London trying to live in the present, and bring sunshine to the hearts of those whose lives were cast in the shade, not sorrowing too much over the past, and leaving the future in God's hands.
Miss Miller was a practical, matter-of-fact woman; her never-failing brightness was good for Betty, who still was apt to have her moods. But she soon won the hearts of the old blind people, and they loved the sound of her fresh young voice. Betty sang to them, and read to them, and amused them for hours; but there were quiet times when she would talk to them one by one, and her topic was always the same—
The old, old story
Of Jesus and His love.
"Ay, dearie," said an old woman, wiping the tears from her sightless eyes, "ye do seem to put it so life-like that I can't stand up against it. Why, bless my soul, as I sits and listens to ye, I fancy in the hush that comes to ye, that the Lord be just a-comin' in at the door, and He be standin' by my side a-ready and a-waitin' to see if I be meanin' to open my hard old heart and let Him in. I've had a power o' trouble in my life that has kep' me from bein' religious. 'Tis t'other way with some folks, but it never were with me. But ye seems to know a little about trouble yourself, and it makes your tones shake a bit, for all that ye are so blithe. And yer faith in religion is so real that it do shame me. Now sing us that there favourite hymn of yours, and we'll be greatly obliged."
So Betty sang,—
"'The King of love my Shepherd is,
His goodness faileth never;
I nothing lack if I am His,
And He is mine, for ever.'"
And the old people smiled, and repeated the lines to themselves, with a quickened realisation of the Shepherd's care for His flock, and a longing to be numbered amongst the sheep of His fold.
One morning Betty was writing letters for Miss Miller in that lady's private sitting-room, when she was told a gentleman wished to see her. She told the maid to show him up, thinking it would be her uncle. Major Stuart often came to see her, and would insist upon taking her out. He did not half approve of this work for her, though he was always coaxed and persuaded by his niece in the end that it was just the corner that fitted her.
As the door opened, she said, without turning round, "One minute, Uncle Harry. I must finish this letter, and then I shall be free."
The dead silence that followed this speech made her drop her pen and look up.
With a little cry, she sprang up, for it was Gerald Arundel who confronted her.
Very thin and worn he looked, and his hair that had been so dark was now plentifully streaked with grey. That had been done in the few minutes in which he and Mr. Russell had swayed together over the abyss.
Betty's colour ebbed away. She could not find voice to speak. She had not heard of his return home, and the shock was almost too much for her.
"You must forgive me coming to you," he said apologetically; "but Mrs. St. Clair gave me your address. She thought—I hoped—you might like to see me."
"And so I do," said Betty, holding out her hand, and trying to speak bravely. "Only you came in so unexpectedly. And you look so ill. You have been given back from the grave to us. I can't greet you like any ordinary person."
She was biting her lips to keep her tears back.
He looked at her, then said sadly,—
"I want to tell you how it is I come back alone; how it is that I have failed to keep my promise to you."
"I have heard," said Betty. "God wanted him, and He is the best One to take care of him."
"He was a noble man," said Gerald. "I shall never to my dying day forget his face as he looked up at me. I had given myself up for lost. I knew I could not save him, and his face suddenly seemed illumined from heaven above. He smiled at me. Just think of his position! And—would you like to hear his words?"
Betty nodded breathlessly.
"They were, 'For little Betty's sake!' And then he cut the rope!"
Betty covered her face with her hands. Tears came fast. She could not speak for some minutes. Then she looked up. Gerald Was standing by her side.
"Sit down," she said. "You look so ill. Do tell me more, not—" here she shuddered—"not of that dreadful day, but of before it happened. Tell me all he said and did. At least, will it tire you?"
Her tone of anxious concern was very sweet to Gerald. He complied with her wishes, and gave her an account of their start.
"I am thankful the responsibility of that ill-fated expedition does not rest on me. I felt it would be too much for Russell, and did all in my power to dissuade him from going. But others overruled me. Russell asked me as we were starting, why I looked so gloomy. I told him I did not like the idea of it for him, and he said, with his cheerful laugh, 'My dear fellow, I am as fit as a fiddle. I am going to prove my new-gained strength before I return home!'"
"Oh, it all seems so dreadful, so unnecessary," said Betty. "Tell me more about him."
"When the snowstorm came on, and we separated from the others, he put his hand into his breast-pocket and took out this little packet for you.
"'I am not so young as you, and my heart is not so strong; if I should succumb to this cold, will you take this home to Betty, and give it to her from me, with my dear love?'
"And he would not be content till I took it from him, and promised him to deliver it to you with my own hands."
Gerald placed the packet in Betty's hand. She looked at it with loving reverence; then listened eagerly to more details from Gerald of his last conversation with his friend. When he had finished, Betty said sorrowfully,—"I have lost my best friend."
"And so have I—my only one."
There was a little silence between them. Then she said rather timidly,—
"Are you going back to your farm?"
"Yes. I must tell you that Russell has bequeathed it to me in his will, as well as a legacy which will take away the sting of poverty, and make me comfortable for the rest of my days."
Betty smiled rather sadly.
"But you can't enjoy it when he is gone, can you? I feel as if I can never go back to Tiverstoke. I should miss him so intensely. Does his cousin succeed to his estate?"
"Yes; he is a nice fellow—a married man With eight children, he tells me. Are you here for the winter, Miss Betty?"
"Yes; and for longer, perhaps. I shall leave for Molly's wedding, which will be taking place the beginning of next month; but I hope to return after it."
"And you are happy here? Forgive me, but you are looking white and tired."
"I am happy, as happy as I can be at present. Sorrow makes you tired. I did love him so."
"Love him still. He is not dead, but living a fuller life than ever he lived before."
"Yes;" and Betty looked up with sparkling eyes. "Oh, don't you wish, Mr. Arundel, that this world would come to an end? It seems such a long time to wait."
Gerald smiled. He loved to hear her old childish impetuosity break out. Then he rose and held out his hand.
"May I come and see you when I am in town again?"
"Yes, do. I shall be so pleased. Are you going back to Tiverstoke to-day?"
"This afternoon."
They shook hands, and he left her. Then tremulously Betty broke the seal of her letter, and read,—
"DEAR LITTLE FRIEND,—
"Sometimes I think I shall not see your bright young face again; I feel
my intercourse with you has come to a close. I do not know why I should
think so, for I am no longer an invalid, and feel as strong and well
as I did ten years ago. But the impression remains with me, and so I
am writing this, which will only reach you after my death. My little
Betty! I wonder if you have any idea what a pleasure it has been to me
to see you the same trustful, earnest little soul that you were fifteen
years ago! You wound yourself round my heart in those days, and when
you went away, and gradually drifted away from me, I thought I had lost
you for ever. Then you came back, and I found your soul unchanged. I
have wondered sometimes, if my little daughter had lived, whether she
could be much dearer to me than you are. I have watched you keenly, and
I have seen you in trouble, my child, trouble in which I was powerless
to help or comfort you, but which trouble One above, who loves you
better than I, has sanctified and blessed to your soul.
"And as an old man sees, I fancy this trouble will not be a lasting
one. I can already see the time when earthly joy will be your portion.
I believe God in His tenderness will lead you very soon into green
pastures, and if my leaving you will hasten this time, I shall be
doubly glad to go. I am bequeathing you my picture, Betty,—an old man's
last attempt to bring the two together that he loves best. And now,
farewell. May God guard and guide you, and keep the spring of living
water in your soul always fresh and bountiful! May He use you for His
glory, and give you an abundant entrance into His kingdom, when your
work is done!
"Your affectionate old friend,
"FRANK RUSSELL."
Betty read and re-read this precious letter, regarding it as a voice from the dead. She went about her daily duties with a serene and peaceful face. She could look up and thank God for His goodness in giving her such a friend, and counted herself better in every way for his friendship. He had helped her in her times of perplexity and doubt. Now he had left her, but his memory would help her still. And so she was comforted.
CHAPTER XX
Changing Corners
Were my whole life to come one heap of troubles,
The pleasure of this moment would suffice,
And sweeten all my griefs with its remembrance.
LEE.
MOLLY'S wedding was the next event. It was a very quiet one, and she was married from Holly Grange. Betty went down for it. Nesta thought her looking thin and pale, and wanted her to stay on with her for a little, but this Betty said she could not do.
"Miss Miller is tired, and is going away for a holiday. I have promised to take charge during her absence."
"But it will be too great a responsibility for you."
Betty laughed.
"It won't be a feather's weight. They have such a good matron. She really does all the work."
The sisters had a long talk together before Molly's wedding-day. Molly was waking up to a sense of her responsibility in life.
"I want to be a good wife, Betty. I shall not dream any more; and Frank and I are going to try and help each other to be good. I know I am not clever, but mother taught me to be useful, and I shall try to help some of those that she tried to help."
"That will be lovely, Molly."
Then Betty threw her arms round her neck.
"Oh, Molly, I shall miss you. I shall be left quite alone. We shall never be quite the same to each other again."
"But you will come and stay with me, and you will help me about the poor and those who need relief. I can never be so clever as mother, but I want to be just like her, to have a full and a busy life."
Betty was silent for a minute, then she said softly,—
"I should like to tell you, Molly, what mother said to me in almost the last conversation I had with her. She was alluding to my taking up some work, and she said,—
"'I would warn you not to fill your life with work, to the exclusion of the One who should come first.'
"And then she made me read that verse to her,—
"'Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it.'
"I have never forgotten it. It has helped me so much."
Molly looked very thoughtful.
"I am not as good as you are, Betty. I believe you love God, and love the Bible. I have a respect and reverence for—for religion, but it doesn't come first to me, and it doesn't make me happy. I believe if you were stripped of everything, you would be happy. You always have a fund of happiness stowed away somewhere. It shows itself in your face and voice sometimes when one least expects it, and I believe you get it from—" Molly lowered her voice—"from God Himself."
"Oh, Molly dear, why shouldn't He give you happiness too?"
"I think I am happy, as a rule," said Molly. "I haven't so many ups and downs as you have, or as you used to have, but I am earnestly going to try to do right now."
"If you set your heart, Molly, to seek Christ, He will come into your heart and put you straight and keep you straight. Don't think I am preaching, but you know what the hymn says,—
"'O, Jesus, Thou art standing
Outside the fast-closed door,
In lowly patience waiting
To pass the threshold o'er.'"
There was silence. Molly looked out of her window wistfully. This last day of her girlhood had been a heart-searching time with her. She realised that a chapter in her young life was closing, and another beginning.
Then she bent down her fair head to Betty's dark one, and whispered,—
"I have kept Him out, Betty,—all my life long I have,—but if He will forgive me, I will open my heart to Him now."
And Betty left her, and stole softly away to pray for her.
Major Stuart came down for the wedding, for he was going to give Molly away.
He said to Betty, when the ceremony was over, and the sisters had taken a farewell of each other before Molly was driven off to the station with her bridegroom,—
"And now one niece is off my hands! When are you going to follow her example?"
"You won't get rid of me yet, Uncle Harry," said Betty, laughing; "but I am sure I am very harmless. I cannot be a worry to you where I am in town."
"You are an infinite worry. A young lady with fads is a tremendous responsibility. You never know what mine she may spring upon you suddenly. It is a friend of the blind to-day, it may be a nurse to the lepers to-morrow, or a partisan of woman's rights. I don't know which contingency would be the worst! I'm sure the old-fashioned plan was best. Keep young women tight and fast in their homes till they marry. They will never be any anxiety then."
"YOU'RE GOING TO MARRY ME," OBSERVED JOSSY,
WITH DETERMINATION.
"But," said Betty, with something between fun and sadness lurking in her eyes, "I am homeless, and I never could be kept 'tight and fast' anywhere. I should suffocate and die. And I don't think I shall ever marry, so I shall be an anxiety to you for many a long day yet."
"You're going to marry me," observed Jossy, with determination. He was standing by, very proud of his big buttonhole and light kid gloves. "I made up my mind fresh in church to-day, that I would marry you directly I grew to be bigger than you. And I'm growing awfully fast, mother says so!"
Betty laughed at him, but her heart was a little sad. Molly had gone, and she was alone. She wondered as she threw a look back over the past year, whether every year would bring so many changes as this one had done to her. And then again the music danced in her heart—
"I nothing lack if I can His,
And He is mine, for ever."
She went back to London very soon. She saw nothing of Gerald, but heard he was up in town on business, and when she returned found he had called to see her the very day before she arrived.
"He said, miss, he was sorry to miss you, for he was going out of town immediately," the maid told her.
Betty smiled and sighed; then settled down with great content to her old blind people.
A few weeks later, Nesta received a letter from Miss Miller, to say that she had just returned from her holiday, and found Betty struggling against an attack of influenza.
"She is very much pulled down by it, and does not seem able to throw it off. The doctor advises thorough rest and change of scene. I thought I had better let you know at once."
So it came to pass that Betty was once more at Holly Grange, looking white and frail, with a nasty cough, but in fairly good spirits.
"I am just ill enough to like nursing and petting, and to enjoy the luxury of idleness," she said to Nesta one afternoon, when she was settling her in a sunny corner in the drawing-room, with a book and a plate of grapes by her side.
"You will not mind being alone, dear, will you? Mother wants me to drive out with her."
Nesta was making up a cheerful fire, and arranging Betty's cushion in the big easy-chair as she spoke.
She stooped and kissed her, for Betty looked very small and white and forlorn, as she sat there, and Nesta's heart went out to her.
"I shall be perfectly happy. I feel I can sleep and sleep and sleep here! It is so quiet and restful. I longed for silence in town so; everything seemed to get on my nerves, the horses and carriages in the street, and everybody's footstep. Please don't think of me at all, except that I am enjoying it all so here. And stay out as long as you can. It is such a sunny afternoon."
She was left, and for a time she dozed. Then the door quietly opened, and a maid appeared.
"If you please, miss, Mr. Arundel called to ask how you were. He asked if you were well enough to see him."
"Yes, show him in here," Betty said, and a pink flush rose in her cheeks as Gerald came in.
He came up to her and took her hand.
Betty could not meet his eyes; and then he sat down.
"I heard that you had been ill, and I met Mrs. St. Clair this afternoon. She thought perhaps a visit from me would not hurt you."
"Indeed it will not," said Betty quietly. "Tell me about your farm; it always sounds so nice."
"I am thankful to say it is doing well. It keeps me very busy, except in the evenings. A farmer cannot do much after dark. If the time does drag at all with me, it is then."
"But you have your books?"
"Yes—and my thoughts."
There was a little silence, then he turned to her.
"You are working yourself to death, Miss Betty. I am sure London is not the right corner for you."
"But I think it is," said Betty, with some spirit. "Influenza has had me in its grip. The idlest people get that. It isn't the work."
"It is not the right corner for you," Gerald persisted. "You were run down before the influenza attacked you."
"You mustn't abuse my corner," said Betty, smiling.
"Do you remember asking me long ago to let you know if I found an empty corner that wanted filling?"
"Yes," Betty replied, looking up at him. "But I can't fill two corners at once."
"And you would rather not hear of another one?"
Betty's gaze was a wistful and a dubious one.
"Is it anything to do with your almshouses?" she asked.
He gave a short laugh, then bent forward earnestly.
"It is a corner that is very empty and desolate; that wants some sunshine in it. I think I may say truly that it is quite as comfortable a one as the one you are now filling, but whether it would be good enough for you is what I doubt. It is a corner that I thought would have to remain empty for good and all, but I wondered lately if I might venture to tell you of it."
There was something in the gentle diffidence of this strong, self-restrained man, that almost brought the tears to Betty's eyes. She knew now what was coming, and caught her breath. Then, obeying an impulse that seized her, she put out her little hand, and laid it on his very softly.
"Tell me," she said.
And then he told her. He took her hand in his, and drew her very gently to him. "Oh, Betty, my little Betty, I have so little to offer you. Will you cheer the life of a very lonely man by your sweet, sunshiny presence? Will it be asking you to give up too much?"
Betty could not answer; she only gave a little sob of happiness. All the past, with its aches and pains, its struggles and disappointments, was swallowed up by the present sweet moment, and presently she found courage to raise her eyes to the ones regarding her so tenderly.
"It will be taking all," she said, "and giving up nothing."
Later on, Nesta found them together, and Gerald stood up to greet her with a light upon his face that she had never seen on it before.
"I am sure you will give us your blessing," he said, "for your advice did much to instil into me the courage I needed."
Nesta bent down and kissed Betty, with smiles and tears.
"I am so glad, darling," she said; "for I know you will be happy. It has been my greatest wish to see you two come together, and it was somebody else's wish too."
"You mean Mr. Russell," said Betty softly; and then she shyly laid her hand on Gerald's arm. "It almost seemed to be his last thought."
"It was," Gerald said.
Jossy's entrance chased away the momentary sadness that filled Betty's eyes.
"Come here, young man," Gerald said. "Do you remember our first meeting? You introduced me to this lady as her 'dear husband'? I am going to be so. Do you approve?"
Jossy's quick eyes wandered from Gerald's humorous glance to Betty's confusion and blushes.
"Are you playing that game?" he asked. "Is it make-believe or really true?"
"Really and soberly true."
"And you are going to be her lord, and take her away to your castle?" said the boy, with kindling eyes. Then his face fell. "You haven't got a castle," he added; "it's only a common farmhouse."
If Gerald winced in his heart, he showed no outward discomposure.
"Only a common farmhouse," he repeated quietly. "Do you think my lady can be happy in it?"
Jossy looked at Betty rather doubtfully.
"She seemed to think it a very nice place when we were drying our clothes, but when she was in your room she nearly cried over your book she was reading, and she kissed the back of your chair. Why did you do that, Betty?"
"Oh, Jossy, you awful boy! Do stop!"
His mother took him promptly out of the room. Gerald put his hand into his breast-pocket and laid something very softly on Betty's lap.
She looked up startled.
"I kept it," he said, kneeling down by her chair again and taking both her hands in his. "I determined not to give it back to its owner till I could claim the hand as my own."
Betty looked at the little brown glove with pretty confusion.
Gerald went on earnestly.
"I am glad you have seen what a poor home I can offer you. But with our dear friend's legacy I am going to enlarge it. I would not bring you to it in its present condition."
"But," said Betty, with sudden warmth and impetuosity, "I love it as it is. You must not alter it. It is a sweet home, and I shall only come to it under condition that it remains unaltered. I have always thought, ever since I was a child, that a farmhouse is an ideal place to be in."
"In theory, not in practice," said Gerald, smiling.
But Betty stoutly insisted that it was both. "And what about your London corner?" he asked her before they separated that day. "Will you feel giving up that? Can any one else be found to take your place?"
"Yes," said Betty, smiling up at him. "I have tried to brighten and cheer their lives, but there are others who will do that as well and better than I can. And now I am going to turn my attention to a 'very' neglected spot. After all, it will be only changing corners."
CHAPTER XXI
Odd made Even
Yes, it was love, if thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress,
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,
And yet—oh, more than all!—untired by time.
BYRON.
MOLLY wrote Betty delighted congratulations when she heard the news.
"To think that you should be the one to comfort my hero! I can't forget
how I tried with all my might to get up a match between him and Ella.
Perhaps it is best as it is, for Ella is going to marry a naval cousin
of hers whom she has always liked. Does it not seem strange, Betty,
that you and I are both perhaps to settle eventually in the same
neighbourhood? Do tell Mr. Arundel I am so delighted to welcome him as
a brother. I used to think I was more interested in him than you were,
for you were always so silent about him. I suppose you thought the
more!"
Major Stuart came down in person to offer his congratulations. He drove up one afternoon unexpectedly, and found Betty in the garden picking some early primroses.
"Now, what do you mean by this?" he demanded, after the first greetings were over. "It is like springing a mine under my feet! When I advised you to follow Molly's example a short time ago, you told me you were never going to marry. I suppose you were laughing in your sleeve at me!"
"No, indeed I wasn't," said Betty earnestly; "I really thought it then."
"I'm sorry to hear it," and Major Stuart assumed a very grave air; "for it shows this is too sudden an affair to be a really genuine one."
"Oh, Uncle Harry, don't tease so!"
"I assure you I am in dead earnest. Why have I not been told of this gentleman? Why has he kept behind the scenes so? I do not remember to have heard his name."
"I am sure we must have told you about him," said Betty, with distressed eyes. "Oh, Uncle Harry, you make it so difficult for me to tell you. I cared too much for him to talk about him, and though we both knew each other, he felt he ought not to speak. You see, he lost all his money and property. The Red Manor belonged to him, and he had to sell it, and he has been farming since, and now he is succeeding with it; and then Mr. Russell left him a lot of money, so he thought he might speak. It was his foolish idea that I ought to have every luxury. I should have been content with a labourer's cottage. Do be nice, and say you are pleased, for I am so happy!"
Betty had wound her arms round his and lifted a very coaxing face up at him. Major Stuart looked at her, then stroked his long moustache grimly.
"This is a blow to me! You have forsaken your rôle of the 'odd one.' I suppose it is a case of odd being made even, and, like the rest, you must be made into a couple. I must see him first, before I pronounce any opinion. A farmer is not a fit match for one of my nieces, and a fellow who has come down in the world rarely makes it pay. He must be something very special, if—"
Then Betty flashed out at him,—
"You are a horrid, mercenary man, and I won't stay with you to hear Gerald abused! He is special, 'very' special; there isn't another man as good as he is in the whole world, and I am not fit to be his wife. If he were a butcher or a coal-heaver, if he swept a crossing in London, I would be proud to belong to him, and if you have come down here to be rude to him, you had better go back to London by the next train!"
Major Stuart looked at his niece's changing colour, quick-heaving breast, and sparkling eyes, with great amusement.
"Well done, Betty!" he said. "Whatever he is, he has managed to steal your heart. I am quite relieved to see you have a little of your old impetuous temper left. We will patch up a truce, and I will think your lover all that you describe him, until I set eyes on him myself and can form my own judgment. You see," he added, giving her a little friendly pat on her shoulder, "my anxiety about my nieces is due to perhaps my over-estimation of their charms. I don't like to think of your being wasted on a heavy country man, however worthy he may be!"
Then Betty laughed. She could not be angry for long with her uncle.
"You will see the heavy country man this evening. He is coming over to dine. And now here comes Mrs. St. Clair, and you must scold her for allowing us to meet!"
She ran away, and did not see her uncle again till just before dinner, when she came towards him with Gerald, looking very winsome and mischievous in her white lace dress, with a bunch of real neapolitans in her waistbelt.
"Uncle Harry, let me introduce Mr. Arundel to you. I have told him you have come down to inspect him."
The men shook hands, and measured glances courteously, then Major Stuart asked if he might have a private talk with Gerald after dinner.
"I can congratulate you very heartily on having won my niece's affection," he said; "for she is a very particular little lady, and, I fancied, had taken up the rôle of independence."
Betty had moved off, so did not hear this speech. Gerald responded quietly,—
"I am quite ready with my explanation. I am sure you are astonished at my presumption. But Betty's happiness will be dearer to you than her position in society."
Which remark gave food for thought to Major Stuart throughout dinner, but which made him mutter as he took Nesta into the dining-room,—
"He takes matters with too high a hand."
However, the result of their private conversation was satisfactory. Major Stuart came into the drawing-room with a placid countenance, and Betty flew to meet him.
"Now, Uncle Harry, congratulate me. I insist upon it, or I shall never speak to you again!"
"He is a good-looking fellow," he said, looking at her with a twinkle in his eye.
"Go on," said Betty sternly.
"He seems to have honourable principles."
"Go on."
"And I really think I must congratulate you upon having found some one who will keep you in better order than I can!"
Betty laughed, and was content. She knew now that Gerald and her uncle would be the best of friends.
When her health was quite restored, she went back to London; for she would not forsake her work until it was absolutely necessary for her to do so. Gerald had persuaded her to let him make a few alterations to his farm, and the wedding-day was fixed for June 18.
"That was the day I first saw you," he said to her. "I never shall forget it. Do you remember your little songs about the roses? I have had one of them in my heart ever since."
"I know," said Betty, nodding at him mischievously. She carolled out gaily,—
"'Where blooms, O my father, a thornless rose?'
'That can I not tell thee, my child,
Not one on the bosom of earth ever grows,
But wounds whom its charms have beguiled.'"
"That is not the one."
"Isn't it? Then it was the other, 'The little wild white rose.' Yes; I remember that evening well, but it was not my first sight of you. I had seen you before."
"Where?"
Betty coloured and hesitated; then looked up with a pretty shyness.
"I will tell you when—when we are married, not before."
She was greeted by her blind friends, when she returned to them, with great delight, and loud were their lamentations when they heard she was going to leave them.
"I feel quite guilty," she said to Miss Miller one day; "as if I have put my hand to the plough, and am drawing it back."
"No, dear," her friend replied; "you are changing your sphere of work, that is all. You will find opportunities of helping others wherever you go. Of course, we shall miss you, but we must be thankful that we have had you for so long."
"If—if Gerald had not gone through such deep trouble," said Betty, in a low, meditative voice; "if he hadn't been so lonely and homeless and friendless, I think I should not have thought it right to marry."
Miss Miller smiled.
"But pity is not the right foundation for a married life."
"No," said Betty hastily; "of course not. And I never really pitied him, except deep down in the bottom of my heart, for he was above pity. He was always so brave and cheerful, keeping his own feelings in the background. Oh, Miss Miller, you must come down to stay with us when you want a rest! I long for you to know him. I am not good enough for him. God has been so very good to me."
Occasionally she had visits from Gerald, but they were necessarily very short ones. She saw a good deal of Molly in town, and by-and-bye they began to busy themselves with her trousseau.
Nesta came up for a fortnight to help them. Molly was full of life and interest, but Betty used to have fits of dreaminess, and she seemed strangely indifferent to her shopping.
"It is such a fuss," she said. "Why should I spend so much on myself? I am going to be a farmer's wife. I shall dress in cotton frocks and sun-bonnets, and these fine things will lie by in drawers and boxes. I shall never wear them."
But Molly did not agree with her.
"You must dress for your husband now. He will like your clothes, if you don't. I've discovered that men pretend to be supremely indifferent to such matters, when in reality there are no more discerning and severe judges than they are. And you are not going to be a farmer's wife, Betty. You will have lots of nice neighbours calling upon you. Frank's people do not mean you to rusticate."
"Oh, Molly," said Betty wistfully. "Do you selfishly wish sometimes to be in a kind of garden of Eden—to be the only people in existence, just two?"
Molly laughed, and shook her head.
"I am shocked at you, who are so anxious to comfort and relieve your fellow-creatures! I don't think I have ever had such a desire."
"It is selfish," admitted Betty. "I think in London we crowd over each other so, that it makes me long to be alone."
"I like people," said Molly; "and I know I shall never be so happy at the Red Manor as I am now in our tiny town house."
The time slipped by, and then in the beginning of June Betty said good-bye to her friends in London, and went down to Holly Grange.
Upon the afternoon before her wedding-day, she slipped out of the house unperceived, and walked over to the little village of Tiverstoke. She made her way to the church, and saw herself, as a little hot, dusty child, push open the door for the first time and enter in. She passed up the same aisle that her little feet had trodden so long before, and once more she paused by Violet Russell's tomb, and let her gaze wander upwards to the stained window that had been the object of her childish admiration and awe.
And then she started, for by the side of the window was a brass inscription, and she read it with tearful eyes,—
TO THE MEMORY OF
FRANK RUSSELL,
SQUIRE OF THIS PARISH.
DIED AT ZERMATT,
SEPTEMBER 20, 18—,
Aged 58.
"These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have
washed their robes, and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb."
Such a flood of memories swept over her soul as she read this verse! It took her back to her earnest search in childhood, to all the mystery and joy and grief connected with it; to all her serious discussions with the old friend now gone; and she covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud. She was not surprised when a step that she knew well approached, and a hand was gently laid on her shoulder. She turned to him at once.
"Oh, Gerald, who put this here? Did you?"
"Yes."
"Did you know it was the verse I loved above all others as a child?"
"It was the verse he loved to his dying day."
They stood there in silence together. Then Gerald said in a low voice,—
"Betty, we shall stand here to-morrow in different circumstances. Shall we ask God's blessing on that coming ceremony now?"
Betty bowed her head. Then, hand in hand, they knelt under the stained window, and Gerald breathed out a few heart-felt words.
"Our Father, wilt Thou grant to us Thy blessing? We give ourselves to
Thy service together for evermore. Teach us to follow in the steps of
one who died to bring us together, and may we take our place one day in
that blood-washed throng. For Christ our Saviour's sake. Amen."
Was it a strange coincidence that the sun should stream through that stained window, and crown those bowed heads with its golden rays?
In the hush that followed, Betty almost felt conscious that the spirits of the departed were hovering near them, rejoicing in their joy, and when she rose from her knees, her face was as if she had beheld a vision.
Walking home, as the evening shadows were beginning to fall, Gerald spoke of their friend again.
"He asked me to have that put on his tombstone, should anything happen to him. I think I told you he seemed to have a presentiment of his sudden death. And, Betty darling, he told me how you came to him as a little child, when his heart was cold and hard and bitter, and his troubles were alienating him from the only Comforter; how by your persistent allusion to that verse, your childish faith and earnestness, and your confidence in the love of God, you brought him, step by step, into the light and peace of God's forgiveness and comfort. He told me he owed to you more than he could ever repay."
"Oh," said Betty, awed and startled, "I never knew. I never guessed. He always seemed to me a sad and sorrowful man; but I have only remembrances of his goodness and kindness to me as a child. I remember him comforting me when no one else could, in my first real childish trouble. He was such a comfort and help to me all last year; and, Gerald—" her voice sank to a whisper—"his very last thought and act was to give you to me. What a friend he has been to us both!"