"It is then true, my Betty? And I am to wish you joy?" cried Mary Jones,
with both hands outstretched.
"It is true," answered Betty, her lips parted in a smile of sunshiny
happiness. "Congratulate me, Mary; yes, wish me joy, for there is no
happier woman to-day between the Northern and Southern seas."
"I am glad to see you so happy, dear child!" cried Mary affectionately,
but there was something pinched and starved in her voice. Ah, pity for
those who possess the capacity for love and yet must go hungry to their
dying day!
This odd want is none the less bitter that it meets with scant sympathy
in this hard world. In the breast of many an unsought woman lies a
wealth of wasted treasure, treasure which no one has cared to seek, and
yet what a treasure it might have been!
Mary Jones's heart had grown somewhat starved, but it was the heart of a
loving woman still, and when the bright sunshine of her young friend's
happiness shed its light on her soul, it awakened an echo of old dead
days, and swelled it with sympathy.
"Sit down, sweet one," she said, drawing Betty down on the sofa beside
her. "Tell me all about it. When did he ask you to be his wife?"
"This morning, Mary, only this morning; but it seems as if years had
passed since then."
"And what says Mr. Ives? Does he welcome the stranger who takes from him
his only child?"
"Not far, Mary--but two miles away--and my father is always to live with
me, if he so will it, so says Mr. Johnstone."
"But is he pleased?" asked Mary, with a little persistence.
"Yes, he is well pleased; he already loves him as a son. Mary, perhaps
the thing that most readily won my heart was his reverence and tender
courtesy to my father."
"I can believe it, Betty. His manners are perfect. I was only making
that same remark to Deborah this morning. Yes, I knew only one other
whose manners could compare with your John Johnstone's, Betty--only
one."
Mary Jones sighed deeply and looked down. Betty gently pressed her hand.
Hitherto she had always laughed at her friend's tender recollections;
now, it seemed to her that her eyes were opened to her former cruelty.
But Mistress Mary was too much interested to waste too much time even on
such reflections.
"You must tell me all, dear," she said. "What is his family? Has he
parents living, brothers and sisters? Is his fortune assured?"
"Ah, there is some little difficulty there," answered Betty, her face
falling a little. "He has no parents, no friends, no kindred; he is all
alone in the wide world. And as for his fortune, that is assured, but it
is somehow mysteriously bound up in trusts--I know not what--he has no
papers to show my father, he asks for perfect confidence."
Mistress Mary was a prudent woman. She pursed up her lips and uttered a
little sound expressive of discontent.
"Dear Betty," she said, "it is doubtless a very good thing to be in love
with a stranger romantically, but still--"
"He is no stranger," said Betty quickly.
"No, no, not to be called a stranger," cried Mary, laughing--"an old and
valued friend of two months' standing."
"The time is short," said Betty thoughtfully. "But a whole lifetime
seems to have passed in that space! My father," she cried, as Mr. Ives
entered the room, "here is Mistress Mary Jones."
"Come to offer my warmest good wishes," said the lady, "and also all the
assistance in my power when the important day approaches."
"I shall indeed be glad and grateful for your help," said Betty
affectionately.
Mr. Ives persuaded Mary to remain for supper. The candles were brought
in, and the room looked bright and cheery.
"Stay with me and cheer my loneliness," said the parson cheerily. "The
young folk will stroll in the garden till supper be ready. I am too old
for dewy twilight walks, egad."
Was it a new idea that flashed into Mary's mind that caused her to
start? She glanced at Mr. Ives' comely person, at his glossy cassock,
his smartly-buckled shoes, at the neat tie-wig which surmounted a face
which she hastily pronounced as handsome as it ever had been.
With a sweep of her fan Mistress Mary renounced her waning youth.
"Stay with you!" she cried, "that will I! and you and I from the window
will superintend our dear young ones. Alas!" she said, with a
languishing look, "how lonely the house will seem when you are bereft of
your daughter."
Mr. Ives sighed deeply.
Outside in the gloaming, Betty Ives and her young lover walked slowly
backwards and forwards under the orchard trees.
"No father, no mother, no sisters!" she said, looking up into his face.
"No one to love, no one to love you!"
"I do not know whether I am to be pitied," he answered with a light
laugh. "My life has been one of strange vicissitudes. No, no, sweet Bet;
I have often thanked God that no one shared my life."
"But you will never do so again," she said earnestly.
"Sweetheart!" he answered. "Until you have once drunk of the cup of
happiness you know not what it is; but once tasted, you can ill spare it
thenceforth."
"Ah, some day you will tell me about this life of yours--will you not?"
"Some day, my heart, when you and I are alone together in the fair woods
of Belton--when you are my precious wife, and when days have passed on,
and our full trust and confidence each in the other is proved and
strengthened by time. But not now, beloved, not now."
"Have you known griefs, sorrows?"
"A few."
"Happiness?"
"Yes, and triumphs often."
Betty bent down her head thoughtfully; fain would she have swept away
the veil of mystery which surrounded her betrothed, but she would take
no step to do so--no confidence was precious save that which was given
unasked.
The twilight gathered softly. Presently Betty turned round, and placed
her two clasped hands on his arm, her noble head proudly raised, her
large eyes seeking his.
"Look you," she said, "there is something I would wish to say to you.
You and I are to be man and wife--and I have accepted you--I know
nothing of you, John--I know not whence you come, or from among what
kinsfolk; I have taken all on trust. I love you, John, so I fear not.
They say that perfect love casteth out fear. There can be no dark
secret in your life, no deed or deeds that you shame to disclose to me.
I take you with infinite faith. So tell me what you will, dear, or as
much as you will. My heart will give you gratitude for the confidence
you give to me, and, John, my love shall cover your silence."
With a sudden impulse John Johnstone was down on his knees, he pressed
her hands to his lips with a passion akin to worship.
"My life, my love!" he cried--"my whole life shall be devoted to
rewarding your trust in me. Oh, would to God I were more worthy of you!"
Within the house Mistress Mary and Mr. Ives were very comfortable: they
played a game of patience together (in which the former was a great
proficient), they chatted, they waxed confidential, and not till Dame
Martha summoned them to sup, did they perceive the lapse of time. Mr.
Ives called from the window, and the betrothed pair came in, their eyes
shining and dazzled by the bright light.
Matters went on happily thus for many days--it seemed that the course of
true love was to run very smooth--when one evening a little incident
occurred that startled all.
The little party of four were dining together, as they generally did.
Mr. Ives was in a merry mood: he poured out a glass of good red wine,
wine that was not often brought forth from the depth of his cellar; he
bade John Johnstone fill up his glass, and as each gentleman raised it
brimming to his lips, pledged "His sacred Majesty, good King George."
With a sharp rattle John Johnstone's glass crashed untasted on the
table, and the red wine splashed like blood on the white napery.
The parson looked at him, and the colour forsook his cheek.
Mistress Mary glanced tremulously from one to another, and half rose in
consternation.
The colour flushed high in Betty Ives' cheek. "Was this then the
mystery?"
The absent king held all her sympathies.
Mr. Ives moved back his chair from the table, and said somewhat
unsteadily:
"Good sir, I am a man of peace. I love order and a strong government.
Can I hazard my daughter by--"
Now, strangely enough, Mary Jones came to the rescue.
"Sirs," she said, "allow me to make a proposition; it is this, that not
one of us breathe a word elsewhere of what has happened tonight. For
heaven's sake say nothing, keep all dark, and on this understanding,"
she stooped forward and daintily raised her own glass, "I also pledge
his Majesty over the sea."
But Mr. Ives did not recover his spirits that night: presentiments of
evil haunted him, misgivings that he had not done wisely by his darling.
When the small hours of the morning struck he still lay awake, tossing
restlessly to and fro.