For Little Betty's Sake
Love sacrifices all things
To bless the thing it loves.
BULWER LYTTON.
Two days passed without a word from Frank. Then came a letter for
Nesta. She took it to her own room, and read it before she told Betty
she had received it.
"DEAR MRS. ST. CLAIR,—
"I have been waiting to write till I knew what to write. Poor Russell
was buried to-day, and the guide as well. But Arundel is living, though
it is touch and go whether he will last another day. It appears they
lost their way, and the guide went on ahead. He never came back, having
fallen over the edge of a crevasse, and they, roped together, followed
in his steps. When I got here, I must tell you, Arundel was conscious,
and able to give me details. He seemed anxious to do so, though he
spoke with difficulty.
"Russell went first, and suddenly vanished into space. The jerk to the
rope nearly pulled Arundel over, but he steadied himself and tried with
all his might and main to pull Russell up. Russell, as you know, was the
heavier man of the two, and Arundel, inch by inch, was being dragged over.
Russell was clinging to the rope in mid-air; he looked up and grasped the
situation instantly. In a second he had out his clasp-knife, and cut the
rope as he might have cut a piece of string. He dropped, and Arundel—how
he did it, no one can imagine—scrambled down over forty feet after him.
He reached his body, but found him dead; and then he collapsed himself.
He was insensible when he was found, and they thought him dead, so sent
the telegram. He was lying out all night, and has some broken ribs, for
he had more than one nasty fall descending after Russell. Now fever has
set in, and the doctor thinks badly of him. I won't leave him till it's
one thing or the other. Russell's cousin here. No time for more.
"Yours very sincerely,
"FRANK DORMER."
Nesta sat with this letter in her lap fully ten minutes before she
could decide what to do. Her mother coming in advised her.
"You had better let Betty read it. Is this Mr. Arundel much to her? I
cannot think that Mr. Russell is her chief and only cause for grief."
"Yes, I think he is a great deal to her, and that is why it will
torture her afresh to hear he is alive, when the second letter may be
to say that he has gone. It will be such suspense again. Still, I think
she ought to see it."
Betty was called in.
She took the tidings with wonderful composure.
"I am glad Frank is with him," she said quietly; "but oh, Mrs. St.
Clair, dear, dear Mr. Russell! Was it not just like him? I shall never
have such a friend again—never!"
She hardly seemed to take in that Gerald was alive, for later on she
said to Nesta,—
"They will be buried together, and then, Mrs. St. Clair, do you think I
could go and see their graves?"
Nesta felt she dared not instil any feelings of hope in her breast, so
wisely said little, but she noticed Betty's breathless anxiety when the
post came in, and her look of patient disappointment when it brought
nothing from Zermatt.
Then, by the late post one evening, Frank wrote again, and this time
Molly was the recipient of his letter.
She came in delightedly to Betty, as she sat in the drawing-room,
winding wool for Mrs. Fairfax.
"Oh, Betty, he has turned the corner and is doing well, and he has got
a splendid nurse, and Frank is coming home. The doctors say he will get
on all right now."
Betty dropped her wool and fled from the room. Out into the garden she
went; her heart and pulses all throbbing with excitement and joy. She
was ashamed that any one should see her face, but she was not ashamed
to lift it up to the One who had so mercifully dealt with her. And her
prayer of thanksgiving and of praise burst forth from her, in a flood
of happy tears, when she found herself on her favourite grass walk in
the wood.
"I won't even wish to see him again; he is alive—he is going to live—he
will come back to his farm. I don't care what becomes of me, but I
shall be living in the same world with him still. It is enough."
Such were some of her thoughts.
She confided in Nesta later.
"And, Mrs. St. Clair, may I go up to London now to Miss Miller? I want
to work. I want to do something to show I am grateful. And, please—"
here she buried her hot cheeks on Nesta's shoulder—"don't let people
know how very happy I am."
Nesta came to the conclusion that work would be the best thing for
her. So in a very short time Betty was in London trying to live in the
present, and bring sunshine to the hearts of those whose lives were
cast in the shade, not sorrowing too much over the past, and leaving
the future in God's hands.
Miss Miller was a practical, matter-of-fact woman; her never-failing
brightness was good for Betty, who still was apt to have her moods. But
she soon won the hearts of the old blind people, and they loved the
sound of her fresh young voice. Betty sang to them, and read to them,
and amused them for hours; but there were quiet times when she would
talk to them one by one, and her topic was always the same—
The old, old story
Of Jesus and His love.
"Ay, dearie," said an old woman, wiping the tears from her sightless
eyes, "ye do seem to put it so life-like that I can't stand up against
it. Why, bless my soul, as I sits and listens to ye, I fancy in the
hush that comes to ye, that the Lord be just a-comin' in at the door,
and He be standin' by my side a-ready and a-waitin' to see if I be
meanin' to open my hard old heart and let Him in. I've had a power o'
trouble in my life that has kep' me from bein' religious. 'Tis t'other
way with some folks, but it never were with me. But ye seems to know a
little about trouble yourself, and it makes your tones shake a bit, for
all that ye are so blithe. And yer faith in religion is so real that it
do shame me. Now sing us that there favourite hymn of yours, and we'll
be greatly obliged."
So Betty sang,—
"'The King of love my Shepherd is,
His goodness faileth never;
I nothing lack if I am His,
And He is mine, for ever.'"
And the old people smiled, and repeated the lines to themselves, with
a quickened realisation of the Shepherd's care for His flock, and a
longing to be numbered amongst the sheep of His fold.
One morning Betty was writing letters for Miss Miller in that lady's
private sitting-room, when she was told a gentleman wished to see her.
She told the maid to show him up, thinking it would be her uncle. Major
Stuart often came to see her, and would insist upon taking her out. He
did not half approve of this work for her, though he was always coaxed
and persuaded by his niece in the end that it was just the corner that
fitted her.
As the door opened, she said, without turning round, "One minute, Uncle
Harry. I must finish this letter, and then I shall be free."
The dead silence that followed this speech made her drop her pen and
look up.
With a little cry, she sprang up, for it was Gerald Arundel who
confronted her.
Very thin and worn he looked, and his hair that had been so dark was
now plentifully streaked with grey. That had been done in the few
minutes in which he and Mr. Russell had swayed together over the abyss.
Betty's colour ebbed away. She could not find voice to speak. She had
not heard of his return home, and the shock was almost too much for her.
"You must forgive me coming to you," he said apologetically; "but Mrs.
St. Clair gave me your address. She thought—I hoped—you might like to
see me."
"And so I do," said Betty, holding out her hand, and trying to speak
bravely. "Only you came in so unexpectedly. And you look so ill. You
have been given back from the grave to us. I can't greet you like any
ordinary person."
She was biting her lips to keep her tears back.
He looked at her, then said sadly,—
"I want to tell you how it is I come back alone; how it is that I have
failed to keep my promise to you."
"I have heard," said Betty. "God wanted him, and He is the best One to
take care of him."
"He was a noble man," said Gerald. "I shall never to my dying day
forget his face as he looked up at me. I had given myself up for lost.
I knew I could not save him, and his face suddenly seemed illumined
from heaven above. He smiled at me. Just think of his position!
And—would you like to hear his words?"
Betty nodded breathlessly.
"They were, 'For little Betty's sake!' And then he cut the rope!"
Betty covered her face with her hands. Tears came fast. She could not
speak for some minutes. Then she looked up. Gerald Was standing by her
side.
"Sit down," she said. "You look so ill. Do tell me more, not—" here she
shuddered—"not of that dreadful day, but of before it happened. Tell me
all he said and did. At least, will it tire you?"
Her tone of anxious concern was very sweet to Gerald. He complied with
her wishes, and gave her an account of their start.
"I am thankful the responsibility of that ill-fated expedition does not
rest on me. I felt it would be too much for Russell, and did all in
my power to dissuade him from going. But others overruled me. Russell
asked me as we were starting, why I looked so gloomy. I told him I
did not like the idea of it for him, and he said, with his cheerful
laugh, 'My dear fellow, I am as fit as a fiddle. I am going to prove my
new-gained strength before I return home!'"
"Oh, it all seems so dreadful, so unnecessary," said Betty. "Tell me
more about him."
"When the snowstorm came on, and we separated from the others, he put
his hand into his breast-pocket and took out this little packet for you.
"'I am not so young as you, and my heart is not so strong; if I should
succumb to this cold, will you take this home to Betty, and give it to
her from me, with my dear love?'
"And he would not be content till I took it from him, and promised him
to deliver it to you with my own hands."
Gerald placed the packet in Betty's hand. She looked at it with loving
reverence; then listened eagerly to more details from Gerald of his
last conversation with his friend. When he had finished, Betty said
sorrowfully,—"I have lost my best friend."
"And so have I—my only one."
There was a little silence between them. Then she said rather timidly,—
"Are you going back to your farm?"
"Yes. I must tell you that Russell has bequeathed it to me in his will,
as well as a legacy which will take away the sting of poverty, and make
me comfortable for the rest of my days."
Betty smiled rather sadly.
"But you can't enjoy it when he is gone, can you? I feel as if I can
never go back to Tiverstoke. I should miss him so intensely. Does his
cousin succeed to his estate?"
"Yes; he is a nice fellow—a married man With eight children, he tells
me. Are you here for the winter, Miss Betty?"
"Yes; and for longer, perhaps. I shall leave for Molly's wedding, which
will be taking place the beginning of next month; but I hope to return
after it."
"And you are happy here? Forgive me, but you are looking white and
tired."
"I am happy, as happy as I can be at present. Sorrow makes you tired. I
did love him so."
"Love him still. He is not dead, but living a fuller life than ever he
lived before."
"Yes;" and Betty looked up with sparkling eyes. "Oh, don't you wish,
Mr. Arundel, that this world would come to an end? It seems such a long
time to wait."
Gerald smiled. He loved to hear her old childish impetuosity break out.
Then he rose and held out his hand.
"May I come and see you when I am in town again?"
"Yes, do. I shall be so pleased. Are you going back to Tiverstoke
to-day?"
"This afternoon."
They shook hands, and he left her. Then tremulously Betty broke the
seal of her letter, and read,—
"DEAR LITTLE FRIEND,—
"Sometimes I think I shall not see your bright young face again; I feel
my intercourse with you has come to a close. I do not know why I should
think so, for I am no longer an invalid, and feel as strong and well
as I did ten years ago. But the impression remains with me, and so I
am writing this, which will only reach you after my death. My little
Betty! I wonder if you have any idea what a pleasure it has been to me
to see you the same trustful, earnest little soul that you were fifteen
years ago! You wound yourself round my heart in those days, and when
you went away, and gradually drifted away from me, I thought I had lost
you for ever. Then you came back, and I found your soul unchanged. I
have wondered sometimes, if my little daughter had lived, whether she
could be much dearer to me than you are. I have watched you keenly, and
I have seen you in trouble, my child, trouble in which I was powerless
to help or comfort you, but which trouble One above, who loves you
better than I, has sanctified and blessed to your soul.
"And as an old man sees, I fancy this trouble will not be a lasting
one. I can already see the time when earthly joy will be your portion.
I believe God in His tenderness will lead you very soon into green
pastures, and if my leaving you will hasten this time, I shall be
doubly glad to go. I am bequeathing you my picture, Betty,—an old man's
last attempt to bring the two together that he loves best. And now,
farewell. May God guard and guide you, and keep the spring of living
water in your soul always fresh and bountiful! May He use you for His
glory, and give you an abundant entrance into His kingdom, when your
work is done!
"Your affectionate old friend,
"FRANK RUSSELL."
Betty read and re-read this precious letter, regarding it as a voice
from the dead. She went about her daily duties with a serene and
peaceful face. She could look up and thank God for His goodness in
giving her such a friend, and counted herself better in every way for
his friendship. He had helped her in her times of perplexity and doubt.
Now he had left her, but his memory would help her still. And so she
was comforted.