CHAPTER XI

In Town Again

Experience, like a pale musician, holds A dulcimer of patience in his hand; Whence harmonies we cannot understand, Of God's will in His worlds, the strain unfolds In sad perplexed minors. Deathly colds Fall on us while we hear, and countermand Our sanguine heart back from the fancy-land, With nightingales in visionary wolds. We murmur—"Where is any certain tune Or measured music in such notes as these?" But angels, leaning from the golden seat, Are not so minded! their fine ear hath won The issue of completed cadences; And smiling down the stars, they whisper—"Sweet." ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE month that Betty and her mother were together without Molly was beneficial to them both.

Betty set her mind and body to fulfil her different duties cheerfully, but her heedless, impulsive ways were a sad trial to her mother. If Betty had to bear with an invalid's exactness and irritability, Mrs. Stuart also needed her share of patience for her youngest daughter's incompetence.

"It is no good, mother," was Betty's despondent complaint one foggy morning in November, as she sat at her mother's writing-desk, and for the third time tore up a letter she was writing at Mrs. Stuart's dictation. "You will never make a satisfactory secretary of me. I think I was born to be an out-of-door person, not an indoor one. I'm trying my very best this morning, but the first sheet blotted itself, and the second I misspelt, and now this sheet I have upset a vase of flowers over! Things will go wrong when I mean them to go right with all my heart and soul."

"If you were a little quieter, and not quite so emphatic, you would do better," remarked Mrs. Stuart drily.

"I thought I had been as quiet as a lamb this morning," Betty rejoined; "at least, until this last half an hour, when I got the fidgets. Perhaps if I went to the pantry and got a duster to wipe up the water here, I should do better. A run will calm my fidgets."

She quitted the room as she spoke, and went singing down the passage at the top of her fresh young voice,—

"Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles they're like to be my deed, Oh, sad disease; I kittle up my rustic reed, It gies me ease!"

Mrs. Stuart gave a sigh.

"Molly will be back next week. Betty means well, but she is so undisciplined."

Yet Betty was learning lessons in God's own school, and He Himself was her Teacher.

"Patience, long-suffering, with joyfulness," she kept repeating to herself, and she chased away the shadows, and basked in the sun whenever she got the chance. On this particular morning she had just reseated herself at her desk, when the door suddenly opened, and a tall figure wrapped in a thick ulster appeared.

"Harry!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, in astonishment.

"Uncle Harry! Where have you come from? We thought you were at Gibraltar."

"Home on sick leave. Don't I look the invalid?"

Major Stuart's tones certainly did not sound like those of one; they were as full and hearty as ever. He threw off his coat and sat down by his sister-in-law, stretching out his long legs with infinite satisfaction towards the ruddy blaze of the fire.

"I've been pretty nearly choked by this fog. We ought to have got in last night. I landed at the Victoria Docks, and came straight here. Where is Madam Molly?"

"Down in the country. You can have had no breakfast."

"No; I am starving, but I would rather wait till luncheon. That must be pretty near—isn't it?"

"Oh, you must have something at once. I will go and see about it."

Betty tripped out of the room, delighted at the interruption to the writing. Her uncle looked after her.

"Is Molly still the beauty?" he asked. "I haven't seen any of you for three years."

"Is it really so long? I think Molly is still the most admired; Betty is too variable. Now tell me about yourself. Have you been ill?"

"Nothing to speak of. A touch of fever again. Can you take me in for a short time?"

"You know I shall be delighted."

Major Stuart brought a good deal of life into the house. He chaffed Betty a good bit, and uncle and niece grew almost uproarious at times; but they were firm friends notwithstanding, for Betty had always occupied a big corner in her uncle's heart.

"Now, Betty, what is your present fad?" he asked her one afternoon, as they were walking in the Park together.

"I haven't any," was the prompt reply.

"Rubbish! When you were eight, it was angels, when you were eighteen it was dancing, now I suppose it is lovers!"

"Indeed it is not!"

Betty's cheeks grew hot at such an accusation.

"Well, upon what are you expending your superfluous energy?"

"On learning to sit still," Betty said, laughing, though there was a little wistfulness in her tone.

Major Stuart gave a low whistle.

"And who has set you such a cruel and superhuman task as that?"

"It is time I learnt it," Betty said, gravity stealing into her sunny eyes. "I have been taking Molly's place while she has been away. I wanted work to do, so mother has been giving me plenty of it."

"And why did a young thing like you want work? You talk as if you were a char-woman. Isn't that the name of the good lady who is always looking out for jobs of work?"

"I had nothing to do," Betty said earnestly. "I wanted to go right away from home, only mother wouldn't let me. When Molly comes back, I shall fare badly. I bungle so that mother will thankfully dismiss me. It isn't the kind of work I am fit for—writing and reading and planning societies, but it seems the only thing that mother likes for me."

"I see, I see. I might have known that the dancing fervour would not last. Work, with a big W, is now the cry. My dear child, we must get you married, or there is no saying what you will not develop into."

Betty turned upon him indignantly.

"You are a man, and talk such stuff! As if girls cannot do something with their lives as well as men."

"Well, what do you want to do? Go into the Army or Navy, study law and buy a flaxen wig, or walk a hospital, and dissect cats and dogs and human beings? Perhaps you would prefer the Church? In your young days, I remember, you were much given to churches and graves."

"You never will be serious, Uncle Harry. I thought you might help me, but you only laugh at me."

Major Stuart dropped his banter.

"My dear Betty, girls are needed at home, especially when their mothers are delicate. You would repent it all your life if you left your mother now."

Betty looked up alarmed.

"Uncle Harry, you don't think mother is really ill?"

Major Stuart was silent. He knew what his young nieces did not know—that Mrs. Stuart's days were numbered.

"Tell me," Betty urged. "Why do you think I ought not to leave mother?"

"Because she is an invalid," Major Stuart said, trying to speak lightly; "and invalids want cheery companionship. You can give her that even better than Molly can."

"No," said Betty, shaking her head; "I am not quiet enough. I bang doors, and I let things tumble, and I sing when I ought to be silent. Molly suits mother perfectly. I never did."

"Your mother told me you had cheered her a good deal lately," said Major Stuart.

"Did she really?" Betty exclaimed, whilst a flush of pleasure came to her cheeks. "I have tried hard to supply Molly's place, but I did not know I had been at all successful."

A few days later, and Molly returned. Betty welcomed her gladly. Everything concerning the Red Manor and its neighbourhood interested her, and the sisters had much to tell each other. They sat over their sitting-room fire the day after Molly's return. Mrs. Stuart was resting in her room, and they hoped they would be undisturbed.

Molly puzzled Betty by her manner; she seemed reticent and self-absorbed, but it did not last long. She placed a cushion behind her head, leant back in her easy-chair, and, gazing dreamily into the fire, announced,—

"Something happened to me at the Dormers, Betty."

"What?" asked Betty, eyeing her curiously.

"Well, Frank made a stupid of himself."

"Oh, Molly, not Frank? I should have thought he was the last person to do it. He is just like Douglas. Do you mean to say he proposed to you?"

"I'll tell you how he did it, and then you can say if you would have liked it."

Molly roused herself to poke the fire viciously.

"Of course, we were always about together, and one day Ella had a headache, and Frank drove me out in his trap to see an old ruin about eight miles off. It was coming home—he asked me how my story was getting on, and then he said, 'How do your heroes make love, Molly?' I said, 'Different ways.' 'But,' he said, 'how do you think it ought to be done to ensure success?' Of course, I hadn't a notion of what was coming, so I considered, and I said I preferred one who did it in a masterly way, and not in agitation. 'My hero,' I said, 'generally clasps the heroine in his arms, before she knows what he is about.'

"'And does the heroine always like that?'

"'If he is the right man she does.'

"'And if he isn't?'

"'Oh, then he wouldn't have the cheek to do it,' I said.

"Frank seemed to think that over. 'He might be in a position where such a proceeding would be risky,' he said. 'For instance, if he was driving like I am, and the horse wanted a bit of holding in like Boy does, while he is clasping his lady-love to his heart, the horse would bolt, and the result would be a catastrophe!' 'Yes,' I said; 'but I have never made any one propose when driving. It would want a good deal of thought and care.' 'Thought and care be hanged!' Frank said quickly. 'I'm going to do it, Molly, so now you'll see how it can be done.'"

Molly paused.

"Well," said Betty eagerly. "This is very exciting. How did he go on? I wish it had been any one but Frank."

"Oh, I can't remember all he said. He talked a lot of nonsense. He said he was perfectly certain we should suit each other down to the ground, and he said he had always liked me, and he was really in dead earnest, and I would break his heart if I didn't say 'Yes.' At first I thought he was chaffing me, but I soon saw he wasn't, and he kept twitching Boy's mouth till I thought the creature would rear and fall back on the top of us! It wasn't a pleasant proposal at all, Betty."

"What did you say?"

"I told him it was absurd, that he was like a brother, and nothing else. And then he was furious, and said I hadn't any heart, and wasted all my best feelings on paper men and women. That was when I told him I had no desire to marry; I only wanted to write a book. He was very rude, but he begged my pardon before the end of the drive, and besought me to give him another answer."

"I expect," Betty said soberly, "he will make some one a good husband. He is a very steady fellow, and every one likes him. He isn't a bit conceited, and he has plenty of fun in him."

"Yes," assented Molly dreamily, her eyes trying to read her future in the glowing coals in front of her. "But he is not my ideal, Betty. I know him too well. I think, if I ever marry, I shall like my husband to be a dark stern man, with a mystery about him—one who will give me little shivers of delight and awe, and who will be a surprise to me even after I marry him. A man who will overwhelm me with love and tenderness when we are alone together, but who will be cold and unapproachable to any one else."

"Yes, that sounds nice in—in a book," said Betty thoughtfully; "but I would like to be quite sure of a man before I married him."

There was a little silence. The girls were following out their youthful fancies; then. Molly said abruptly,—

"Anyhow, Frank is too—commonplace and unromantic for me. I would rather not be married at all than to him."

"If you would marry him, I suppose by-and-bye the Red Manor would be your home."

"But you forget, Betty," said Molly, who was singularly unworldly, "that I want to arrange a match between Ella and Mr. Arundel; and I want Ella to inherit the Red Manor, not Frank, only I don't quite know how it is to be done. I was a little disappointed when they met the other day."

"When was that?" asked Betty quietly, but her heart began fluttering in a most uncomfortable way.

"We were riding out—Frank and Ella and I—and we met Mr. Arundel on the way to his farm. He was going to pass us, but I would not let him, and I introduced him to Ella, and then I asked him if we might see his farm. He did not seem to mind a bit, and I tried to make Ella ride behind with him, while I went on with Frank, but she wouldn't. I asked her afterwards what she thought of him, and she said he was rather grave and uninteresting, but she liked his farmhouse."

"What is it like?" asked Betty.

"It has a thatched roof and casement windows, and some late roses were still climbing up it. I shouldn't mind living in it a bit, but, of course, after the Manor it must be dreadfully cramped, and he hasn't got it very tidy. It looks like a man's house. It is rather pretty when you go in, or it might easily be made so. You step into what was the old farmhouse kitchen, and a broad wooden staircase goes up from the middle of it, so it really is the hall. I think he smokes there. The fire was burning, and a chair was by it, with a book and a pipe on it, and his coats and hats were lying about anywhere. One door to the left led into the kitchen and dairy; the other into the dining-room, and then there was another door which he never opened; he said it was the best parlour, and had at present no furniture in it. The garden is sweet, old-fashioned, and quaint, and there is a nice walled kitchen garden. Ella asked him if he felt lonely, and he smiled, but it was a sad smile. It made me feel quite unhappy to see him there. He has a woman to cook and look after him; the rest of them there are farm men and lads."

"Where is his mother's organ?" asked Betty.

"I never asked him. I forgot all about it. In the best parlour, I expect, if the room is high enough to take it. We didn't go upstairs."

"I think it was intruding as it was," Betty said, with hot cheeks. "I can't think how you could do it."

"You see, I was so anxious for him to know Ella. And I'm afraid I did myself harm," Molly added, with a little sigh, "for Frank got it into his head that I wanted to be with him. Stupid fellow! It was only to give the others a chance, that I took him away."

"How long did you stay?"

"Not very long. He offered us a cup of tea, but I thought he wouldn't be able to manage it very well. It looked so funny to see him there doing everything himself. He went out into the yard, and brought some logs to put on the fire. Of course, Floy was there. He lay on the rug and looked just as comfortable as he did at the Manor. I told Ella how dreadfully Mr. Arundel was to be pitied, and she made me angry by saying it would have been much better if he had left the neighbourhood altogether. She said it would be so awkward meeting him, though of course she was very sorry for him."

"I am sure he doesn't need 'her' pity!"

Betty's tone was so emphatic that Molly looked up surprised.

"Well, of course, everybody is sorry for him, aren't you?"

"Not a bit," said Betty passionately, rising from her seat as she spoke. "He has done nothing to be sorry for. He is not a poor weak ailing creature that needs a girl's pity. He is one that is to be envied, and people who talk about being sorry for him are fools!"

With which hasty, incoherent statement Betty left the room, shutting the door behind her more quickly than quietly.

Molly shrugged her shoulders.

"Betty is so contradictious! I thought she quite felt for him in his misfortunes. Now she doesn't seem to care a bit. I believe I am the only one that really sympathises with him."

For the rest of the day Betty went about in a dream. One picture was in her mind's eye.

The old hall, with a blazing log fire, and the staircase leading up out of it. In a chair, leaning his head on his hand, the master of the house. Stretched at his feet his faithful hound. A book open on his knee, but unread. Where are his thoughts?

"Alone and silent, only his dog left, all his friends giving him the cold shoulder. And yet I can see him smiling, and his eyes clear and untroubled. Oh, God will 'restore comforts unto him.' I must not think of him. It will make me miserable."

But thoughts are difficult to control, and Betty found them so. She comforted herself by praying for him.

"I am sure it isn't wrong to do that," she said to herself, a little defiantly. "And I shall pray that he may be made happy, and if he marries Ella and goes back to the Red Manor, I shall be glad—yes, really glad! I hope I shall be!"

Poor little Betty! She was very courageous in these days, very earnest and conscientious in all she said and did, but her heart was in the old thatched farmhouse, and there it remained, day after day, much as she strove to tear it thence.