It was not until he had dined the next day that the thought suddenly
came to him:
"Why should not I solve in the simplest way the problem of meeting
Betsy Linley, by seeking such a meeting myself? Why should not I go to
her at her father's house on the chance of finding her there?"
He wondered how it was that it had not occurred to him long ago to take
such a step. Surely, since his aim was to show her and the rest of the
world how little he was touched by the news of her having promised to
marry Mr. Long, no more effective step than this could be taken by him!
Of course her father would be in the room when he should meet
her--certainly Mr. Long would be there; perhaps Tom would be scraping
away at his violin, and Polly would be squalling--that was the
word which was in his mind when he thought of the likelihood of
Mary Linley's being engaged in practising some of her songs in the
music-room--Polly would be squalling at the top of her voice. But any
one, or all, of these incidents would only tend to make him more at
home--more at ease when meeting Betsy for the first time under the
changed conditions of her life. The Linleys' house in Pierrepont Street
would not seem like the same place to him if Polly's voice were not
ringing through it--if the children were not making a noise on the
stairs--if Mrs. Linley was not bustling about with a kitchen apron on,
or, in the moments of her leisure, with her knitting-needles clicking
over half a yard of worsted hose. Yes, he felt that he would be quite
at his ease under the usual conditions of the Linleys' house; and
that was why he took no pains to dress himself for the visit. With
an instinct of what was dramatically appropriate--he never lost this
instinct--he put on the old coat which he had been accustomed to wear
when he had enjoyed what Mr. Linley called the "freedom of the Guild of
Linley." That would show Betsy and the rest of them--though it didn't
matter about the rest of them--that, whoever had changed, he was still
the same.
He got his first surprise when the door was opened for him by Mrs.
Linley. She had on her working-apron, and her hands were not free from
a suspicion of flour. She beamed on Dick and wiped one of her hands on
her apron to greet him.
"Come within, Dick," she cried. "Come within, man; though there's no
one at home but Betsy and me. These are busy days with us, Dick, and
this is the first quiet hour we have had since Tom returned from Italy.
Of course you have heard the news--all Bath is talking of it, and I
shouldn't wonder if it had gone as far as the Wells! 'Tis great news,
to be sure; but it means a deal of extra house-work, and more pastry.
The children are all gone to Monsieur Badier's assembly. The boys
are taking part in the minuet, and Polly is to sing for the company
between the dances. Mr. Linley and Mr. Long are at Lawyer Stott's.
These settlements are always a trouble, though I will say that Mr. Long
is more than liberal in his views. Poor Betsy! What will the house be
without her, Dick? You will find her in the music-room. She sings every
day now, but not real singing--only for her own pleasure. There she
goes. Oh lud! why am I standing talking like this when I should be
turning my tartlets in the oven? Sniff, Dick, sniff! You have a fine
nose. Do you smell the smell of burning paste, or is it only a bit
over-crisp?"
Dick sniffed.
"I wouldn't be too sure of those tartlets, madam," said he. "But I
don't believe there is more than a brown sniff coming from the oven."
"Oh lud! if you can sniff the brown, you may swear that the paste
is black; you must make allowance for the distance the smell has to
travel. Go upstairs; you'll be able to track her by the sound."
The good woman was already at the farther end of the passage to her
kitchen before Dick had begun to mount the stairs.
The sound of Betsy's singing went through the house. The song was one
of Dr. Arne's, which he had always loved. But had he ever loved the
voice till now?
This was his thought while he stood outside the door of the music-room
waiting for the song to come to an end.
It seemed to him that her singing of that song had the magical power
of bringing before his eyes every day in the past that he had spent
near her. The day when he first saw her she had sung that very song.
It was at one of the entertainments given by his father in Bath, and
he had just left Harrow. Every phrase of that song which now came from
her lips renewed his boyish impressions of the girl, her beauty and
the witchery of her voice. He could see himself standing before her,
silent and shy, when she had come later in the day to have supper at
his father's house. He had been silent and shy, but she had been quite
self-possessed. It was upon that occasion that Mr. Burke referred to
the Linley family as a Nest of Linnets.
Dick remembered how he had wondered why it was that he himself had not
said that about the Linleys: why should it be left to Mr. Burke to say
it when it was exactly what was in his own mind?
He had loved her then. He recollected how he had struggled hard all
the next day to write a poem about her--a song that her father might
perhaps set to music to be sung by Betsy herself.
And then ... and then ... and then....
The ghosts of the sweet past days flitted before him while the sound of
that song enveloped him, and every spectral day shone white and bright
in his memory. For a time he failed to realise that they were merely
shadows flitting across his memory. They seemed to him full of life--a
heart beating in every one of them. Alas! it was only his own heart
that throbbed with those sweet recollections; for when the song faded
away and closed in silence, he felt that he was alone. The beautiful
creature of those old days had passed away from him and had left him
lonely. He had awakened from a dream.
He felt such a sadness come over him that he could not open the door
that separated them. He turned silently away, and was about to go down
the stairs, when suddenly the door opened and the girl took a step into
the lobby. She started, and gave an exclamation of surprise.
"What! is't you, Dick?" she cried. "Why, how was it that I failed to
hear you come? How is it that you are going down the stairs?"
His self-possession had fled at the moment of her appearance. He
faltered out something.
"You were singing, that was how you did not hear me come; and
then--then--well, I thought that--that maybe I should disturb you by
entering. Yes, you were singing."
"Oh, Dick!" she said, and there was a note of reproach in her voice.
She turned and walked back into the room. He followed her.
"I knew you would come, Dick," she cried, giving him both her hands.
"Oh, I knew that you were not one who would stay away! I looked for you
all yesterday, and I waited within the house all this morning. But you
have come now, Dick, and I am glad--you know that I am glad to see you.
Were we not always friends--the very best friends that could be, Dick?"
"Yes, I have come, dear Betsy," he said. "I have come to wish you--to
wish you happiness; indeed, I wish you all happiness--with all my
heart--with all my heart and soul, dear Betsy."
He saw her white figure before him through the mist of the tears
that sprung to his eyes. And at that moment there was really no
desire in his heart but that she should be entirely happy. Every
selfish wish--every sense of disappointment--every sense of wounded
vanity--every sense of self had dissolved in that mist of tears that
came to his eyes, but did not fall.
She was looking into his face, but she did not see that there were
tears in his eyes. Her own tears had sprung, and they did not remain in
her eyes; they were running down her face.
She could not speak. She could only hold his hands, and all the time
she was making a pitiful attempt to smile, only he could not see this.
They stood there silently for a long time. At last he felt her hold
upon his hands slacken. Still, there was a suddenness in her act of
letting them drop finally. With a sound like that of a little sob, she
turned away from him and stood before one of the windows looking out
upon the street.
He did not say a word. What word was there for him to say? He had no
thought of the clever, cynical things he had meant to say to her on
the subject of marriage. He did not at that moment even remember that
it had been his intention to say such words to her, so that he did
not loathe himself until he had gone home and remembered what his
intentions had been the previous day.
He stood silent in the middle of the room. Quite a long space of time
had elapsed before she turned to him, and now he could see the smile
that was upon her face.
"I knew you would come to see me, Dick," she said; "for I know that
there is no one in the world who would be gladder to see me happy than
you, Dick. And you--you will be happy too--you will give me a chance
some day of seeing you happy, will you not? It would make me so happy,
Dick."
He shook his head--that was his first impulse; but immediately
afterwards he said:
"Oh yes; why should not I be happy--one day, Betsy? Oh, don't take any
thought for me, dear; I dare say that I shall be able to--to---- What
is it that makes people happy, Betsy? Is it love--is it loving--is it
being loved?"
"Oh, Dick, there are surely plenty of things in the world besides
love!" said she.
"There are, but none of them is worth working for," said he. "There is
fame; you have that--you have enjoyed it for years----"
"Enjoyed it? Enjoyed---- Ah, Dick, I have promised to marry Mr. Long in
order to escape from it. Now you know why I have given him my promise.
It is because I cannot live the life that is imposed on me--because I
feel that if I were to continue leading this life I must one day throw
myself into the Avon, seeking for rest. I hate the fame which has put
my name into the mouth of every one. Oh, Dick, if you could know how
all these years my heart has been singing that one anthem, 'Oh for the
wings of a dove--the wings of a dove, to fly away and be at rest!' I
have heard the boys in the Abbey sing it, but they did not know what
the words meant. I know what they mean, and my heart has been singing
them all these years. My soul has been so filled with that longing
that there has been no room in it for any other thought--any other
aspiration. You can understand me, Dick--I know that you can understand
me. My father cannot. He loses patience with me; and Tom, from whom I
hoped so much, he is worse than my father. He has no thought in life
apart from his violin, and he is happy only when people are applauding
him."
"And Mr. Long--does he understand you?" asked Dick.
"Oh yes--yes; I feel that he does," said the girl. "Mr. Long is so
good--so kind--so considerate."
"Oh yes; and you are still ready to do him the injustice of marrying
him?" said Dick.
Her face flushed. She looked at him without speaking a word for some
moments, then she turned away from him and faced the window, out of
which she had been looking pensively.
He caught one of her hands from behind.
"Forgive me, dear Betsy, forgive me!" he cried passionately. "Oh, my
Betsy, I did not come here to add to the burden which you have to bear;
I did not mean to reproach you; only--you know--you know what is in
my heart, dear--what has been in my heart all these years! I did not
speak. What would have been the good of telling you? You knew it; you
knew all that was in my heart!"
"I knew--I knew," she said, and every word sounded like a sob.
He was still holding her hand, but she had not turned to him. He was
behind her.
"And I knew that you knew, and that gave me hope," he said. "I had
hopes that one day--some day---- Oh, why did my father treat me as he
did? Why did he take me from school and bring me here to spend my life
in idleness? He would not consent to my learning anything that would be
of use to me, that would have enabled me to earn bread for myself. Why
could not he have given me at least a chance of doing something--the
chances that other boys are given?"
He had flung her hand away from him and had gone passionately to the
farther end of the room, his hands clenched.
"What was the good of my hoping--dreaming--longing?" he continued,
speaking across the room. "It seemed that every one was to have a
chance except myself. But still, that did not prevent my loving you,
Betsy--loving you as none of the more fortunate ones could love you. It
was the one solace left to me, and you knew it; you knew that I loved
you always; you knew----"
"Oh, Dick, Dick, do not be cruel!" she cried. "Let me implore of you.
Oh, Dick, let us be to each other to-day as we used to be long ago when
we were children together. You remember how frank we used to be to each
other, telling each other everything? How could we be otherwise? We had
not learned any language but that of frankness. Dear Dick, I know what
was in your heart. You hoped, and I, too, hoped and hoped, until my
life became unendurable.... Ah, can you blame me because when my chance
of freedom came I accepted it? I promised to marry Mr. Long; but listen
to me, Dick: I give you my word that if you tell me that I was wrong I
will go to him and take back my promise."
He turned to her, and his hands instinctively clasped themselves.
"Oh, Betsy--my Betsy!" he cried; and then he was silent.
There was a long pause before she said, in a low but firm voice:
"Tell me what I am to do, Dick, and I will do it. I have given you my
word."
"Oh, my beloved!" he said. His hands were clasped. He was gazing at her
standing there before him in all the pathos of her beauty. He knew
that if he were to speak the word to her she would keep her promise to
him, and the word was trembling on his lips. The temptation to speak
it--to bring her back to him--almost overcame him. He looked at her--he
faltered--then, with a cry, he put up his hands to his face, shutting
her out from his sight, and flung himself into a chair with his head
bent and his hands still upon his face.
"God help me! God help me!" he cried through his tears.
"And me too, Dick; God help me!" she said. "Oh, I knew that I could
trust you, my Dick! I knew that you were noble--that you were equal to
that act of self-sacrifice: a greater act of self-sacrifice than mine.
You will not say the word; I knew that you would not say it."
She was kneeling beside his chair, and she had put an arm across his
shoulders--it was almost round his neck.
Still he sat there with his face down upon his hands.
"Dear Dick, the noblest life is that which is made up of
self-sacrifice," said she. "Yours is the strong and the noble life. But
mine---- Oh, I feel that if I were strong I would be able to submit to
my fate without murmuring. I would not seek to free myself from the
life which I have led--the life which I abhor. But I am weak--I know
it--I own it, and I feel that I cannot endure it any longer. The last
time that I sang in public must be my last time to sing. I made up my
mind that anything--death--would be preferable to such an ordeal. Oh,
Dick, can you blame me greatly if, when Mr. Long came to me, I welcomed
him as a slave welcomes the one who sets him free? I felt that he had
come to stand between me and death."
He put up his hand and took the hand which was resting on his shoulder,
her arm crossing his neck. He held it in all tenderness for some time,
his eyes looking into hers. Their faces were close together, but he
did not kiss her face. Their breath came with the sound of a sigh.
"Dear child," he said at last, "dear child--dear Betsy, I was selfish
even to say so much as I did to you--to say so much as even suggested a
reproach. But, thank God, I am strong enough to resist the temptation
which you put before me. I dare not ask you to change anything that
has happened. It has been decreed by Heaven that we are to walk in
different ways, and I hope with all my heart that you will have
happiness. I asked you just now whence happiness sprang to any one.
Dear Betsy, that question has been answered since I heard you speak.
Happiness comes by self-sacrifice. Happiness comes to those who seek
not their own good, but the good of others. That is why I can hope that
you will be happy, my dear one."
"Indeed, that is what is in my heart, Dick," she said. "I feel that
I can now do something for the ones I love--for my sisters--for my
brothers. Mr. Long is kind and generous. He will, I am assured, help us
all. Poor father is obliged to work so hard, and mother is a drudge. I
think that little Maria has a nature like mine, and I shall be able to
save her from all that I have gone through. And then, and then--well,
there is something else to take into account. You can guess what it is,
Dick?"
"Yes, I think I know what is on your mind, Betsy," he said. "You have
been pestered by suitors, and now you hope that you will have at least
a respite."
"A respite!" she cried. "Oh, Dick, I shall be safe for evermore. You
do not know what I have suffered. It would seem as if every man who
ever heard me sing considered that he had a right to send letters to
me--letters full of compliments--and every compliment was an insult to
me."
"Why did you not tell me?" he cried, starting up with clenched hands.
"Why did you not give me a hint of this? You know that I would have
made every rascal among them answer to me with his life for every
insult offered to you."
"I know that--that was why I kept everything a secret from you," she
said. "The thought that you would be in danger on my account---- Ah, I
know that blood has been shed already, and even now I do not feel safe.
Captain Mathews--he was the most persistent of my persecutors, and even
yet ... he uttered the most terrible threats against me only yesterday.
I do not feel secure."
"I will kill him--I swear to you that you have only to hold up your
finger, and I will kill him."
"I know it, dear Dick--I know it. But do you think that I would consent
to your running into danger for me? Oh, I would submit to anything
sooner than that you should be put in jeopardy of your life. But I have
told you all this that you may the more readily understand why I should
be filled with longing to go away and hide myself in some place where
there is calm and quiet--some place that has always been in my dreams.
It must have come to me with the hearing of the anthem, 'The Lord is
my Shepherd.' Oh, the vision of the green pastures beside the still
waters! Now you know all that there is to be known, and you will not
judge me too harshly, Dick?"