Upon the first quiet opportunity Betty confided the history of her walk
to her mother, who listened with the deepest interest and sympathy.
"It was a great opportunity, dear, and you made the most of it. I am
proud of my daughter," she said. "I will join with you in praying that
the poor fellow may be kept true to his pledge. It's not the first step
which costs in these struggles, whatever the proverb may say; the
hardest part of the fight comes later on, when the first excitement is
over, and progress seems so pitifully slow. So don't let yourself grow
weary in well-doing, dear Betty. Your poor friend will need your
prayers more and more, not less and less."
"Oh no, I shall never grow tired," said Betty confidently. Then her
face clouded, and she sighed. "Mother, do you suppose I shall ever--see
him again?"
"It is very unlikely, dear. He is going so far away, and will have no
money to spare for visits home. It must be a large sum which he has to
repay, if the loss of it necessitated such a change in his friend's
household. With everything in his favour it would take a long time to
earn."
"How long, mother?"
"Dear child, what a question! It is impossible to say. It would be
extraordinary, I should think, if he managed it in less than a dozen
years."
"A dozen years! I should be thirty! I shall be hideous at thirty,"
thought Betty ruefully, recalling the vision of the sweet, flushed face
which had looked at her from the mirror the day before. Could it be
possible that a dozen years--twelve whole years--could pass by without
bringing her any tidings of "Ralph"? In the state of exaltation which
had possessed her last night she had felt raised above the need of
words, but already reaction had set in, and with it a strange sense of
depression at the thought of the future.
It was good to know that there was Cynthia to talk to--Cynthia, who
might not be able to advise and strengthen as wisely as mother did, but
who was a girl, and knew how girls felt--"up and down, and in and out,
and--oh, and so topsy-turvy upside down!" thought poor Betty to herself.
A breathless, "I want to speak to you; I have something dreadfully
interesting to tell!" whispered in a chance encounter in the street,
brought an immediate invitation to tea `in my own room, where we shan't
be bothered'; and under these happy auspices the adventure was once more
related, while Cynthia's grey eyes grew wide with excitement.
"Dear Betty, how glorious for you!" she cried ecstatically. "What a
wonderful thing to remember! You can never be blue again, and say that
you are no use in the world. To have saved a man's life, and started
him on the right road--at eighteen--not eighteen! You are the most
fortunate girl in the whole world! It's so strange that this chance
should have come to you on that particular day, because your brother and
I had been talking about the different work of men and women as we
walked over the Park to the Albert Hall, and he said that if it was
men's province to make the greatest things in the world, it was women's
work to make the men; and that was what you did, Betty dear. You helped
God to make a man!"
Betty raised her brows in a surprise which was not altogether agreeable.
"Miles--_Miles_ said so! How extraordinary! He never talks like that
to me, and he hardly knew you at all. However did you come to discuss
such a subject?"
"I asked him about his work, and envied him for being able to do
something real. He is a nice boy. I like him very much," said Cynthia
placidly.
Imagine being favoured with confidences from Miles, and remaining quite
cool and unconcerned! For a good two moments Betty forgot all about her
own affairs in sheer wonder at such an astonishing state of mind. Then
remembrance came back, and she asked eagerly--
"Cynthia, do you think I shall ever hear anything more about him?
Mother says it will take years and years to save so much money. Do you
think I shall ever know?"
"Yes!" said Cynthia confidently. "Of course you will know. He will
find some way of telling you. You told him your address, so it was the
easiest thing in the world to find out your name. You will get
something from him every year--perhaps on Christmas Day, perhaps in
summer, perhaps on the anniversary of the night. It may be only a
newspaper, it may be a letter, it may be just a flower--like the man in
_The Prisoner of Zenda_ sent to the princess, but it will be
_something_! He mayn't sign his name or give his address, but he will
want you to know--he will feel you ought to know that he is alive and
remembering."
Oh, the beauty of a girl confidante! How truly she understands the art
of comfort!
"And shall I ever see him again?"
"Yes--if you both live. He will want to see you again more than
anything in the world, except paying off his debt. When that is done,
he will rush straight off to you and say, `Here I am. I have worked
hard and kept my promise. To-day I can look the whole world in the
face, for I owe not any man. I have regained my friend and my position,
and it is your doing. _You_ saved me! All these years the thought of
you has been my inspiration. I have lived in the thought of seeing your
face again--'"
"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Betty, gasping. "And I shall be hideous, Cynthia,
hideous! Fancy, I may be thirty! What will he think, when he sees me
so changed?"
"He won't mind a bit--they never do. He will say, `Though worn and
haggard, you are still in my eyes the most beautiful woman in the
world!'" cried Cynthia.
And then, being only eighteen--nearly eighteen--each girl suddenly
descended from her high horse, and went off into peal after peal of
laughter, merry, heart-whole laughter, which floated to Mrs Alliot's
ears as she lay on her couch in the drawing-room, and brought a smile to
her pale face. This new friendship was doing great things for her
lonely girl!
Towards the end of the Christmas holidays the great news circulated that
Mrs Vanburgh was coming home, and bringing her two younger sisters for
a few weeks' shopping in town. Agatha and Christabel had just returned
from two years' sojourn abroad, and were presumably "finished" young
ladies. Cynthia and Betty wondered how much finished, and whether
finished enough to look down with contempt upon unfinished damsels still
undergoing the thraldom of "classes!"
It was a thrilling occasion when they were bidden to tea "to meet my
sisters," and Betty felt she would hardly have had courage to face the
ordeal but for the fact of a new blouse and that fascinating buckle on
her belt. She had a sensation of being all arms and legs--a horrible,
almost forgotten remnant of schoolroom days--as she crossed Mrs
Vanburgh's drawing-room to be introduced to the two strange figures on
the sofa.
One was dark and one was fair; both possessed a wonderful wealth of
beautiful glossy hair, gold in the one case, in the other brown, rolling
back from the brow in upstanding pompadours, which were, however, more
picturesque than stiff, and rolled into coil after coil at the back of
the neck. Done-up hair--that was very "finished" indeed! Both were
distinctly good-looking, and the younger, though the smaller of the two,
possessed a personality which at once seemed to constitute her mistress
of the ceremonies. Both were perfectly at ease, and so full of
conversation that they talked both at the same time, emphasising every
second or third word after a quaint fashion of their own which Betty
found very amusing.
They were fear-fully pleased to see her. They had heard such _reams_
about her from Nan. It was so charming for Nan to have girl friends.
Nan was _devoted_ to girls. It was such _sport_ to be staying with Nan.
They had been simply _dying_ to live in town. My dear, they had not a
_rag_ to wear! Nobody wore decent clothes in Germany. Frumps, my dear,
per-fect frumps! They were on their own allowance. Was Betty on her
own allowance? Lucky girl! It was simply _agonising_ to have to buy
_everything_ you needed on a quarter's allowance. They had lain awake
for _hours_ considering the problem. They were in _despair_! Nan had
given them each a dress for Christmas. Nan was an _angel_! They wanted
Nan to give a dance for them while they were in town.