CHAPTER III

A Strange Encounter

Deep grief is better let alone; Voices to it are swords. FABER.

"MOLLY, Molly! Where are you?"

"Here—in the study. What do you want? Oh, Betty, what a noise! You will disturb mother. She is lying down."

"How can you stay in this stuffy little room when it's so lovely out of doors? I have had a little adventure, and I must tell it to some one!"

Betty had jumped in at the low window with a light bound. Her hat was at the back of her head, her curls were flying in disorder over her forehead. She looked flushed and excited, and threw herself into an easy-chair with a little sigh.

Molly was bending over her beloved story. This was her time, when her mother was resting, to pour forth on paper all the pretty thoughts and fancies of her imaginative brain.

She was not best pleased at Betty's interruption.

"I suppose you have met some one, or picked some wonderful flower. It can't be anything very exciting."

"It was dreadful!" Betty said, clasping her little hands over her face, and blushing at the remembrance of it. "Listen, Molly,—now you shall listen to me, if I have to throw your manuscript into the fire!"

Molly hastily closed her writing-case, as Betty came towards her.

"I am listening, so make haste," she said, leaning back in her chair with patient resignation.

Betty swung herself up on the table by her sister's side, and sat there with a mixture of seriousness and fun gleaming out of her eyes.

"I was taking a walk in the direction of Holly Grange, and I climbed a hill, and skirted a plantation, coming out into a sunny field overlooking such a lovely bit of country! A delightful old red manor house peeped out between some trees, the river—a silver streak of light—wound along at the foot of some blue hills."

"Oh, do stop your scenery, and get on to your adventure!" interrupted Molly.

"I am coming to it, only you have quite spoilt my description. I climbed a low hedge at the corner of the field, to get a better view; and there, lying by a sheltered bank, was the body of a man!"

Molly's eyes were open now.

"Not a dead man? I suppose he was drunk."

"He lay quite motionless, and I stood still staring at him for a minute, and then I was filled with horror, for I thought he might have shot himself by accident, or been murdered; and, without thinking, I rushed up to him, and laid my hand on his shoulder, and asked him if he was hurt."

"Well?"

For Betty had paused, and her eyes looked troubled.

"He sprang to his feet, Molly, so suddenly, that I sprang away from him. He wasn't a bit hurt."

Molly laughed.

"You must have looked sillies, both jumping away from each other! I wish I had seen you!"

"Oh, it isn't anything to laugh at! I felt so ashamed of myself, for when he looked at me I saw he was in deep trouble. I don't think I ever saw such misery on any one's face before. He looked as if he had been having an awful fight with himself. His face was knotted and lined, and his eyes full of despair."

Molly's laugh died away. She was interested now.

"Go on," she said. "What did he say?"

"He only looked in my direction for a moment, then he wheeled round, raised his hat, and walked away haughtily. I just caught his words: 'I am perfectly well, thanks!' And oh, Molly, I felt so ashamed of intruding upon him at such a time, and I do feel so sorry for him!"

"What was he like?"

"A tall, good-looking man—not very young—he was in a grey suit of clothes and brown leggings. I only saw his face for a minute—dark eyes—I think. But wouldn't you have been overwhelmed with confusion if you had been in my place?"

"I never get myself into such awkward predicaments," said Molly. "I shouldn't have dreamt of going up and taking hold of a strange man asleep on the grass!"

"But he wasn't asleep. And I thought he was hurt; I couldn't have passed him by. It would have been heartless!"

"You might have called out to him, before you went up to him. I should have asked him the way somewhere, to be sure whether he was alive or dead!"

"Oh, of course you would have done the proper thing! I never do, and—and I'm glad I don't!"

Betty dashed out of the room, slamming the door after her as she went.

Molly put her hands up to her ears.

"I wish she were not so vehement. I think this stranger must be rather interesting. I will put him into my book. A kind of Byron, perhaps. Dark and bitter and passionate, and scorned by the one he loves!"

Betty was by this time in her bedroom leaning her elbows on her window-sill, and looking out with dreamy eyes into the sunny garden below.

"I wish I knew who he was! His hands were clenched as he got up. He looked at me in that one glance as if he hated me. He must have been angry to be found like that. He looked a proud man, and I expect he came out and away from everybody, on purpose to give vent to his feelings. I wonder if he has a wife,—if he has quarrelled with her! I should know him again anywhere. Oh, dear, why is it that even in this sweet country trouble seems to come upon people? It is only the flowers and birds that are really happy, and even they—if I knew it, I expect—have their troubles. I shall go into church and play. It will take my thoughts away from disagreeable things!"

She ran lightly downstairs again, and, softly singing to herself, made her way down the village lane to look for a blower. She came to a standstill when she saw Mat Lubbock smoking his pipe and leaning over a stile.

"I will try him again," she thought; "it won't hurt me if he refuses."

So, in her pretty winning tones, she asked him if he would oblige her once again.

"There be plenty o' lads in the village without askin' of me," he said in a gruff tone.

"Yes, but I like you best. You are so strong. I am always afraid of tiring the little boys; and they sometimes blow so jerkily."

"I'll oblige ye this once," said Mat, taking his pipe out of his mouth and tapping it against the wooden bar upon which he leant; "but never agen, mind ye!"

"Not until next time," Betty murmured under her breath, with a twinkle of amusement in her eye.

Then the two walked off to the church together, and in a minute soft strains were rising and falling, and Betty's face and eyes were shining with a happy light. An hour went by, and still she sat there until the church clock striking, reminded her of the time. Then she finished by singing Gounod's "King of Love."

Mat's face in his corner worked strangely as her sweet joyous notes rang out,—

"'The King of love my Shepherd is, Whose goodness faileth never; I nothing lack if I am His, And He is mine, for ever.'"

When the last words had died away, Betty, in the fulness of her heart, spoke to him,—

"Aren't those delicious words, Mat? I love them. They always cure my restless, discontented feelings. 'I nothing lack if I am His!' If I could feel that through every hour of the day! Not only when I sing them in church!"

"There be very few who be lackin' nothin'!" said Mat in his gruffest tone.

"I suppose," said Betty, with a wistful look in her eyes, "there are very few who can say those words that follow,—

"'I am His, and He is mine, for ever.'"

Mat did not reply, but tramped down the side aisle with one of his most sullen looks. Then, as Betty softly followed him, he suddenly turned round and, planting his back against the church door, delivered his mind.

[Illustration: PLANTING HIS BACK AGAINST THE CHURCH DOOR, MAT DELIVERED HIS MIND.]

"A young leddy, as you be, may well sit down and sing them pretty fancical words. Ye know nought of sin nor grief nor wrong; ye may patter on about the loving Shepherd and the pastures, an' havin' comfort through death's darkness. It be a meaningless thing to ye, arter all said and done. I tell ye, missy, if you had bin treated by the God ye sings such nice things of, as He have treated me, you wouldn't be so ready to sing His praises! A good Shepherd! A King of Love! He be a cruel Tyrant, to my thinkin'!"

"Oh, hush, hush, Mat! How can you speak so in God's house? But I've heard of your troubles, and I do feel so sorry for you."

She put her little hand on his arm, and looked up at him with tears in her eyes. Then she said,—

"When I was a little girl I used to long for trouble, for I thought that all God's people must have it; I never dreamt then that trouble would keep people away from God; I thought it must bring them closer to Him. I believe God means it to do so still. But, as you say, I have no experience, so I cannot talk to you. Only I was thinking as I was singing that verse,—

"'Perverse and foolish oft I strayed, But yet in love He sought me,'—

"that we shall never see God's love in anything in our lives, if our backs are turned to it. We stray on away from it, and perhaps some of our troubles are our own making. If you turned right round, Mat, you would meet the love that is following you. You never will see it so long as your back is turned to it."

Mat made no reply. He opened the door and went out.

It was astonishing to Betty how easily he felt his way along with his stick. She called out a "Good afternoon" to him, but he did not answer.

As she went up the drive she sang again,—

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

And the words reached Mat's ear, and a heavy sigh escaped him.

Tea was in the drawing-room when Betty came in, and a visitor; Mr. Russell was seated by the window talking to Mrs. Stuart.

"Ah," he said, rising and taking Betty's hand in his; "here is my little friend. I am not going to make a stranger of her, Mrs. Stuart. I am going to take up my friendship with her where I left off. And she must adopt no young lady airs and graces with me, for I will have none of them."

He spoke playfully, and Betty answered him in the same spirit.

"I promise you to put on a white sun-bonnet and holland gown the next time you call. And I am quite sure I shall enjoy a drive in your high dog-cart now as much as I used to do."

"Which means I must take you for a drive. When will you come? To-morrow?"

"If mother can spare me," said Betty demurely.

"Oh yes," Mrs. Stuart replied; "Molly will be here. It will be very kind of you, Mr. Russell."

Conversation turned on other topics. Then a certain Gerald Arundel was mentioned, whom Mrs. Stuart knew in town, and who was now living at the Red Manor near.

"I remember his maiden speech in the House," Mrs. Stuart said; "my husband thought a great deal of it, and he often dined with us. He was interested in philanthropy, and was very strong on the Temperance Question. I always thought him a particularly well-read, cultured man, and wondered that he so soon sank into obscurity."

"It was his mother's doing. She was an irascible old lady, who quarrelled with the land agents so often, that no one could be got to stay. The property became hopelessly involved, and the only thing was for Gerald to come home and turn agent himself. He gave up his seat at the following election; said he could not work both—and I think he was right. Mrs. Arundel died two years ago. But Gerald has lost his taste for London life. He always was devoted to his home, and he is still full of philanthropic schemes for his tenants. It is a large property. I have known him since he was a boy, and I admire his grip and grit of purpose. Nothing daunts him."

"Is he married?"

"No; he spends his leisure time in his library, which is a very rare unique collection. His father, if you remember, was a great bookworm, and the son inherits his tastes."

"It is a good thing to have a hobby," remarked Mrs. Stuart. "I am always telling my girls to get a purpose into their lives. Something that will interest and occupy them if their surroundings should not be congenial. Half the misery in the world is caused through lack of occupation."

"And the other half through lack of rest," said Mr. Russell musingly.

"Molly has her hobby," said Betty impulsively; "but I haven't found mine yet."

Molly blushed as she met Mr. Russell's keen searching gaze.

"And what is it?" he asked her.

"I mean to write books," she said modestly.

Mrs. Stuart smiled at her favourite daughter.

"Molly has a riotous imagination," she said. "If that were all that is necessary for successful authorship, she would succeed. But, as I tell her, imagination may amuse or distract; it cannot uplift or instruct; and, to my mind, the world will never lack amusing books. I wish her a nobler pursuit."

"I don't feel I shall ever do anything grand or noble," said Molly. "I am sure I am not made for it."

She did not look crushed by her mother's criticism.

"And Betty is lacking in this gift of imagination?" said Mr. Russell enquiringly.

Betty laughed.

"I couldn't have the patience to wade through imaginary sorrows as Molly does. She makes herself miserable sometimes. I think it is quite wicked. It's like deliberately cutting a fly in half, and crying as you do it! Douglas used to do that when he was a small boy!"

"And so you have no hobbies?"

Betty shook her small head.

"I love playing the organ," she said; "but I seem to like something different every day. And then there are days that I like nothing. Mother says I'm undisciplined."

"I shall have to take you in hand," said Mr. Russell, smiling at her.

He lingered on, unwilling to leave the old-fashioned vicarage drawing-room, with the scent of roses in the air, the two young girls in their white dresses, and their mother with her graceful beauty. His artistic soul was satisfied with its environment.

When he left at last, Betty accompanied him down the drive. Stretching out her hand to a bush of pink roses, she gathered some, and put them into her belt.

"I wish it was sunshine and roses all the year round," she said enthusiastically. "Isn't early summer delicious, Mr. Russell? And isn't the country the place to live in, if you wish to be happy and good?"

"You would like to be a lotus-eater?" said Mr. Russell, shaking his head at her. "Don't wish to shirk the stern realities of life, Betty; your character will suffer if you do. Sunshine and roses do not brace and strengthen; they too often enervate. Women, as well as men, want adverse winds to prove the grit and purpose in them."

Betty's merry smile faded, her lips took a wistful curve.

"I haven't found the purpose of my life yet," she said, stealing a shy look up at her old friend through her long lashes. "I wonder if you will help me to discover it, Mr. Russell? Only—" here dimples and smiles appeared again—"don't tell me it is to be married!"

"Is that what most people tell you?"

"They infer it."

"And is it a fate that you despise? Have you developed into one of those young women who think a married life a state of slavery?"

"I don't think I have," said Betty demurely, "for that idea has never entered my mind. But I really hear so much about the subject in town that I am quite sick of it. Now I am in the country I mean to forget all about it. I want to fill my mind with other things."

"I will try to help you."

"Yes, please do. You're a man; your head isn't full of the nonsense that a girl's is! I want—oh, I want so much to have a full and happy life. Tell me what fills yours."

Betty looked so earnest and child-like in her unconventional speech, that Mr. Russell refrained from smiling. He was touched to the heart.

"My dear little friend," he said, "you came into my life many years ago when it was an empty one. You were the means of leading me to the source of true satisfaction and fulness. I would that I could help you now. I am sorry that your life is not a full one. You have everything in this world to make you happy—youth and health and strength, and, may I hope that you have not lost, what you possessed so strongly as a child, your faith in and love of God?"

Betty flushed with deep feeling.

"No, I haven't lost that, Mr. Russell, but I am doing no good to any one; and I get moody and discontented, and sometimes I'm enchanted with everybody and everything, and then I hate them all just as heartily! And I'm not a bit good. I don't think I ever was. I always long to be, but I can never manage it. There now, I've made you my father confessor! Now what are you going to say to me?"

They were standing by the gate at the end of the drive, and Betty raised mischievous eyes to Mr. Russell's face. In spite of the fun sparkling in them, he saw they were trembling with unshed tears.

"I will keep my lecture for another day," he said lightly.

Betty dropped a little curtsey.

"Thank you, sir."

Then she gave him her hand.

"Good-bye; and next time you will see me in a white sun-bonnet!"

She tripped away singing, "'I know a bank whereon the wild thyme grows;'" and Mr. Russell walked home feeling that, in spite of years, growth, and change, Betty was Betty still, with her quick-silvery transition of mood and thought.