CHAPTER XVII

Mr. Russell's Picture

. . . Why ever met, If they must be strangers yet? LORD HOUGHTON.

IT was two months later. Mr. Russell was dispensing afternoon tea to a few of his friends on his shady lawn. Nesta and her boy, Betty, Molly, and Frank Dormer were all there. It was the first time Nesta had been persuaded to attend any little festivity, and this was a farewell to Mr. Russell, who was going to Switzerland the next day for his health. He was telling Nesta about it, as he leant against one of the old elms, and she was looking at him with that wonderful interest and sympathy that she showed in every one else's concerns.

"They say I am overworked," he said, with a short laugh. "I suppose as one gets older, one cannot play tricks with one's constitution. I forget I am no longer a young man, and I have had one of my painting fits on lately. I must tell you, Mrs. St. Clair, that for some years I have had no desire to work. I have done a little bit of sculpture occasionally, but my property has taken up my time and thoughts. I am beginning to think that riches and prosperity are foes to genius. However, about three months ago I was seized with an inspiration for a picture, and I have been hard at it ever since. Perhaps I have let my meals slip. One longs at such times for no troublesome interruptions. And my doctor tells me I have not been wise."

"I am sure the change of air will do you good. Are you going alone?"

"I am going to carry off Gerald Arundel with me. You know him, do you not? The nicest fellow that ever lived, but the last year has been a trying one to him. He may be here this afternoon."

"I have never spoken to him," said Nesta, her eyes wandering towards Betty, in spite of herself. "He walks over to our church sometimes on Sunday, generally in the evening. I have had him pointed out to me, but he always seems in a hurry to get away. How is he getting on as a farmer? I have heard his story."

"He is a first-rate farmer. He has the pluck and grit and perseverance that makes a good one."

"But farming is a poor prospect for a gentleman nowadays," said Nesta meditatively.

"Not necessarily, if his tastes are simple, and he does not take upon himself the role of a sporting squire."

"Yes; and as long as he is not a married man."

"Tuts!" exclaimed Mr. Russell impatiently. "Let him look about for a wife with simple tastes like himself; and I would back him amongst a hundred millionaires to make her truly happy!"

Nesta smiled.

"Two of our young people here will have to have simple tastes if they set up housekeeping as soon as they meditate doing."

"Oh!" said Mr. Russell, looking across at Frank and Molly, who were deep in some serious discussion on the same garden seat.

"And when are they going to take the cares of married life upon their shoulders?"

"Next November, I believe. The house has already been chosen close to town."

"He has brains, and will succeed in his profession," said Mr. Russell. "But I should think they will have a very comfortable income between them."

"Not too much for the claims that society will make upon them."

"I dare say not. Is our little friend going to stay on with you?"

"I want her to, but she is very anxious to take up some distinct work. A friend of her mother has written to ask her to give her some help this winter in managing a small home for the blind. Betty wants to go, for she feels her music may cheer them. And I do not want to keep her back."

"She is a cheering little personality anywhere," said Mr. Russell.

"Indeed she is. We shall miss her terribly. She has helped me to get through a sad time, and I cannot be grateful enough."

Betty walked up to them at this minute. "Mr. Russell, will you let me pour out tea? I always like doing the honours of your house for you. Here it comes. May I? Thank you ever so much. Jossy is showing the gardener's boy how to stand on his head. They are practising against a hay-rick in the field, and as I couldn't join them I came away. I can do most things that Jossy does, but I can't do that!"

She laughed merrily, then took her seat by the tea-table with an important air, but a sudden quick change of face and manner made Nesta glance up. Gerald Arundel was crossing the lawn. He looked slightly embarrassed as he came amongst them all.

"You did not tell me you were having company," he said, after he had been introduced to Nesta, and had held Betty's little hand for one instant in his own.

"No," Mr. Russell said, looking at him with a twinkle in his eyes; "I knew you were such a recluse that your fellow-creatures' society would repel rather than attract you. But I had a fancy to gather my friends round me before I went abroad, and I hope you will humour me by staying with us."

Gerald smiled one of his rare smiles, which always lightened both his face and the faces of those near him.

"Miss Betty, you must let me help you with those teacups," he said.

Betty's fingers were rather tremulous for a minute, as she wielded the massive silver teapot, but she soon recovered herself, and she talked as sweetly and gaily to him as if she had been in the habit of meeting him daily.

"When you have all finished your tea," announced Mr. Russell presently, "I am going to take you to see my picture."

"What is it about?" asked Molly, with interest.

"I shall leave it to explain itself."

A few minutes later, and they were standing in his studio. As he drew aside a curtain, a little murmur of surprise and delight made itself heard.

Two boats, side by side on a river. Arched green trees met overhead, but the rays of golden sunshine streamed through on one of the rowers. It was a girl's figure. She poised her oars lightly and well, though there was a little droop in her shoulders, a wistful sadness and weariness on her beautiful face that betrayed itself through her speaking eyes. She was all in white, and was the centre-piece of sunshine in the picture. Only an arm's length from her rowed a man, but his boat was in shadow, and it needed a careful inspection to denote the eager fervent light that seemed to be flashing forth from his keen dark eyes. His whole attitude denoted strength of purpose and will; yet there was hopelessness in his glance, a despairing expression across his earnest face. His eyes were fixed on her, but she was looking away from him, as if her maidenly modesty forbade her to meet his eye.

"It is a beautiful picture," said Nesta softly.

"What shall be its name?" asked Mr. Russell lightly. "I am open to all suggestions."

"'Cross Currents,'" said Frank quickly.

"They haven't quarrelled," said Molly, looking at them with knitted brows. "What is it that they want? For they are not happy, one can see that. I expect—" and she gave a little laugh—"they want to be made into a couple, as Betty used to say. I think I should call it 'So near, and yet so far!'"

"What does Mrs. St. Clair say?"

Nesta smiled rather sadly.

"'Drifting,'" she said.

"Well, Gerald, what do you say?"

Gerald gazed at the picture as if in a dream, then he said slowly,—

"'For Love himself took part against himself, To warn us off.'"

"And Betty?"

But Betty could not speak for a minute. Gerald's quotation, and the earnestness that vibrated through his tone as he gave it, had brought the tears with a rush to her eyes. She was standing a little behind the others, and now lightly laid her hand on Mr. Russell's arm.

"I do not know," she said, with wonderful self-control. "It is a sad picture, Mr. Russell, but it is a lovely one. Will you not give us your own name for it?"

"I will not have you call it sad. I see a time ahead when those two will be rowing in one boat, and there will be no shadows upon their faces. Now shall we come out into the garden again?"

He kept Betty's hand on his arm, and marched her off to see a new orchid of his, and talked her back into her light, gay humour. Nesta paced the garden paths with Gerald. He found himself involuntarily confiding in her about his life and prospects, in a way that astonished himself. She listened, and gave him not only womanly sympathy, but advice.

"Do not shun your neighbours," she said; "and when your old friends still show themselves friendly, do not repulse them. Friends are easily lost, and not easily made."

"I am not in a position to entertain," said Gerald. "I cannot continue to accept their hospitality, when I am unable to return it."

"But I think that is where you may make a mistake," said Nesta gently. "Surely the highest friendship does not exist on such give-and-take principles. If they do not wish to lose your society for your own sake, why should you hurt their feelings by concluding that they only want your hospitality? There is a lot of pretentious pride about us, and it does us all good to have the highest and best motives ascribed to us. Think the best of your friends, and they will not disappoint you."

"The truth is, I prefer to live my life alone," admitted Gerald.

"Yes, but you will lose many opportunities of helping others if you do so, will you not? And then look on to the future. The time may come when you will bring a wife to your home. She will need the companionship of your friends, and will be the better and the brighter for her intercourse with them. You will be sorry then, for her sake, if you have allowed yourself to drift away from those who really care for you."

"That is a very remote contingency," said Gerald quietly. "Do you honestly think, Mrs. St. Clair, I have anything worth offering a woman?"

"Do you rank money amongst the highest of earth's—no, I will say, God's own gifts?"

"Money brings comfort and ease and absence from care."

"Not always. Some women, I allow, esteem it essential to their happiness. Others would consider honest faithful tender love a far higher gift to offer them. Do not think I am advocating heedless, improvident marriages. Personally, you have enough to keep the wolf from the door, and, provided your wife was content to live a quiet country life, you would be able to shield her from worrying care and anxiety as to all temporal needs, would you not?"

The blood rushed through Gerald's veins at such a possibility.

"Yes," he replied. "She would not be in need of the necessaries of life, but she might be in need of luxuries."

"Which she could very well dispense with," said Nesta; "and she would count herself happy in doing so. I must tell you, Mr. Arundel, I had a shadowed girlhood myself; many years of waiting before I could receive the love that had been rightly mine long, long before. And though I know it was all for the best, I sometimes long that young people should not suffer unnecessarily, that their wedded life should be longer than my own has been."

Gerald did not answer, but his right hand clenched and unclenched itself to hide his emotion, and Nesta's quick eyes noted it. She felt her whole heart go out to this lonely, sorrowful man.

And then she said softly,—

"Men suffer, and are silent: they think they are sparing the one they love, and little realise that her suffering is keener and more intense than their own, for her helplessness is greater. The man has the woman's fate in his hands, if there is mutual love between them. But never let him think that in torturing himself by his restraint and silence he is sparing her."

Then Gerald turned upon her almost fiercely,—

"Would you have a man who has nothing in the world but bare sustenance to offer a woman, drag her down from her comfortable life to his? Would it be true love to link her fate to one who is spoken of, even now, with pitying contempt as a failure?"

"I would give the woman a chance of choosing or refusing such a fate," said Nesta firmly.

"You are a good woman," he said huskily; and abruptly he left her.

Betty was having some last words with her old friend.

"Are you happy, child?" he asked. "Are you still finding it difficult to learn those three lessons—that trio that ought to be interwoven into our lives, and never separated one from the other?"

"You mean 'patience, endurance, and joyfulness'?" said Betty, with shining eyes. "You have helped me so much, Mr. Russell. I think I am learning slowly, that there is a certain joyfulness we get given us, that comes quite apart from our circumstances. It is just as my favourite hymn says—

"'I nothing lack if I am His, And He is mine, for ever.

"And it is realising this that makes one feel cheerful, even when everything is going wrong."

"And about work? How far on have you got in that school, I wonder?"

Betty looked up at him sweetly.

"You mean, I expect, that you want me to learn that the will of God is His work. But, Mr. Russell, I have been trying to fill up the empty corners at Holly Grange, and I do believe it was God's will that I should do so. Now one by one has been taken from me, and I think it is God's will to give me another corner away from here. Has Mrs. St. Clair told you about it?"

"She has mentioned it. Who has filled your corners at Holly Grange?"

"Let me tell you about them," said Betty brightly. "First, there was Molly. She clung to me, and she has been so lonely that I have tried to be with her as much as possible, and cheer her up. Now she has Frank, and wants me no longer. Then Jossy. I have kept him out of mischief, and have shared his games and pleasures. But he is going to school almost immediately. Then there is the organ—and oh I how I have loved it—but Mrs. St. Clair is going to take the services soon, and it will do her as much good as it has done me. I don't feel she needs me so much as she did. Mrs. Fairfax is with her, and they are so happy together. I don't think I shall be missed."

"In fact, you will soon be feeling that you are a little 'odd one' again, without a corner."

"Oh, but there is one waiting for me, and such a nice one! I have always liked blind people since I knew Mat Lubbock a year ago. By-the-bye, I must tell you. On the way here to-day I met him. Holly Grange is so far off that I hardly ever see him. I stopped and spoke to him, and do you know, Mr. Russell, his face was perfectly radiant? He said to me,—

"'The good Lord is "restoring comforts" to me, missy. The best little woman in our village has promised to be my wife. I shan't be solitary no more, and "His goodness faileth never."'

"It was rather a shock to hear that he was going to marry again, but I am sure it will be a splendid thing for him."

"The best thing in the world," said Mr. Russell heartily.

"And so," continued Betty, in her pretty eager way, "I am going to help a Miss Miller amuse and look after a lot of old blind people. She wants some one who can play and sing to them, and they have a little evening service every day, and they love singing hymns. There is a small organ, and I shall be able to use it. And she is wanting help so badly. Don't you think this bit of work for God is indeed His will?"

Mr. Russell laid his hand on her shoulder. "God bless you, my child." Then, after a minute's silence, he said, with apparent irrelevance, "I am sure I was right in my picture. The girl's face must be in the sunshine."

A little time afterwards Betty was helping Jossy to cut a whistle. They were standing under one of the old elms, and Betty in her broad-brimmed hat and white gown looked the picture of dainty sweetness.

Gerald Arundel striding up to them, with a purpose in his face, drew his breath hard, as he gazed upon them.

"Jossy," he said quietly, "your mother wants to speak to you."

The boy looked up.

"Does she? I'm coming. That's first-rate, Betty!"

He sped away, ear-splitting shrieks issuing from his new toy.

Betty looked after him and smiled.

"Why do boys love any noise so much?" she asked.

"The love of power," said Gerald, drawing a wicker chair forward. "Will you sit down, Miss Betty? I have hardly seen you this afternoon."

Betty's heart began to beat, but she laughed gaily.

"I have been wandering about with Mr. Russell, and then Jossy carried me off. You will take care of my old friend, will you not, Mr. Arundel? He is not looking well. I hope he will enjoy himself. He seems to leave home so seldom now, and it is always such a lonely life for him here."

"I will take the best care of him that I can, I promise you," said Gerald, leaning against the elm, and looking down upon her with wistful longing in his eyes. "Do you think he is lonely, Miss Betty? Not more lonely than I am."

Betty looked up. Her little sympathetic soul overcame the strange wave of shyness that was stealing over her.

"I am so sorry. I am sure you must be lonely too. It will be good for you to get away with him for a little while."

Her eyes met the look in his; she dropped them at once.

"What did you think of the picture?" Gerald asked.

He was putting strong restraint upon himself.

"It was beautiful," said Betty softly.

"Did you like my title for it?"

"No," she said, with an effort. "It was too sad. I like people to be happy."

"But life is not always happy," said Gerald.

Then he added, trying to speak lightly,—

"Let us make a story about that young couple in the picture, Miss Betty. The man is poor, he has nothing to offer her. He dare not tell her what is in his heart. She has been accustomed to luxury; he knows she will find it lacking if she links her life to his. She has many friends; he has none. She may meet some one who can offer her everything that the world can give. Is he to spoil this possibility, and expect her to listen to him? Is it likely that she will prefer his boat to her own? Is it not his duty to be silent, and let her glide on down life's stream, passing him as he rows by her side in the shade?"

"It might be his duty," said Betty tremulously, as she interlaced her fingers tightly in her lap, "but it wouldn't be love."

"'Could Love part thus? Was it not well to speak, To have spoken once? It could not but be well.'"

She almost breathed these words.

Gerald's eyes glowed. He leant forward.

"Would the speaking bring pain to her?" he said. "Would it be but the prelude of bidding 'adieu for ever'?"

Betty's nerves were highly strung. She was frightened at the audacity of her last words, and following an impulse for which she could not account, she said, with a little laugh,—

"You must ask Mr. Russell. It is his story, not mine."

And then she rose from her seat.

Gerald drew his breath in sharply, but he said not a word, only followed her in silence to the little group on the lawn.

Betty seemed in the highest spirits; she laughed and she chattered so much that Nesta, with her quick intuition, saw that something had gone wrong.

Gerald looked on silently. In his heart he was murmuring,—

"'In vain I strove to reach it Through the tangled mass of green; It only smiled and nodded Behind its thorny screen.'"

And Betty, poor Betty, was nearer tears than laughter; for she had a dull miserable ache in her heart, and was keenly conscious that with her light indifferent words she had put away a great happiness from herself, and wounded to the quick the one she would have given her life to comfort. She was glad when Nesta's carriage came round.

Gerald did not speak to her till he held out his hand to say good-bye, and then Betty's forced cheerfulness forsook her. He looked down upon her so kindly, and with such a tender reverence in his eyes, that her sensitive little soul was filled with remorse, and tears trembled on her eyelashes as she looked up at him.

"Good-bye, Mr. Arundel. I—I hope you will have a nice time."

"I hope we shall," he said; "and I promise you to look after Mr. Russell."

That gentleman came up and laid his hand affectionately on Betty's shoulder.

"Good-bye, little woman. You must be here to welcome me back. We shall only be gone six weeks. God bless you."

Why did a sudden cold fear sweep down upon Betty's heart as she looked into the face of her friend? He stood there in the sunshine, smiling at her, and then, seeing a distressed look in her eyes, he did what he had never done before—stooped down and kissed her.

"That is in memory of my little short-frocked Betty many years ago," he said.

"Just tell me that I'm the same," said Betty, clasping her hands round his arm; "tell me I'm every bit the same to you."

"Every bit the same," he repeated, smiling at her; "the 'little odd one' still!"

They drove away; the evening shadows were already falling, the sun slowly faded; and darker shadows hovered over Betty's soul, and for the time reduced her to pensive, brooding silence.