CHAPTER XV

Molly's Invitation

True happiness Consists not in the multitude of friends, But in the worth and choice. BEN JONSON.

Jossy had found Betty very dull for the rest of their ride. She would "pretend" no longer with him.

"You carry it too far, Jossy. You don't know when you ought to stop."

"That man didn't mind. I liked him. Does mother know him? I'd like her to!"

"No, she doesn't, and I don't know him well; and we oughtn't to have stopped him at all. You made a regular muddle of it, Jossy."

"You and him made a muddle of our game!" retorted Jossy ungrammatically.

When they arrived home he went in search of his mother. He found her at her davenport writing a letter.

"Mummy, I've come back."

"I see you have, my boy. Have you had a nice time?"

Nesta laid her pen down, and drew her boy into her arms.

"No, I haven't, not very much. You see, we began well, but we met a stupid man who spoiled it all. And he made Aunt Betty stupid, too, for she wouldn't play properly after."

"Mr. Russell, I suppose?"

"Oh no, quite a strange man. He had a black nose beard." (Jossy's name for moustache.) "He would have done nicely for the husband away at the war, only he wouldn't play at it."

"Oh, Jossy," said Nesta, smiling, "every one doesn't understand your games. Now run upstairs, for the luncheon bell is going to ring."

Nesta had got the clue at last.

At the luncheon table Jossy alluded again to the "strange man."

"It was Mr. Arundel," Betty said, turning to Molly; "he met us."

"Did he?" enquired Molly, with interest. "How did he look, Betty? Was he shabby and sad? And were you very kind to him?"

"Who is this Mr. Arundel?" asked Nesta, noting Molly's eagerness, and Betty's quiet silence.

"Oh," said Molly, "I wish you would ask him to dinner, Mrs. St. Clair. People have been so horrid; they have given him the cold shoulder, and only because he is poor. He used to live in the Red Manor—such a lovely place! Do you know it?"

"I have never been there, but I have heard about it. We only knew old Mr. Arundel very slightly. What has happened, then?"

Molly related the story of Gerald's misfortune, winding up with,—

"His changed prospects ought not to make any difference to his friends, and I had a long talk with the Dormers about it. Mrs. Dormer does not like him staying in the neighbourhood. I admire him for doing it."

"He was looking quite well and happy, Molly. I do not think he needs our pity. Jossy, after lunch I will mend your whip. We must not forget it."

Jossy eagerly began to state several other of his belongings that he would like mended, and Gerald's name dropped out of the conversation.

Later that afternoon Nesta found Betty by herself pacing up and down the green grassy walk outside the garden wall that led through the wood.

She joined her quietly, and slipped her arm through hers.

"I am not interrupting your meditations, am I? Jossy monopolises you so much that I am getting quite jealous. Is it not delicious here?"

Betty looked up at her gravely and sweetly. "I don't wonder that Isaac went out into the fields at eventide to meditate. It is so soothing. I remember when I was here as a little child there always seemed a kind of holy hush about this walk."

Then she added impulsively, with a glow in her grey eyes that made Nesta think them lovely,—

"Oh, Mrs. St. Clair, why do we forget heaven so? Why are we always thinking of our happiness, and what will make it on earth? Why, if I were a homeless, friendless, starving beggar, the hope of heaven would be abundantly satisfying. I do get so disgusted with myself sometimes!"

Nesta had a faint inkling of what Betty's meditations had been about.

"Don't be too hard upon yourself, dear. I am not one of those people who think that God does not wish His children to enjoy their life on earth. I believe He does. He gives us all things richly to enjoy. Our joys and pleasures ought to bring heaven nearer."

There was silence. Betty looked up through the arched green trees above them, then she smiled.

"I always felt solitary as a child, but somehow lately I have felt it is good to recognise that perhaps God may mean me to stand alone all my life, so that I may lean harder on Him. Don't you think so?"

"Do not be anxious about the future, Betty; a little bit of your way may seem lonely. By-and-bye, perhaps, it will not be so. We never know what God will send us, but be sure of this—it will be the very best."

Betty shook off her grave thoughts.

"I have so much to be thankful for. It is so delicious to be here, and I am now longing for the organ to arrive. When do you think it will be ready to use?"

"In another ten days. Have you seen Mr. Russell lately?"

"No; he was to be up in London this week."

"I fancy I heard him mention this Mr. Arundel's name. Is he a friend of his?"

"Yes, a great friend."

There was a little tremor in the hand on Nesta's arm. She felt it, and took note accordingly.

"I suppose you met him a good deal when you were here last year?"

"Not very often. We lunched with him once at the Red Manor."

"It is very sad for him," said Nesta musingly. "I should think he must be bearing his trouble well and bravely, to stay on in this neighbourhood, and work for his living. Most men would not have the pluck to do it."

"He is different from most men."

Betty tried to make her tone indifferent, but she failed entirely.

"I should like to meet him," Nesta said. "I think I must ask Mr. Russell to bring him here."

Betty was absolutely silent, and Nesta, seeing that she was not to be taken into her confidence, began to talk of other things.

It was the day after this that the Dormers returned from abroad, and came down to the Red Manor. Ella was not long before she had appropriated Molly, as of yore, and very quietly Molly dropped into her old ways of driving and riding out with her. When Frank made his appearance on the scene there was no awkwardness; he relapsed into his chaffing, brotherly ways, and Molly no longer shunned his society. Betty occasionally made one of the party, but not often. It was more pain than pleasure to her to go to the Red Manor, and she was happiest at Holly Grange. She amused Jossy for hours together; she read to old Mrs. Fairfax, and waited on her like a daughter; she was always ready to help Nesta in her housekeeping duties, for her long sojourn in India had unfitted her for English servants and their ways. And when the organ was placed in the little church much of her time was taken up in practising for the services, and training the small village choir. The vicar was a busy man, and his wife a great invalid, so that they were only too pleased to have help in many parish matters.

Nesta already had made friends with most of the villagers, and Betty was only too willing to take a little pudding down to an invalid, to read to a bedridden woman, or chat with an old blind man. Her days were filled with such interests, and it was only at times that her brightness failed, and a wistful look stole across her face. Nesta watched her lovingly and carefully, but at such times she kept her well employed, and soon the shadow would pass, and her clear bright laugh would ring out, as if she had not a thought or care.

The first Sunday that she played the organ was rather a trying one to her. She was nervous, and her nervousness had given her a headache. Jossy insisted upon sitting close beside her, and before she had finished her voluntary, he announced to her in a loud whisper,—

"There's that man we met out riding the other day. He's sitting just inside the door, and he won't come higher up."

This announcement did not steady her nerves. She strove to exclude him from her thoughts, and to a great extent she was able to do so, but the consciousness of his presence in church never left her. She purposely prolonged her voluntary when the service was over, and yet when she came out of church and found he had disappeared, felt distinctly disappointed. When the evening service was over she retired to bed, and Nesta went up to her with great concern.

"It is too much for you, Betty dear. I was wrong to let you undertake it. But you have done it so beautifully that I can hardly realise the effort it must have been to you."

Betty raised a white face and throbbing head from the pillow.

"I shall love doing it," she said. "It is only beginning. It has made me anxious."

Nesta smoothed her hair softly off her forehead; and then Betty pushed her hand down, and laying her cheek against it burst into tears.

"Don't mind me. The organ always gives me such longings, and somehow to-day wrong longings got mixed up with it, and I do so want to be contented."

Nesta kissed her lovingly.

"You are contented, dear, I am sure. You are only tired to-night."

"Yes, I am tired," sobbed Betty; "and I feel I have got such a long life to live, and—and it will be so difficult to live it!"

Nesta tried to speak lightly.

"Why, Betty dear, you will soon be finding that the years slip too quickly away, for all you want to do in them."

She kissed her again, and with a few more loving words left her; but she said to herself, as she went downstairs,—

"It is another tangled skein, and I will do my best to unravel it. She unravelled my skein for me years ago. I should like to do the same for her."

"Betty, come into my room; I want you." It was Molly who spoke, one morning after breakfast, and her hands were full of letters.

"Our correspondence is growing," Betty remarked, following her sister into her pretty bedroom, and sitting down in the chintz-covered easy-chair by the window. "Why does every one take it into their heads to write and pester us with their assurances of friendship?"

"I suppose they think our time of seclusion is over, but they all take care to say that they are very quiet. Oh, Betty, don't you feel a forlorn, homeless creature sometimes? I do."

Betty nodded soberly.

"Who has written to you this morning?"

"Mrs. Railley. She is going to the Italian lakes for Easter, and proposes that we should go with her, as the quiet will do us good, and we must be very dull, she presumes."

"Horrid woman! I suppose Reggie is going with them?"

"Yes. Then I have heard from Lady Cecil. She says she knows we cannot go out at present, but we may be making plans, and she offers to chaperon us for the next season."

"I'm never going to stay in town again, if I can help it," said Betty hotly. "But all the same, it is very kind of her."

"And Miss Turnbull has invited us to go over to her Irish castle with her for an indefinite time."

Betty laughed.

"Poor Miss Turnbull! Frank Dormer says her castle is four roofless ivied walls, and at one corner is a kind of Irish cabin, in which she lives. You must write very nicely, Molly, so as not to hurt her feelings."

"They are all very kind," said Molly thoughtfully. "I was telling the Dormers yesterday how many invitations we were getting, and Ella made me cross. She said if it wasn't known that we were both so well off, we shouldn't have so many friends."

"That's a horrid thing to think," Betty said, leaning out of the open window and picking an early rose. "Well, Molly, these letters are easy to answer. What is your difficulty?"

Molly sat down on the edge of her sofa, and looked dreamily into space.

"Mrs. Dormer wants me to go to the Lakes with them next week. I—I told her I would talk to you about it. They will be quite by themselves."

"Who are they?" demanded Betty, looking at her sister curiously.

"Mrs. Dormer and Ella. General Dormer will not leave home."

"And Frank?"

"Frank—er—Frank may be there the first part of the time."

Betty did not speak. Molly continued,—

"I think I shall like to go. I have never seen the Lakes, and early summer is delicious there, they say."

"How long will you be away?"

"I don't know."

Then Molly sprang up, and impulsively threw her arms round Betty.

"Oh, Betty, I'm so miserable here! I try not to be, but I do miss mother so, and I want a home so badly. You are so easily made happy, and every one likes you here—Mrs. Fairfax and Mrs. St. Clair and Jossy and all the poor people! I feel I am in the way. I have nothing to do, and it is a home I want."

Betty kissed her sister affectionately. "Molly dear, I'm so sorry for you! I should like to say something, only I don't know how to say it. Take care you don't do something to get a home that you will be sorry for afterwards. I know how you feel, and how you miss mother. But I would rather be homeless all my life, than have a home with some one I didn't care for."

Molly's cheeks felt hot as they pressed against Betty's.

"I shan't do anything I shall be sorry for," she said unsteadily. "I don't expect I shall do anything at all, only I should like to go with the Dormers."

"Then you shall," said Betty heartily; "and I hope you will enjoy yourself."

Molly went away, and about three weeks afterwards Betty was not at all surprised when she received the following letter from her,—

"DEAREST BETTY,—

"Don't you often find yourself altering your mind about things? I do. I suppose it is a sign we are growing older—and wiser, I hope! But I think I am wiser since I left off writing romances. Real life is much more interesting. I don't know that it doesn't make one selfish. I mean that where I used to be quite wrapped up in my heroes and heroines, I am now wrapped up in myself—and in one other. I am sure you will guess, so I will beat about the bush no longer. I am engaged to Frank, and everything seems delicious again. Ella told me a dreadful story about a girl who married a mysterious foreign prince, and it rather shook my faith in my ideal hero. Don't you know you said to me that Frank would make a good husband? I am quite sure he will, and he is sure he will too. I am very happy, Betty, and Mrs. Dormer is so pleased. Frank is going back to town to work hard, and then we think we may find a little house in the autumn near town, and perhaps next winter, Betty,—think of it!—I shall have a home of my own. Frank sends you his love and says you're to write a 'very' nice sisterly letter to him. He is waiting for me to go out with him now, so good-bye.

"Your loving

"MOLLY."

Betty read this with mingled feelings. She was sincerely glad that Molly was going to marry Frank. But she was disappointed with the tone of her letter.

"She is not in love with him—not what I should call love—and after all her romantic talk it does not seem right. I feel afraid lest it is a home that she wants, and the husband is the means to the end."

Then she made known the news to Nesta and her mother, and in their congratulations she was a little comforted.