The reading of that letter from Horace to the rector was a crisis in
Bettina's life. Its effect upon her was singular. When she eagerly
took in those pages filled with such anguish as possesses the heart
but once or twice in a lifetime, the consciousness that it was she,
Bettina, who had created such a love in the heart of the man that
Horace Spotswood was to her now, so exhilarated her that she was
capable of but one feeling--exultation. To have had this love, though
now she had it not, seemed to glorify her life. To have caused him
such sorrow--how greatly he had cared! In spite of all there was
rapture in it!
That mood was followed by one of intense regret--an excoriating
self-accusation that made her spirit writhe before her own bar of
justice. Then, by degrees, when there came a moment of comparative
calm, she forced herself to recognize the fact that it was the
Bettina of the past who had been so loved, and that the man who had
so loved her was that youthful and impulsive Horace. Was not the
present Bettina, the slightingly treated widow of his cousin, a very
different being--as different as was the present Lord Hurdly from
that old and outgrown other self? Surely the change in both was
great--a change which she construed as absolutely to her own
disadvantage as it was to his advantage.
Yet, in spite of this, that letter brought a strange strength to
her heart. Since it was now so plain that he had so truly, so
worshippingly loved her, she felt a summons to her soul to be her
highest possible, to overcome the slothful and the evil in her, and
live as it became the woman who had been so loved by such a man.
Above all, she longed to make her life avail for the good of others,
that she might make it a thank-offering for what she had received in
the knowledge that had come to her through that letter.
For, after its perusal, she knew that never again could she entertain
the doubts which had so often filled her mind at the thought of the
complete silence in which Horace had accepted her rejection of him.
Sometimes she had fancied that it might have been a relief to him--a
way out of a difficult situation; but now forever in her heart she
could carry the proud consciousness that she had been as passionately
loved as she had been desperately regretted.
It was a strange source, perhaps, from which to draw strength, but it
availed her now. With a sudden renewal of the energy of her youth she
began to look about her for work which she might do. Fortunately the
rector was ready with practical, immediate employment for heart and
hand, and pocket, too, alas! for now the fact was forced upon her
consciousness that she was poor. It would be as one of themselves,
only somewhat different in degree, that she must help these suffering
ones, and, in spite of being hampered by this limitation, there was a
certain sweetness in it. Her work among the poor had begun at Kingdon
Hall, and there she had been often baffled by the sense of the
difference between herself and those whom she wished to help. She
knew that this consciousness was in their hearts as well as in hers,
and that it made an impalpable but positive barrier. But now and here
all was different. She longed for the money that would have enabled
her to do so much more, and yet she felt it, somehow, sweet to be as
they. Her consciousness of her own past wrong-doing had so penetrated
her soul with humility that she was like a totally different being.
She had said nothing to the rector of her determination not to touch
the money that her late husband had left her, but she strictly
adhered to this resolve. It was impossible. She simply felt she could
not. She found no difficulty in forgiving him for all that he had
done. She was too tender-hearted to bear malice toward the dead,
but she could not touch his money. Since she had once thought about
it--receiving food and clothes and comforts from his hands--she had
realized that it was an impossibility. She knew that the money was
deposited in bank for her, but there it might remain. She had told
Horace that she would not touch it, and he should see that she would
keep her word.
Then came a thought that made her smile. He had wished to force upon
her the acceptance of a larger sum, because it was not proper that
Lord Hurdly's widow should live otherwise than in pomp and
circumstance. If he could see her now! This it was that made her
smile.
She had shut up all the house except the rooms on the first floor, in
which she and Nora lived alone. She kept no other servant, and this
economy it was that enabled her to give to others. She had almost no
personal wants, and the income which had sufficed for her mother and
herself was more than enough for her alone. A little sting of injured
pride there had been at first, when her poverty became apparent to
the neighbors, who naturally expected her to enlarge rather than
curtail her expenses; but she soon got the better of this. The issues
of her life were in a wider field than mere neighborhood comment,
and, besides this, her friends and associates were now chosen chiefly
from the class who were too ignorant for such comment and
speculation.
For Bettina had thrown herself with a passionate fervor into the work
which her hands had found to do. The one assuagement for the pain in
her own heart seemed to be the alleviation of the pain in other
hearts. She felt, also, a sense of thankfulness for the knowledge
which had come to her through the rector, which made the whole work
and service of her life seem all too little for her to give in return
for this boon. As for Horace, her feeling for him was akin to
worship. It was he who represented to her henceforth the ideal which,
like a fixed star, should give light to her path, though so
immeasurably far above her.
What a strange life was this into which she had now entered! She felt
the certainty that her courage would be sufficient for it, but with
all her resolution she could not always keep back the bitter tears of
her wordless, hopeless, uncontrollable longing. At times this was a
thing so mighty that she had the feeling that, if her body were only
as strong as her spirit, she would be able to swim through those
thousands of watery miles that separated them, only to tell him the
truth, and then lay down her life at his feet.