Odd made Even
Yes, it was love, if thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress,
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime,
And yet—oh, more than all!—untired by time.
BYRON.
MOLLY wrote Betty delighted congratulations when she heard the news.
"To think that you should be the one to comfort my hero! I can't forget
how I tried with all my might to get up a match between him and Ella.
Perhaps it is best as it is, for Ella is going to marry a naval cousin
of hers whom she has always liked. Does it not seem strange, Betty,
that you and I are both perhaps to settle eventually in the same
neighbourhood? Do tell Mr. Arundel I am so delighted to welcome him as
a brother. I used to think I was more interested in him than you were,
for you were always so silent about him. I suppose you thought the
more!"
Major Stuart came down in person to offer his congratulations. He drove
up one afternoon unexpectedly, and found Betty in the garden picking
some early primroses.
"Now, what do you mean by this?" he demanded, after the first greetings
were over. "It is like springing a mine under my feet! When I advised
you to follow Molly's example a short time ago, you told me you were
never going to marry. I suppose you were laughing in your sleeve at me!"
"No, indeed I wasn't," said Betty earnestly; "I really thought it then."
"I'm sorry to hear it," and Major Stuart assumed a very grave air; "for
it shows this is too sudden an affair to be a really genuine one."
"Oh, Uncle Harry, don't tease so!"
"I assure you I am in dead earnest. Why have I not been told of this
gentleman? Why has he kept behind the scenes so? I do not remember to
have heard his name."
"I am sure we must have told you about him," said Betty, with
distressed eyes. "Oh, Uncle Harry, you make it so difficult for me to
tell you. I cared too much for him to talk about him, and though we
both knew each other, he felt he ought not to speak. You see, he lost
all his money and property. The Red Manor belonged to him, and he had
to sell it, and he has been farming since, and now he is succeeding
with it; and then Mr. Russell left him a lot of money, so he thought he
might speak. It was his foolish idea that I ought to have every luxury.
I should have been content with a labourer's cottage. Do be nice, and
say you are pleased, for I am so happy!"
Betty had wound her arms round his and lifted a very coaxing face up at
him. Major Stuart looked at her, then stroked his long moustache grimly.
"This is a blow to me! You have forsaken your rôle of the 'odd one.' I
suppose it is a case of odd being made even, and, like the rest, you
must be made into a couple. I must see him first, before I pronounce
any opinion. A farmer is not a fit match for one of my nieces, and a
fellow who has come down in the world rarely makes it pay. He must be
something very special, if—"
Then Betty flashed out at him,—
"You are a horrid, mercenary man, and I won't stay with you to hear
Gerald abused! He is special, 'very' special; there isn't another man as
good as he is in the whole world, and I am not fit to be his wife. If
he were a butcher or a coal-heaver, if he swept a crossing in London, I
would be proud to belong to him, and if you have come down here to be
rude to him, you had better go back to London by the next train!"
Major Stuart looked at his niece's changing colour, quick-heaving
breast, and sparkling eyes, with great amusement.
"Well done, Betty!" he said. "Whatever he is, he has managed to steal
your heart. I am quite relieved to see you have a little of your old
impetuous temper left. We will patch up a truce, and I will think your
lover all that you describe him, until I set eyes on him myself and can
form my own judgment. You see," he added, giving her a little friendly
pat on her shoulder, "my anxiety about my nieces is due to perhaps my
over-estimation of their charms. I don't like to think of your being
wasted on a heavy country man, however worthy he may be!"
Then Betty laughed. She could not be angry for long with her uncle.
"You will see the heavy country man this evening. He is coming over to
dine. And now here comes Mrs. St. Clair, and you must scold her for
allowing us to meet!"
She ran away, and did not see her uncle again till just before dinner,
when she came towards him with Gerald, looking very winsome and
mischievous in her white lace dress, with a bunch of real neapolitans
in her waistbelt.
"Uncle Harry, let me introduce Mr. Arundel to you. I have told him you
have come down to inspect him."
The men shook hands, and measured glances courteously, then Major
Stuart asked if he might have a private talk with Gerald after dinner.
"I can congratulate you very heartily on having won my niece's
affection," he said; "for she is a very particular little lady, and, I
fancied, had taken up the rôle of independence."
Betty had moved off, so did not hear this speech. Gerald responded
quietly,—
"I am quite ready with my explanation. I am sure you are astonished at
my presumption. But Betty's happiness will be dearer to you than her
position in society."
Which remark gave food for thought to Major Stuart throughout dinner,
but which made him mutter as he took Nesta into the dining-room,—
"He takes matters with too high a hand."
However, the result of their private conversation was satisfactory.
Major Stuart came into the drawing-room with a placid countenance, and
Betty flew to meet him.
"Now, Uncle Harry, congratulate me. I insist upon it, or I shall never
speak to you again!"
"He is a good-looking fellow," he said, looking at her with a twinkle
in his eye.
"Go on," said Betty sternly.
"He seems to have honourable principles."
"Go on."
"And I really think I must congratulate you upon having found some one
who will keep you in better order than I can!"
Betty laughed, and was content. She knew now that Gerald and her uncle
would be the best of friends.
When her health was quite restored, she went back to London; for she
would not forsake her work until it was absolutely necessary for her to
do so. Gerald had persuaded her to let him make a few alterations to
his farm, and the wedding-day was fixed for June 18.
"That was the day I first saw you," he said to her. "I never shall
forget it. Do you remember your little songs about the roses? I have
had one of them in my heart ever since."
"I know," said Betty, nodding at him mischievously. She carolled out
gaily,—
"'Where blooms, O my father, a thornless rose?'
'That can I not tell thee, my child,
Not one on the bosom of earth ever grows,
But wounds whom its charms have beguiled.'"
"That is not the one."
"Isn't it? Then it was the other, 'The little wild white rose.' Yes; I
remember that evening well, but it was not my first sight of you. I had
seen you before."
"Where?"
Betty coloured and hesitated; then looked up with a pretty shyness.
"I will tell you when—when we are married, not before."
She was greeted by her blind friends, when she returned to them, with
great delight, and loud were their lamentations when they heard she was
going to leave them.
"I feel quite guilty," she said to Miss Miller one day; "as if I have
put my hand to the plough, and am drawing it back."
"No, dear," her friend replied; "you are changing your sphere of work,
that is all. You will find opportunities of helping others wherever you
go. Of course, we shall miss you, but we must be thankful that we have
had you for so long."
"If—if Gerald had not gone through such deep trouble," said Betty, in
a low, meditative voice; "if he hadn't been so lonely and homeless and
friendless, I think I should not have thought it right to marry."
Miss Miller smiled.
"But pity is not the right foundation for a married life."
"No," said Betty hastily; "of course not. And I never really pitied
him, except deep down in the bottom of my heart, for he was above pity.
He was always so brave and cheerful, keeping his own feelings in the
background. Oh, Miss Miller, you must come down to stay with us when
you want a rest! I long for you to know him. I am not good enough for
him. God has been so very good to me."
Occasionally she had visits from Gerald, but they were necessarily very
short ones. She saw a good deal of Molly in town, and by-and-bye they
began to busy themselves with her trousseau.
Nesta came up for a fortnight to help them. Molly was full of life and
interest, but Betty used to have fits of dreaminess, and she seemed
strangely indifferent to her shopping.
"It is such a fuss," she said. "Why should I spend so much on myself?
I am going to be a farmer's wife. I shall dress in cotton frocks and
sun-bonnets, and these fine things will lie by in drawers and boxes. I
shall never wear them."
But Molly did not agree with her.
"You must dress for your husband now. He will like your clothes, if you
don't. I've discovered that men pretend to be supremely indifferent to
such matters, when in reality there are no more discerning and severe
judges than they are. And you are not going to be a farmer's wife,
Betty. You will have lots of nice neighbours calling upon you. Frank's
people do not mean you to rusticate."
"Oh, Molly," said Betty wistfully. "Do you selfishly wish sometimes to
be in a kind of garden of Eden—to be the only people in existence, just
two?"
Molly laughed, and shook her head.
"I am shocked at you, who are so anxious to comfort and relieve your
fellow-creatures! I don't think I have ever had such a desire."
"It is selfish," admitted Betty. "I think in London we crowd over each
other so, that it makes me long to be alone."
"I like people," said Molly; "and I know I shall never be so happy at
the Red Manor as I am now in our tiny town house."
The time slipped by, and then in the beginning of June Betty said
good-bye to her friends in London, and went down to Holly Grange.
Upon the afternoon before her wedding-day, she slipped out of the house
unperceived, and walked over to the little village of Tiverstoke. She
made her way to the church, and saw herself, as a little hot, dusty
child, push open the door for the first time and enter in. She passed
up the same aisle that her little feet had trodden so long before, and
once more she paused by Violet Russell's tomb, and let her gaze wander
upwards to the stained window that had been the object of her childish
admiration and awe.
And then she started, for by the side of the window was a brass
inscription, and she read it with tearful eyes,—
TO THE MEMORY OF
FRANK RUSSELL,
SQUIRE OF THIS PARISH.
DIED AT ZERMATT,
SEPTEMBER 20, 18—,
Aged 58.
"These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have
washed their robes, and made them white in
the blood of the Lamb."
Such a flood of memories swept over her soul as she read this verse! It
took her back to her earnest search in childhood, to all the mystery
and joy and grief connected with it; to all her serious discussions
with the old friend now gone; and she covered her face with her hands
and sobbed aloud. She was not surprised when a step that she knew well
approached, and a hand was gently laid on her shoulder. She turned to
him at once.
"Oh, Gerald, who put this here? Did you?"
"Yes."
"Did you know it was the verse I loved above all others as a child?"
"It was the verse he loved to his dying day."
They stood there in silence together. Then Gerald said in a low voice,—
"Betty, we shall stand here to-morrow in different circumstances. Shall
we ask God's blessing on that coming ceremony now?"
Betty bowed her head. Then, hand in hand, they knelt under the stained
window, and Gerald breathed out a few heart-felt words.
"Our Father, wilt Thou grant to us Thy blessing? We give ourselves to
Thy service together for evermore. Teach us to follow in the steps of
one who died to bring us together, and may we take our place one day in
that blood-washed throng. For Christ our Saviour's sake. Amen."
Was it a strange coincidence that the sun should stream through that
stained window, and crown those bowed heads with its golden rays?
In the hush that followed, Betty almost felt conscious that the spirits
of the departed were hovering near them, rejoicing in their joy, and
when she rose from her knees, her face was as if she had beheld a
vision.
Walking home, as the evening shadows were beginning to fall, Gerald
spoke of their friend again.
"He asked me to have that put on his tombstone, should anything happen
to him. I think I told you he seemed to have a presentiment of his
sudden death. And, Betty darling, he told me how you came to him as
a little child, when his heart was cold and hard and bitter, and his
troubles were alienating him from the only Comforter; how by your
persistent allusion to that verse, your childish faith and earnestness,
and your confidence in the love of God, you brought him, step by step,
into the light and peace of God's forgiveness and comfort. He told me
he owed to you more than he could ever repay."
"Oh," said Betty, awed and startled, "I never knew. I never guessed.
He always seemed to me a sad and sorrowful man; but I have only
remembrances of his goodness and kindness to me as a child. I remember
him comforting me when no one else could, in my first real childish
trouble. He was such a comfort and help to me all last year; and,
Gerald—" her voice sank to a whisper—"his very last thought and act was
to give you to me. What a friend he has been to us both!"