_Wherein it is suspect that our Betty has the Healing Touch_
Betty had early perceived, with wise foreseeing eyes, that life’s
scheme is not work nor leisure nor sleep. The human day is compact of
all that makes for happy sanity--work and rest and the decent pleasures
that are called recreation--each as important as the other, each a part
of the triple crown that tops the human day’s achievement. Every mortal
has the birthright to this splendid heritage; and where there is lack
in the three, there has been filching. There be foul rogues who ever
shirk the toil, and such must of necessity steal another’s leisure to
overfill his own measure.
Work Betty never shirked.
The work done, she would go for the bracing walk along the banks of
the Seine before the dusk fell in tender greys upon the quays of the
city. Or the Foolish Virgins, one or several, would call up into the
twilight, whooping her down from her high lodgment, and take her for a
ramble along the quays or into the elaborately planned wildness of the
city’s woods, or straight across the river into the boulevards with
their glitter and colour and the shops of fashion; or away up to the
heights of Montmartre they would step it, climbing the steep streets to
look down upon the city, and home again, loitering before print-shops
and places where they sell artistic things. And the “boys” would
always halt before the _modes_, that Betty might have a good hint of
the fashion--they were proud of her beauty, proud of her comradeship.
Babette, too, would come, and, as they went, talk her genial frank
talk, full of shrewd observation and worldly wisdom. Bartholomew Doome,
too, more than once, had been of the party--another Doome, without
a hint of sin upon his lips, a strange Doome who was without pose,
devoid of Byronic gloom, lacking as to insincerities, a Doome who spoke
tenderly of children and showed intimate and wondrous knowledge of
their ways--altogether an astounding strange Doome.
Noll, only, was now too often absent. He had other things to do--had
“something on”--urgent nothings amongst the nobodies.
It is the busy people that find time to do everything--but to be
wholly idle. The idle it is that have no leisure to be anything but
idle.
Indeed, Betty was busy enough in these days. It came as an instinct
that she should be the healer. As a wounded child, with confident
appeal, looks to the grown-up to banish pain, so such as were in
distress plucked at Betty’s sleeve asking comfort. When a student lay
dying, he would always send for Betty--when one raved in restless
delirium of fever it was Betty that sat writing by the bed and brought
gentleness into the harsh atmosphere--it was to Betty’s discreet
ears that was unfolded the long-hidden tangle of the secret man, the
struggle of the troubled soul flinching from the cowardice of its own
shabby reservations--Betty’s hands that quieted the restless brain,
and her calm command that brought back honour. Her dear ears were
shut to all strange peevishness or conceit that the unmasked egoist
unconsciously uttered. Her presence cleansed the talk, her sweet humour
raised the clean laugh, her intelligence roused the sense of dignity,
and the gaiety of her fresh young vigorous womanhood made of the
sickroom a pleasaunce, and of the world outside a garden of fragrant
blossom.
And Babette, who was fellow conspirator in her offices, and hung upon
her ordering, though she had a gossip tongue, knew no English.