Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "BUT LIFE IS NOT ALWAYS HAPPY," SAID GERALD.]
STORIES
BY
AMY LE FEUVRE.
[Illustration]
Heather's Mistress. 3s. 6d.
On the Edge of a Moor, 3s. 6d.
The Carved Cupboard. 2s. 6d.
Jill's Red Bag. 2s.
A Puzzling Pair. 2s.
Dwell Deep; or, Hilda
Thorn's Life Story. 2s.
Legend Led. 2s.
Odd. 2s.
A Little Maid. 2s.
Bulbs and Blossoms. 1s. 6d.
His Little Daughter. 1s. 6d.
A Thoughtless Seven. 1s.
Probable Sons. 1s.
Teddy's Button. 1s.
Bunny's Friends. 1s.
Eric's Good News. 1s.
[Illustration]
_London:_
_The Religious Tract Society._
ODD MADE EVEN
BY
AMY LE FEUVRE
Author of "Heather's Mistress," "Odd,"
"Probable Sons," "Teddy's Button,"
"On the Edge of a Moor," etc.
With Full-page Illustrations
by HAROLD COPPING
_THIRD IMPRESSION_
London
The Religious Tract Society
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard
TO THE ONE
WHO MADE ME WRITE
IT.
_"And your joy no man taketh from you"_
PREFACE
———
I FEEL this sequel needs an apology, and to the many little ones who
have besought me by letter and voice to "make more about Betty," I
offer this apology, for I fear they will be disappointed. The story
will be above their heads.
But to their elders who have found enjoyment in the child's short
history, I venture to send her forth when a little of earth's soil has
dusted her feet.
And perhaps some of the little ones who first read "Odd," may even now
be old enough to follow with interest the older Betty.
AMY LE FEUVRE.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A Child of Moods
II. An Old Friend
III. A Strange Encounter
IV. Rose Songs
V. The Red Manor
VI. Altered Circumstances
VII. Old Women
VIII. New Owners
IX. Through a Dark Cloud
X. Home Duties
XI. In Town Again
XII. A Thunderbolt
XIII. Motherless
XIV. A Meeting
XV. Molly's Invitation
XVI. His Home
XVII. Mr. Russell's Picture
XVIII. Terrible News
XIX. For Little Betty's Sake
XX. Changing Corners
XXI. Odd made Even
XXII. "The Little White Wild Rose"
ODD MADE EVEN
————————
CHAPTER I
A Child of Moods
...Scarcely formed or moulded—
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
BYRON.
"I WISH you would not say such things, Betty!"
"What things?"
"You know. It only vexes mother; and what is the good of it?"
"What is the good of anything? I always say what I feel; I can't help
myself!"
"Well, you ought not to feel like it. You are always so discontented.
Other girls—"
"Oh, shut up, Molly! Don't quote 'other girls.' I hate them all. I hate
everybody at this present moment. I'm sick of them; I'm sick of town;
I'm—yes, I think I'm sick of life altogether!"
Betty had been poking the fire fiercely as she spoke; now she dashed
down the poker and ran out of the room. Molly looked after her with a
little sigh.
"Betty is so—so uneven," she said to herself. "She is always getting
upset over nothing at all. She'll be back in a minute full of remorse
and repentance. It would wear me out to live as she does!"
Her fair head bent over some manuscript paper on the table before her.
A dreamy look took possession of her deep blue eyes.
"Now, where was I when she interrupted me? Poor Elfrida! I must make
her see Roderick once again before he dies; she must have the comfort
of a last farewell!"
But Molly was not to be left in peace to the woes of her heroine. A
maid came into the room.
"Mrs. Stuart would like to see you, miss."
Molly rose at once.
"All right, Margaret. Has the doctor been?"
"He has just gone, miss."
Molly left the room, and made her way upstairs to her mother's bedroom.
Mrs. Stuart lay on a couch by the fire. A square table covered with
papers was drawn up by her side. She was a very beautiful woman still,
though threads of silver ran through her wavy brown hair, and many fine
wrinkles and lines were discernible round her dark expressive eyes. She
looked at her eldest daughter a little keenly.
Molly was always a fair sight to look upon—a sweet, fresh English
maiden, with a sunny golden head and irreproachable features, and soft
red lips that looked as if only smiles could come from them. Molly was
blest with a happy, sunshiny disposition. She took life easily, and her
cares and sorrows at present were bound up in the life of the heroine
of her imagination. She was young enough and gay enough to like to
revel in imaginary misery. She was devoted to her mother, and now bent
down lovingly, and kissed her forehead.
Only Molly dared to be demonstrative with Mrs. Stuart; she was not one
who liked or encouraged tokens of affection from her children.
"Are you better, mother?"
"I suppose so. I must be, after this long period of rest and
convalescence. Just look at my batch of correspondence! I have been
unable to touch it yet, and Dr. Forsyth actually forbade me to write a
line to-day. You must give me an hour, and answer all those that are
important. Where is Betty? I want her too, for I must speak to you
both. Dr. Forsyth wants me to leave town at once."
Molly looked surprised.
"I will fetch Betty," she said; and, leaving her mother's room quietly,
she sped up another flight of stairs, and knocked at her sister's door.
It was locked. Betty herself was standing by her window, looking down
with wistful restless eyes into the dreary rain-sodden London square
below her. Her heart was hot within her. Betty could not take life
so easily as Molly did. It did not satisfy her; it was continually
disappointing her. She looked for such great things; she had such a
capacity for enjoyment; and yet the very gold seemed to turn to dust
when she touched it.
Her life was in the same groove as Molly's, they shared their pleasures
and friends together; yet what seemed natural and pleasant to the one,
worried and irritated the other.
It was as Molly said, "over nothing at all" that Betty vexed her soul.
For three years the young girls had been enjoying London Society
under their mother's wing. Their father had died when they were still
in the schoolroom. They had never seen much of him, as his whole
life was absorbed in politics; and it was only after their education
was finished, and they had been presented at court, that mother and
daughters drew nearer together. Mrs. Stuart saw that it was her duty to
accompany her daughters to entertainments which otherwise would have
been distasteful to her. She was herself more interested in literary
clubs and soirées than in ballrooms; and philanthropic objects appealed
to her more than garden-parties, regattas, and the various amusements
that her daughters were supposed to require.
She conscientiously tried to attempt both lines of living. She took the
girls abroad, accompanied them to Scotland every autumn, and gave them
the orthodox season in town every year. In addition she followed her
own pursuits with untiring and unflagging energy. A member and, in some
instances, secretary of many important and influential committees, a
patroness of hospitals, clubs, and other charitable institutions, Mrs.
Stuart wore herself out with writing, interviewing, and visiting; and
at length nature asserted its sway, and a serious breakdown in health
occurred. For two months she had been unable to leave her bed, and now,
on this rainy day in March, she was for the first time feeling well
enough to discuss future plans with her daughters.
When Betty broke away from her sister, the girls had been discussing
together a conversation held with their mother the night before. An
invitation had arrived for them from an old friend of their mother's—a
woman with a large family of young people. She wished them to join her
house-party in an old château in Brittany, and Mrs. Stuart was willing
that they should go. Molly acquiesced. Neither she nor Betty cared much
for the girls, who were, as they expressed it, "silly, empty-headed
creatures"; but she would not have thought of rebelling so furiously
against the visit as Betty did.
"Why should we go?" she had said. "Why should we pretend to enjoy their
hospitality when all the time we despise them in our hearts? Their talk
makes me ashamed of being a girl, and their brothers imagine every
other girl is like them! Mrs. Railley is always telling me how Reggie
dotes on Molly; how much in love he is with her! Molly scorns him, and
yet smiles at his mother's talk as if she liked it. I hate hypocrisy!
I hate pretence! And a visit to the Railleys always makes me sick of
everybody and everything. No one is real there. It is all artificiality
and affectation!"
Mrs. Stuart had listened to this very quietly; then she said,—
"You can please yourselves. There is no occasion for such vehemence,
Betty. If you feel yourself on such a superior level to the Railleys,
you had better decline the invitation, and wait for another that
satisfies your requirements. But I think it is better taste to conceal
such thoughts about an old friend of mine, who has always been most
kind and considerate towards you. Leave me now, for I do not feel able
to discuss the matter further with you."
Betty had dropped the subject then, but she renewed it the next
morning, when she and Molly were together in their own sitting-room.
"It is this continual talk of marriage that sickens me so, Molly. The
Railleys can think and talk of nothing else. Mrs. Railley thinks it
quite dreadful that neither you nor I are engaged yet. It makes me long
to get away from men altogether. I feel I want to be free, and fill my
mind with other things. The world is so big, so full, it could be so
different to what all these town people make it!"
"I think," said Molly slowly, "you sound conceited. Why should you
judge every one so hardly?"
Betty did not answer for a moment. Molly never could enter into all her
thoughts. She viewed life so differently; she was so placidly content
with all that came in her way that it was impossible to ruffle her.
But Betty tried hard to defend herself from the charge of conceit, and
in the end, as we have seen, she judged retirement the wisest course
to pursue. Now, unlocking her door, she presented two flushed cheeks,
bright eyes, and an untidy head of hair.
"Does mother want me? I'll come at once. Molly dear, I didn't mean to
be cross."
Mrs. Stuart looked at her as she entered the room, much in the same way
as she had looked at Molly, but there was not the same satisfaction in
her eyes.
Betty was not considered a beauty. Many found her interesting, but she
owed her chief charm to her expression, and that varied from moment to
moment in a bewildering and thoroughly inexplicable fashion. She was
tall and graceful, her quick, impulsive movements were never awkward;
her little curly head and dark speaking eyes were nearly always in
motion; but many wondered at the wistful curves of her sensitive lips,
the sadness that seemed to peep out so unexpectedly from under her long
curled eyelashes.
"An untamed soul," her mother would say, shone out of its environment.
Would fashion, love, or religion tame it?
Betty was an interesting study to her mother,—little more.
"Did you want me, mother?" she asked; and Betty was too full of her
own thoughts to enquire how the invalid was. Mrs. Stuart noticed the
omission.
"Yes, I want you. Sit down. Dr. Forsyth wishes me to leave town at
once."
"And go abroad?" asked Molly.
"No; he wants me to have perfect quiet and seclusion; to vegetate, in
fact, if I can manage to do it. And he suggests a country farmhouse out
of the beaten track. I think I must let him have his way, but where to
go I know not. And then I am wondering about you girls: whether to take
you with me, or leave you with your Aunt Dora."
"Aunt Dora is not going to be in town this season," said Molly quickly.
"She is going to Switzerland. I met her out yesterday, and she told me
so."
"Of course," said Mrs. Stuart, "if you go to Mrs. Railley, she would be
delighted to keep you for a couple of months; but Dr. Forsyth wants me
to try six months of quiet."
"Oh, mother, let us go into the country with you!" said Betty eagerly.
"It will be delicious to get away from everybody for a time."
"Of course we must go with you," said Molly more quietly. "We could not
think of letting you go alone."
"I shall put my veto against a farmhouse," said Mrs. Stuart; "I could
find a small furnished house, I suppose—perhaps a vicarage. Farmhouses
are generally uncomfortable except in the height of summer, when one is
able to spend all one's time out of doors."
"Do you remember, Molly," said Betty, turning eagerly to her sister,
"that delightful farm we went to when we were quite small? Did it not
belong to some of nurse's relations?"
"You mean where the Fairfaxes used to live? Of course I remember it;
but mother doesn't wish for a farmhouse."
"Perhaps the Fairfaxes' house may be to let," said Betty. "Mrs. Fairfax
was trying to let it before she went abroad with Grace."
"You might ask Turnbull," said Mrs. Stuart musingly; "she always
corresponds with nurse. I do not mind where we go, so long as we are
comfortable."
Molly left the room to make enquiries of their housekeeper, who had
been with them for many years. Betty got up from her seat and began to
pace the room restlessly. Then she turned and confronted her mother.
"Mother, need I go with Molly to Mrs. Thorn's 'At Home,' this
afternoon?"
"Why should you not? I forget who is going to take you. Mrs. Sinclair,
is she not?"
"Yes; but I shall not be missed. We have been to so many lately. I am
tired of them."
"Is that your only reason?"
A rich colour dyed Betty's cheeks, making her look very handsome.
"Hugh Sinclair is going," she said, with downcast eyes; "and he bothers
so."
There was silence. Mrs. Stuart's eyebrows contracted slightly.
"Some months ago you and Hugh were inseparable. Have you quarrelled?"
"Not exactly."
Betty's tone was hesitating. She always found it difficult to talk
freely to her mother.
"If you cannot confide in me, I cannot help you," said Mrs. Stuart, a
little stiffly.
"I did like Hugh as a—a friend," stammered Betty; "but I don't want him
as a husband, and—and he won't take 'No' from me."
"When did he speak to you definitely?"
"Just when you were first taken ill. He says I don't know my own mind,
and that he will wait till I change it."
"Do you know your own mind?" asked Mrs. Stuart. "Hugh must notice, as
we all do, how many moods you have. Your 'friendship'—as you express
it—with him, has been very marked. I do not wonder at his mistaking
your feelings towards him."
Betty felt her mother's censure keenly. Then she threw up her head with
a little defiance.
"It is very hard that I cannot enjoy being with one of Douglas's old
schoolfellows whom I have known since he was a boy, without people
talking. That is why I shall be thankful to get into the country."
"May I ask why Hugh is objectionable to you? He is a steady young
fellow, with good prospects."
Betty hesitated again.
"He isn't my idea of a man," she said confusedly. "He won't think
deeply on any subject; he laughs at everything, and only goes with the
stream."
"You require a genius to content you," said Mrs. Stuart, with a smile
that was tinged with sarcasm. "Women who go through life with ideals
are seldom satisfied. They are like the dog who snapped at the shadow,
and lost his bone."
"I think I could live without a bone," said Betty hotly.
"We will not discuss it any more. If you are quite certain of your own
mind, stay at home this afternoon, and be more careful in future in
your behaviour toward young men."
Betty slipped out of the room with burning cheeks and tearful eyes.
"I wish I could be coldly pleasant like Molly," she said to herself.
"I talk too fast, and laugh too much, and then I am sorry afterwards.
I shall be thankful to be away from Hugh, and everybody else. I know
mother is displeased with me. I think she would like me married and
done for. I never seem to please her. But I won't—oh, I won't be
married to a man without a soul!"
She went into the library and seated herself at a small organ there. It
had been a birthday gift to her from her great friend Nesta St. Clair,
who was now in India with her husband. If there was one thing of which
Betty was passionately fond, it was music. It soothed and satisfied her
as nothing else did; and as Mrs. Stuart listened to the distant strains
of passionate melody, now flooding the library, she gave a little sigh,
saying,—
"I wish she were settled in a home of her own."