_SKIRMISHING_.
To the great chagrin of his mother, and, indeed, of everybody, Pitt
took his departure a few days before the necessary set termination of
his visit. He must, he declared, have a few days to run down from
London into the country and find out the Gainsborough family; if
Colonel Gainsborough and his daughter had really gone home, he must
know.
'What on earth do you want to know for?' his lather had angrily asked.
'What concern is it to you, in any way? Pitt, I wish you would take all
the time you have and use it to make yourself agreeable to Miss Frere.
Where could you do better?'
'I have no time for that now, sir.'
'Time! What is time? Don't you admire her?'
'Everyone must do that.'
'I have an idea she don't dislike you. It would suit your mother and me
very well. She has not money, but she has everything else. There has
been no girl more admired in Washington these two winters past; no
girl. You would have a prize, I can tell you, that many a one would
like to hinder your getting.'
'I have no time, sir, now; and I must find out my old friends, first of
all.'
'Do you mean, you want to marry _that_ girl?' said Mr. Dallas,
imprudently flaming out.
Pitt was at the moment engaged in mending up a precious old volume,
which by reason of age and use had become dangerously dilapidated. He
was manipulating skilfully, as one accustomed to the business, with awl
and a large needle, surrounded by his glue-pot and bits of leather and
paper. At the question he lifted up his head and looked at his father.
Mr. Dallas did not like the look; it was too keen and had too much
recognition in it; he feared he had unwarily showed his play. But Pitt
answered then quietly, going on with his work again.
'I said nothing of that, sir; I do not know anything about that. My old
friends may be in distress; both or one of them; it is not at all
unlikely, I think. If things had gone well with them, you would have
been almost sure to hear of their whereabouts at least. I made a
promise, at any rate, and I am bound to find them, one side or the
other of the Atlantic.'
'Don Quixote!' muttered his father. 'Colonel Gainsborough, I have no
doubt, has gone home to his people, whom he ought never to have left.'
'In that case I can certainly find them.'
Mr. Dallas seldom made the mistake of spoiling his cause with words; he
let the matter drop, though his mouth was full of things he would have
liked to speak.
So the time came for Pitt's departure, and he went; and the two women
he left behind him hardly dared to look at each other; the one lest she
should betray her sorrow, and the other lest she should seem to see it.
Betty honestly suffered. She had found Pitt's society delightful; it
had all the urbanity without the emptiness of that she was accustomed
to. Whether right or wrong, he was undoubtedly a person in earnest, who
meant his life to be something more than a dream or a play, and who had
higher ends in view than to understand dining, or even to be an
acknowledged critic of light literature, or a leader of fashion. Higher
ends even than to be at the head of the State or a leader of its
armies. There was enough natural nobleness in Betty to understand Pitt,
at least in a degree, and to be mightily attracted by all this. And his
temper was so fine, his manners so pleasant, his tender deference to
his mother so beautiful. Ah, such a man's wife would be well sheltered
from some of the harshest winds that blow in the face of human nature!
Even if he were a little fanatical, it was a fanaticism which Betty
half hoped, half inconsistently feared, would fade away with time. He
had stayed just long enough to kindle a tire in her heart, which now
she could not with a blow or a breath extinguish; not long enough for
the fire to catch any loose tinder lying about on the outskirts of his.
Pitt rode away heart-whole, she was obliged to confess to herself, so
far, at least, as she was concerned; and Betty had nothing to do now
but to feel how that fire bit her, and to stifle the smoke of it. Mrs.
Dallas was a woman and a mother, and she saw what Betty would not have
had her see for any money.
'_I_ think Pitt was taken with her,' she said to her husband, as one
seeks to strengthen a faint belief by putting it into words.
'He is taken with nothing but his own obstinacy!' growled Mr. Dallas.
'His obstinacy never troubled you,' said the mother. 'Pitt was always
like that, but never for anything bad.'
'It's for something foolish, then; and that will do as well.'
'Did you sound him?'
'Yes!'
'And what did he say?'
'Said he must see Esther Gainsborough first, confound him!'
'Esther Gainsborough! But he tried and could not find them.'
'He will try on the other side now. He'll waste his time running all
over England to discover the family place; and then he will know that
there is more looking to be done in America.'
'And he talked of coming over next year! Husband, he must not come. We
must go over there.'
'Next summer. Yes, that is the only thing to do.'
'And we will take Betty Frere along with us.'
Mrs. Dallas said nothing of this scheme at present to the young lady,
though it comforted herself. Perhaps it would have comforted Betty too,
whose hopes rested on the very faint possibility of another summer's
gathering at Seaforth. That was a very doubtful possibility; the hope
built upon it was vaporously unsubstantial. She debated with herself
whether the best thing were not to take the first passable offer that
should present itself, marry and settle down, and so deprive herself of
the power of thinking about Pitt, and him of the fancy that she ever
had thought about him. Poor girl, she had verified the truth of the
word which speaks about going on hot coals; she had burned her feet.
She had never done it before; she had played with a dozen men at
different times, allowed them to come near enough to be looked at;
dallied with them, discussed, and rejected, successively, without her
own heart ever even coming in danger; as to danger to their's, that
indeed had not been taken into consideration, or had not excited any
scruple. Now, now, the fire bit her, and she could not stifle it; and a
grave doubt came over her whether even that expedient of marriage might
be found able to stifle it. She went away from Seaforth a few days
after Pitt's departure, a sadder woman than she had come to it, though,
I fear, scarce a wiser.
On her way to Washington she tarried a few days in New York; and there
it chanced that she had a meeting which, in the young lady's then state
of mind, had a tremendous interest for her.
Society in New York at that day was very little like society there now.
Even granting that the same principles of human nature underlay its
developments, the developments were different. Small companies, even of
fashionable people, could come together for an evening; dancing,
although loved and practised, did not quite exclude conversation;
supper was a far less magnificent affair; and fashion itself was much
more necessarily and universally dependent on the accessories of birth,
breeding, and education, than is the case at present. It was known who
everybody was; parvenus were few; and there was still a flavour left of
old-world traditions and colonial antecedents. So, when Miss Frere was
invited to one of the best houses in the city to spend the evening, she
was not surprised to find only a moderate little company assembled, and
dresses and appointments on an easy and unostentatious footing, which
now is nearly unheard of. There was elegance enough, however, both in
the dresses and persons of many of those present; and Betty was quite
in her element, finding herself as usual surrounded by attentive and
admiring eyes, and able to indulge her love of conversation; for this
young lady liked talking better than dancing. Indeed, there was no
dancing in the early part of the evening; it was rather a musical
company, and Betty's favourite amusement was often interrupted; for the
music was too good, and the people present too well-bred, to allow of
that jumble of sounds musical and unmusical which is so distressing,
and alas! not so rare.
Several bits of fine, old-fashioned music had been given, from Mozart
and Beethoven and Handel; and Betty had got into full swing of
conversation again, when a pause around her gave notice that another
performer was taking her seat at the piano. Betty checked her speech
with a little impulse of vexation, and cast her eyes across the room.
'Who is it now?' she asked.
There was a little murmur of question and answer, for the gentlemen
immediately at hand did not know; then she was told, 'It is a Miss
Gainsborough.'
'Gainsborough!' Betty's eyes grew large, and her face took a sudden
gravity. 'What Gainsborough?'
Nobody knew. 'English, I believe,' somebody said.
All desire to talk died out of Betty's lips; she became as silent as
the most rigid decorum could have demanded, and applied herself to
listen, and of course those around her were becomingly silent also.
What was the astonishment of them all, to hear the notes of a hymn, and
then the hymn itself, sung by a sweet voice with very clear accent, so
that every word was audible! The hymn was not known to Miss Frere; it
was fine and striking; and the melody, also unfamiliar, was exceedingly
simple. Everybody listened, that was manifest; it was more than the
silence of politeness which reigned in the rooms until the last note
was ended. And Betty listened more eagerly than anybody, and a strange
thrill ran through her. The voice which sang the hymn was not finer,
not so fine as many a one she had heard; it was thoroughly sweet and
had a very full and rich tone; its power was only moderate. The
peculiarity lay in the manner with which the meaning was breathed into
the notes. Betty could not get rid of the fancy that it was a spirit
singing, and not a woman. Simpler musical utterance she had never
heard, nor any, in her life, that so went to the heart. She listened,
and wondered as she listened what it was that so moved her. The voice
was tender, pleading, joyous, triumphant. How anybody should dare sing
such words in a mixed company, Betty could not conceive; yet she envied
the singer; and heard with a strange twinge at her heart the words of
the chorus, which was given with the most penetrating ring of truth--
'Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Glory be to God on high,
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Sing His praises through the sky;
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Glory to the Father give:
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Sing His praises, all that live!'
The hymn went on to offer Christ's salvation to all who would have it;
and closed with a variation of the chorus, taken from the song of the
redeemed in heaven,--'Worthy is the Lamb that was slain.'
As sweet and free as the jubilant shout of a bird the notes rang; with
a _lift_ in them, however, which the unthinking creature neither knows
nor can express. Betty's eye roved once or twice round the room during
the singing to see how the song was taken by the rest of the company.
All listened, but she could perceive that some were bored and some
others shocked. Others looked curiously grave.
The music ceased and the singer rose. Nobody proposed that she should
sing again.
'What do you think of the good taste of that?' one of Betty's cavaliers
asked her softly.
'Oh, don't talk about good taste! Who is she?'
'I--really, I don't know--I believe somebody said she was a teacher
somewhere. She has tried her hand on us, hasn't she?'
'A teacher!' Betty repeated the word, but gave no attention to the
question. She was looking across the room at the musician, who was
standing by the piano talking with a gentleman. The apartment was not
so large but that she could see plainly, while it was large enough to
save her from the charge of ill-bred staring. She saw a moderately tall
figure, as straight as an Indian, with the head exquisitely set on the
shoulders, the head itself covered with an abundance of pale brown
hair, disposed at the back in a manner of careless grace which reminded
Betty of a head of Sappho on an old gem in her possession. The face she
could not see quite so well, for it was partly turned from her; Betty's
attention centred on the figure and carriage. A pang of jealous rivalry
shot through her as she looked. There was not a person in the room that
carried her head so nobly, nor whose pose was so stately and graceful;
yet, stately as it was, it had no air of proud self-consciousness, nor
of pride at all; it was not that; it was simple, maidenly dignity, not
dignity aped. Betty read so much, and rapidly read what else she could
see. She saw that the figure she was admiring was dressed but
indifferently; the black silk had certainly seen its best days, if it
was not exactly shabby; no ornaments whatever were worn with it. The
fashion of garments at that day was, as I have remarked, very trying to
any but a good figure, while it certainly showed such a one to
advantage. Betty knew her own figure could bear comparison with most;
the one she was looking at would bear comparison with any. Miss
Gainsborough was standing in the most absolute quiet, the arms crossed
over one another, with no ornament but their whiteness.
'A good deal of _aplomb_ there?' whispered one of Betty's attendants,
who saw whither her eyes had gone.
'_Aplomb!_' repeated Betty. 'That is not _aplomb!_'
'Isn't it? Why not?'
'It is something else,' said Betty, eyeing still the figure she was
commenting on. 'You don't speak of _balance_ unless--how shall I put
it? Don't you know what I mean?'
'No!' laughed her companion.
'You might save me the trouble of telling you, if you were clever. You
know you do not speak of "balance," except--well, except where either
the footing or the feet are somehow doubtful. You would not think of
"balance" as belonging to a mountain.'
'A mountain!' said the other, looking over at Esther, and still
laughing.
'Yes; I grant you there is not much in common between the two things;
only that element of undisturbableness. Do you know Miss Gainsborough?'
'I have not the honour. I have never met her before.'
'I must know her. Who can introduce me?' And finding her hostess at
this moment near her, Betty went on: 'Dear Mrs. Chatsworth, do take me
over and introduce me to Miss Gainsborough! I am filled with admiration
and curiosity. But first, who is she?'
'I really can tell you little. She is a great favourite of my friend
Miss Fairbairn; that is how I came to know her. She teaches in Mme.
Duval's school. She is English, I believe. Miss Fairbairn says she is
very highly accomplished; and I believe it is true.'
'Well, please introduce me. I am dying to know her.'
The introduction was made; the gentleman who had been talking to Miss
Gainsborough withdrew; the two girls were left face to face.
Yes, what a face! thought Betty, as soon as it was turned upon her; and
with every minute of their being together the feeling grew. Not like
any face she had ever seen in her life, Betty decided; what the
difference was it took longer to determine. Good features, with
refinement in every line of them; a fair, delicate skin, matching the
pale brown hair, Betty had seen as good repeatedly. What she had not
seen was what attracted her. The brow, broad and intellectual, had a
most beautiful repose upon it; and from under it looked forth upon
Betty two glorious grey eyes, pure, grave, thoughtful, penetrating,
sweet. Yet more than all the rest, perhaps, which struck Miss Frere,
was an expression, in mouth and eyes both, which is seen on no faces
but of those who have gone through discipline and have learned the
habit of self-renunciation, endurance, and loving ministry.
The two girls sat down together at Betty's instance.
'Will you forgive me?' she said. 'I am a stranger, but I do want to ask
you a question or two. May I? and will you hear me patiently? I see you
will.'
The other made a courteous, half smiling sign of assent, _not_ as if
she were surprised. Betty noticed that.
'It is very bold, for a stranger,' she went on, making her observations
while she spoke; 'but the thing is earnest with me, and I must seize my
chance, if it _is_ a chance. It has happened,'--she lowered her voice
somewhat and her words came slower,--'it has happened that I have been
studying the subject of religion a good deal lately; it interests me;
and I want to ask you, why did you sing that hymn?'
'That particular hymn?'
'No, no; I mean, why did you sing a hymn at all? It is not the usual
thing, you know.'
'May I ask you a counter question? What should be the motive with which
one sings, or does anything of the sort?'
'Motive? why, to please people, I suppose.'
'And you think my choice was not happy?'
'What does she ask me that for?' thought Betty; 'she knows, just as
well as I do, what people thought of it. What is she up to?' But aloud
she answered,--
'I think it was very happy, as regarded the choice of the hymn; it was
peculiar, but very effective. My question meant, why did you sing a
hymn at all?'
'I will tell you,' said the other. 'I do not know if you will
understand me. I sang that, because I have given myself to Christ, and
my voice must be used only as His servant.'
Quick as thought it flashed upon Betty, the words she had heard Pitt
Dallas quote so lately, quote and descant upon, about giving his body
'a living sacrifice.' 'How you two think alike!' was her instant
reflection; 'and how you would fit if you could come together!--which
you never shall, if I can prevent it.' But her face showed only serious
attention and interest.
'I do _not_ quite understand,' she said. 'Your words are so unusual'--
'I cannot put my meaning in simpler words.'
'Then do you think it wrong to sing common songs?--those everybody
sings?'
'_I_ cannot sing them,' said Esther simply. 'My voice is Christ's
servant.' But the smile with which these (to Betty) severe words were
spoken was entirely charming. There was not severity but gladness upon
every line of the curving lips, along with a trait of tenderness which
touched Betty's heart. In all her life she had never had such a feeling
of inferiority. She had given due reverence to persons older than
herself; it was the fashion in those days; she had acknowledged a
certain social precedence in ladies who were leaders of society and
heads of families; she had never had such a feeling of being set down,
as before this young, pure, stately creature. Mentally, Betty, as it
were, stepped down from the dais and stood with her arms folded over
her breast, in the Eastern attitude of reverence, during the rest of
the interview.
'Then you do not do anything,' said Betty incredulously, 'if you cannot
do it _so?_'
'Not if I know it,' the other said, smiling more broadly and with some
archness.
'But still--may I speak frankly?--that does not tell me all. You
know--you _must_ know--that not everybody would like your choice of
music?'
'I suppose, very few.'
'Would it do any good, in any way, to displease them?'
'That is not the first question. The first question, in any case, is,
How may I best do this thing for God?--for His honour and His kingdom.'
'I do not see what His honour and His kingdom have to do with it.'
'It is for His honour that His servants should obey Him, is it not?'
said Esther, with another smile. 'And is it not for His kingdom, that
His invitations should be given?'
'But _here?_'
'Why not here?'
'It is unusual.'
'I have no business to be anywhere where I cannot do it.'
'That sounds--dreadful!' said Betty honestly.
'Why?'
'Oh, it sounds strict, narrow, like a sort of slavery, as if one could
never be free.'
'Free for what?'
'Whatever one likes! I should be miserable if I felt I could not do
what I liked!'
'Can you do it now?' said Esther.
'Well, not always; but I am free to try,' said Betty frankly.
'Is that your definition of happiness?--to try for that which you
cannot attain.'
'I do attain it,--sometimes.'
'And keep it?'
'Keep it? You cannot keep anything in this world.'
'I do not think anything is happiness, that you cannot keep.'
'But--if you come to that--what _can_ you keep?' said Betty.
Esther bent forward a little, and said, with an intense gleam in her
grey eyes, which seemed to dance and sparkle,
'"Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever."'
'I do not know Him,' Betty breathed out, after staring at her companion.
'I saw that.'
Esther rose, and Betty felt constrained to rise too.
'Oh, are you going?' she cried. 'I have not done talking. How can I
know Him?'
'Do you wish me to tell you?'
'Indeed, yes.'
'If you are in dead earnest, and seek Him, He will reveal Himself to
you. But then, you must be willing to obey every word He says. Good
night.'
She offered her hand. Before Miss Frere, however, could take it, up
came the lady of the house.
'You are not _going_, Miss Gainsborough?'
'My father would be uneasy if I stayed out late.'
'Oh, well, for once! What have you two been talking about? I saw
several gentlemen casting longing looks in this direction, but they did
not venture to interrupt. What were you discussing?'
'Life in general,' said Betty.
'Life!' echoed the older woman, and her brow was instantly clouded.
'What is the use of talking about that? Can either of you say that her
life is not a failure?'
'Miss Gainsborough will say that,' replied Betty. 'As for me, my life
is a problem that I have not solved.'
'What do you mean by a "failure," Mrs. Chatsworth?' the other girl
asked.
'Oh, just a failure! Turning out nothing, coming to nothing; nothing, I
mean, that is satisfying. "_Tout lasse,--tout casse,--tout passe!_" A
true record; but isn't it sorrowful?'
'I do not think it need be true,' said Esther.
'It is not true with you?'
'No, certainly not.'
'Your smile says more than your words. What a smile! My dear, I envy
you. And yet I do not. You have got to wake up from all that. You are
seventeen, eighteen--nineteen, is it?--and you have not found out yet
that the world is hollow and your doll stuffed with sawdust.'
'But the world is not all.'
'Isn't it? What is?'
'The Lord said, "He that believeth on me hath everlasting life."'
'Everlasting life! In the next world! Oh yes, my dear, but I was
speaking of life now.'
'Does not everlasting life begin now?' said Esther, with another of
those rare smiles. They were so rare and so beautiful that Betty had
come to watch for them,--arch, bright, above all happy, and full of a
kind of loving power. 'The Lord said "hath"; He did not say will
"have."'
'Miss Gainsborough, you talk riddles.'
'I am sorry,' said Esther; 'I do not mean to do that. I am speaking the
simplest truth. We were made to be happy in the love of God; and as we
were made for that, nothing less will do.'
'Are you happy? My dear, I need not ask; your face speaks for you. I
believe that pricked me on to ask the question with which we began, in
pure envy. I see you are happy. But confess honestly now, honestly, and
quite between ourselves, confess there is some delightful lover
somewhere, who provokes those smiles, with which no doubt you reward
him?'
Esther's grey eyes opened unmistakeably at her hostess while she was
speaking, and then a light colour rose on her cheek, and then she
laughed.
'I neither have, nor ever expect to have, anything of the kind,' she
said. And then she was no longer to be detained, but took leave, and
went away.
'She is a little too certain about the lover,' remarked Miss Frere.
'That looks as if there were already one, _in petto_.'
'She is poor,' said Mrs. Chatsworth. 'She has not much chance. I
believe she supports herself and her father--he is old or invalid or
something--by teaching; perhaps they have a little something to help
her out. But I fancy she sees very little society. I never meet her
anywhere. The lady in whose house she was educated is a very warm
friend of hers, and she introduced her to me. So I get her to come here
sometimes for a little change.'
Betty went home with a great many thoughts in her mind, which kept her
half the night awake. Jealousy perhaps pricked her the most. Not that
Pitt loved this girl; about that Betty was not sure; but how he would
love her if he could see her! How anybody would, especially a man of
refined nature and truth of character, who requires the same in those
connected with him. What a pure creature this was! and then, she was
not only tender, but strong. The look on her face, the lines of her
lips, told surely of self-control, self-denial, and habitual patience.
People do not look so, who have all they need of this world's goods,
and have always dipped their hands into full money bags. No; Esther had
something to bear, and something to do, both of which called for and
called out that strength and sweetness; and yet she was so
happy!--happy after Pitt's fashion. And this was the girl he had been
looking to find. Betty could deserve well of him by letting him know
where to find her! But then, all would be lost, and Betty's life a
failure indeed. She could not face it. And besides, as things were,
they were quite safe for the other two. The childish friendship had
faded out; would start up again, no doubt, if it had a chance; but
there was no need that it should. Pitt was at least heart-whole, if not
memory-free; and as for Esther, she had just declared a lover to be a
possibility nowhere within the range of her horizon. Esther would not
lose anything by not seeing Pitt any more. But then, _would_ she lose
nothing? The girl teaching to support herself and her father, alone and
poor, what would it be to her life if Pitt suddenly came into it, with
his strong hand and genial temper and plenty of means? What would it be
to Betty's life, if he went out of it? She turned and tossed, she
battled and struggled with thoughts; but the end was, she went on to
Washington without ever paying Esther a visit, or letting her know that
her old friend was looking for her.