A Meeting
It gives me wonder, great as my content,
To see you here before me.
_Othello._
IT was a very quiet life at Holly Grange. Nesta naturally, in these
first days of her widowhood, saw very few people, and did not go out.
Mrs. Fairfax kept much to her own rooms, and Molly and Betty were
content to wander round the garden and grounds talking over, and making
many plans for, their future.
Poor Molly was most to be pitied. All her resources were gone. She
would not touch a pen and paper.
"I haven't the heart, Betty," she said piteously. "I can't forgive
myself for being so engrossed in it, when mother was dying. It was all
rubbish. I wasted hours over it, and I will never attempt to take it up
again."
Much as she missed her writing, she missed her occupation of attending
on her mother more. Nesta, seeing how languidly she moved about, how
uninterested she was in work or books, suggested to her that she should
take up some of her mother's work, and carry it on. But Molly shook her
head.
"I am not fit for it. I have no head. I can carry out people's wishes
and write at their dictation, but I never could be responsible for
anything more."
"I am interested in these girls," Mrs. Fairfax said to Nesta one day.
"Molly, I fear, will develop into an aimless, hopeless woman unless she
marries. She wants to be roused, and to be made to work. It would be
better for her if she had to earn her own living, while Betty is just
the other way. She has a thousand unpractical schemes in her little
head. She has too much enthusiasm. No amount of trouble will crush it."
"We don't want it crushed," said Nests quickly. "We only want to divert
it into right channels."
One afternoon Mr. Russell called. Nesta immediately began to consult
him about a new organ she wished to have placed in the little village
church close to them.
"There is only a harmonium at present. I have promised the vicar to
give it—"
Her voice faltered, and Betty finished her sentence.
"It is to be in memory of Colonel St. Clair," she said softly.
Mr. Russell gave all the advice he could about it, and then they walked
down to the little church. They met the vicar on the way, and while he
was talking to Nesta, Betty dropped behind with Mr. Russell. It was the
first time she had seen him alone.
"Well, Betty," he said kindly, "you have had a sad winter, poor child;
but I don't think you will have regretted giving in to your dear
mother's decision to stay at home."
"No," said Betty earnestly. "I can only be thankful I was not allowed
to have my own way, Mr. Russell."
"And what are your plans now?"
"Molly and I make a great many. If were quite by myself it would be
very easy; there is so much I want to do, but Molly says she does not
want to be separated from me, and it makes it difficult."
"How?"
"I want to spend my money in making people happy, Mr. Russell. I feel
now I am a steward with something given to me to use rightly. I don't
want to waste or hoard it, and it is a care. I lie awake at night and
think about it."
"You want to spend it on the unhappy people in the world?"
"Yes; you understand me, don't you? But it is a puzzle. I think of so
many different ways I could use it."
She gave a little laugh as she continued,—
"I think of something different every day. I believe I really should
like to build a home of some sort, where I could live myself, and take
in cripple children or orphans or workhouse people, or old soldiers
and old servants, and anybody who has tried to earn their living and
failed, like schoolmistresses and artists, and poor old maids who have
lost their money."
"Go on," said Mr. Russell, smiling; "your list is not nearly long
enough. You would be like the old woman who lived in a shoe. I have
a vision of your happy mixture. Gentle, timid spinsters and 'old
soldiers,' tramps and lazy ruffians from the workhouse, with orphan
babies, and you in their midst, controlling and managing them all. Your
heart is big enough, my child, but I don't think that your home would
be, and certainly not your purse!"
"You're laughing at me, of course. I only tell you my thoughts. Then
there is another way; I can divide up my income and send subscriptions
to every home that has been started, or I can send it to some
missionary society, or, better still, I could go myself and take my
money with me."
"Go where?"
"To India, or New Zealand," said Betty vaguely. "Anywhere, as long as I
could do some good to some one."
"Is that your aim in life?"
Betty was silent for a minute. She seemed to be considering, and then
she looked up.
"Well, no, Mr. Russell. I don't believe it is. My aim is to serve God,
to do His will."
"That is right. Many people put work for God before His 'will.' I
think you were carrying out God's will this winter, when you gave up
your time and attention to your mother, and practised 'patience, and
long-suffering, with joyfulness.' Don't go ahead; just take your steps
slowly. His will can be done every day in the very circumstances in
which you are placed. His work will be shown you, if you are doing His
will."
There was no opportunity for further talk, for they had joined the
others; but, in spite of her keen interest about the proposed organ,
Betty was strangely silent and absorbed.
"I am so glad you will be here, Betty," said Nesta to her on the way
home. "Mr. Adams has been telling me his difficulty about an organist.
He says he has not one parishioner who is sufficiently musical to learn
it. I wonder if you will like to help him, and take the services."
"Oh, Mrs. St. Clair, I shall be proud, delighted!" exclaimed Betty.
"But how can you ask me? Surely you will love to do it yourself?"
Nesta shook her head.
"Not yet, Betty, and not 'this' organ. I am not brave enough; not sure
enough of my self-control. I hope by-and-bye I may conquer my weakness.
I shall steal into church when no one is there, and get real comfort
and refreshment from it, but I could not play in public—not for a long
while to come, I am afraid."
Betty was silent. Nesta touched so little on her own sorrow that it was
difficult to allude to it, but Nesta now quietly drew her arm into hers.
"You remember, Betty, how an organ must be for ever associated in my
mind with him. You and that brought us together. And he was always so
fond of it. It was a dream of ours to come back from India to this dear
old house; and he always said that the first thing he would do, would
be to put an organ in our little church here, so that he could come and
hear me play."
"Oh," said Betty, with trembling lips, "why does God make life so sad?
It must be right, but the older I get the more trouble there seems to
be."
"But it is only for such a little time," said Nesta, raising her pale
face to the spring sky above. "There is no harshness in a Father
wishing to have His children with Him. It is a trouble that has more
sweetness than bitterness in it, Betty. Do you remember those lines—
"'Love craves the presence and the sight of all its well-beloved,
And therefore weep we in the homes whence they are far removed;
Love craves the presence and the sight of each beloved one,
And therefore Jesus spake the word which caught them to His throne.'"
"Yes," said Betty slowly, "that comforts one."
"And now," said Nesta brightly, "I want to talk about another matter.
You know that Major Stuart has been choosing a pony for Jossy, and
another one that I can either ride or drive. He writes to me this
morning to say that they are coming down in charge of his groom. He
says the mare has been ridden by a lady who is going abroad, and is
perfectly safe and quiet, with no vice. I know you like riding. Will
you use her while you are here, and take your little godson out with
you?"
Betty's face flushed and sparkled with pleasure.
"Oh, how delightful! I shall love to. As you know, when mother was
taken ill we gave up our riding. It was expensive, too, in town, as we
always had to hire. I have longed sometimes to be on horseback, and was
only saying the other day to Molly that we might attempt it again. Will
you really trust me with Jossy? Does he like riding?"
Nesta caught her breath.
"Ah, doesn't he? He rode with his father every morning from the time
he was four years old, and then after the—the accident I felt I could
never let him ride again. I thanked God with all my heart that Jossy
wasn't with him that morning. But I talked to your uncle about it, and
I have come to the conclusion that it would be wrong to give way to
unreasonable fears. So Jossy must have his pony, and in time perhaps
I may be able to accompany him. Till then, I shall be so glad if you
will. Molly does not seem to care for it at present."
"Molly cares for nothing. Am I heartless, Mrs. St. Clair, because so
soon after—our trouble—I am beginning to care for everything so very
much again? It is the spring, I think, and the country; and now this
organ and the riding—why, it is all delicious!"
Betty looked radiant as she spoke. Nesta found her bright voice and
face the sunshine of the house, yet she sometimes puzzled over Betty
still, and she would say to herself,—
"There has been something in her life that she has not told me. Her
bright winsomeness is not that of an untaught, undisciplined child; it
is that which has been acquired and held fast to through real trouble.
It is a steady fount of joy, not a fitful ebb and flow."
A few days after, Betty and Jossy took their first ride together. The
groom accompanied them the first day, but they soon dispensed with his
services, and it was difficult to say who enjoyed it most, godson or
godmother.
As they cantered through the lanes, now bursting with their young fresh
green, Betty's mirth and chatter were fascinating to the small boy.
"You know how to pretend so beautifully," Jossy said one day. "Some
people won't pretend; they won't make themselves into different people.
Now, Aunt Betty," (he had substituted "aunt" for "godmother"), "you
must be a great lady, and your husband is fighting far-away. I'm his
page, and he has sent me to bring you to him."
"All right," responded Betty gaily. "And now, Alphonso, how is my lord?
My heart is awearying for him. Am I indeed to be taken to his presence,
in the midst of armed men encamped around him?"
"Yes, my mistress," piped Jossy, in all solemnity. "We are now going
through the enemy's ground, but I have my pistols, and I'll shoot the
first man dead who stops us! Let me ride first. If we meet a woman, I
will ask if we're on the right road, but if we meet a man, he must be
either friend or foe, and that must be settled at once."
It was characteristic of Jossy that he could throw himself into any one
of his fictitious personalities without the slightest difficulty, but
it took a long time to bring him back to real life again. Betty and he
would ride along personating many characters, for Jossy's imagination
was wide and keenly vivid, and Betty entered into his spirit with a
zest that enchanted him. Sometimes he was Robin Hood and she Maid
Marian, sometimes they were Beauty and the Beast, sometimes he was a
bandit chief and she his captive. He drank in stories, "like water"
Betty would declare, and she delighted in telling him as many as he
could listen to.
Now, as they rode along, his quick eyes were roving to and fro.
"It is a dangerous road, mistress," he said presently. "I spy a
horseman in the distance. Is he friend or foe?"
Betty's heart gave a sudden leap, then almost stopped beating. She
recognised the distant figure, and it was the one she had feared she
must meet sooner or later, but now felt it would be more than she
could bear. He was almost upon them before she had the presence of
mind to speak, and Jossy was bristling all over with excitement and
aggressiveness.
"He shall not pass us. He means foul play!"
"Hush, hush, Jossy! He is a gentleman that I know," Betty said hastily.
The boy was carried away entirely by his game.
"He's a friend, then!" he shouted.
Then, as Gerald Arundel came up, he added excitedly, with a wave of his
hand from Betty to Gerald, "Behold your dear husband! And you, sir,
this is your faithful wife who has come to meet you!"
Gerald's eyes met Betty's in undisguised astonishment at this
introduction. Her face had whitened in her consternation and dismay,
and terror peeped out of her eyes. Then she pulled herself together,
and turned upon Jossy, who, with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, was
the only one who thoroughly enjoyed the situation.
"Now," he exclaimed, reining in his pony and barring Gerald's path,
"dismount, my lord, and kiss your lady's hand!"
"Jossy!" Betty gasped. "Mr. Arundel does not understand; do be quiet!"
Then her sense of humour came to her aid, and she laughed at the
absurdity of it. To her inexpressible relief; Gerald joined her.
"Oh, what will you think of us, Mr. Arundel?" said Betty, turning to
him, with smiles and blushes. "Jossy and I have been playing a game,
and he forgets that every one isn't in it."
"But I should like to be in it," said Gerald hastily; then he checked
himself, as Betty's mare swerved and shied: her mistress's quivering
little hands were tugging at her unmercifully.
"May I be introduced to your young squire?" he asked, in a different
tone.
"This is Jossy St. Clair. I am staying with his mother." Betty was
steadying her voice and her heart. "Wake up, Jossy, and speak to this
gentleman properly."
The boy pulled off his cap.
"It is a pity," he said, with a heavy sigh. "We were getting on so
splendidly. You ought to have carried it on properly."
This was added with such a reproachful look at Gerald, that he laughed
outright. "Perhaps another day I shall be prepared; and then you will
find me all that you can wish."
Betty was moving on.
"I heard from Mr. Russell that you were in these parts again," said
Gerald, turning to her gravely. "Are you going to make a long stay?"
"I do not know."
Betty's voice faltered a little, then she braced herself and looked up
at Gerald with her old straightforward glance.
"I love the country, as you know; so I hope to be here some time."
He was silent, then said quietly,—
"May I offer my sympathy for your loss?"
"Thank you. It makes this time so sad, when I remember last year."
She passed him. He raised his hat and moved on, then drew up his horse
and looked at her retreating figure. Jossy turned round and waved his
hat with a shout.
"Next time I shall shoot you. If you won't be a friend, you are a foe!"
Gerald smiled, and there was no bitterness in his smile.
"A friend I shall always be, if nothing more. And the meeting I have so
dreaded has come and gone. It was short enough, but I could not trust
myself, and she did not wish to prolong it. I wonder if she knows she
is passing by my fields, and if she does, will she care?"
His horse fidgeted. He turned his back on Betty resolutely.
"I will not think of her," was his mental resolve; "but oh, how sweet
she has grown! It is a cross between joy and torture to set my eyes on
her again."
He rode to the town for which he was bound, did his business
satisfactorily, and then retraced his steps homewards. Arrived there,
he sank into his chair by the fire. Floy crept up, laid his head on his
master's knee, and looked the affection and sympathy that he could not
utter. Gerald laid his hand on his silky head:
"Still 'too high for me,' Floy. But I am to have the privilege of
watching her from afar."