CHAPTER VII

Old Women

Each word of kindness, Come whence it may, is welcome to the poor. Her presence Fell on their hearts like a ray of sun on the walls of a prison. LONGFELLOW.

MRS. STUART was very interested in hearing from her girls about the Red Manor and its master. Betty felt impatient at her mother's view of the case, and thought she did not show sufficient sympathy for Gerald. She heard with consternation her mother discussing with Molly the advisability of attending the sale, in order to obtain some of the treasures in the library. Mrs. Stuart was a keen lover of books, and the joy of obtaining at a moderate price some of the valuable works she had so admired when lunching there, over-balanced the pity she felt for their owner.

There was much excitement in the neighbourhood when it was known that the goods and effects of the Red Manor were to be sold by auction. Most of Gerald's friends and neighbours expressed their intention of being present; and Betty grew angry and disgusted by turns, when she heard the matter being so lightly discussed. She watched her mother and sister drive off to the sale, when the day came round with a sore heart. She was ashamed to own even to herself how much her thoughts were with Gerald Arundel.

She pictured him taking his last farewell of his old home, with a happy past behind him, and the future uncertain and dreary. She dwelt in thought over his words in the library, when she asked him if he were ever lonely,—

"The one thing I shall look back to with thankfulness hereafter is, that I have made the best use of the opportunities that have been given to me of spending all the time I could here."

Now that time was gone; and he knew, when he said those words, that perhaps it would be the last time he could show friends over his house.

Betty went out into the garden, and paced the paths dejectedly. At last her feelings got the better of her, and, sitting down on a low garden-chair under an old elm, she buried her face in her hands, and gave way to tears. She was startled by a voice close to her a few minutes later.

"What is the matter with my little friend?"

Betty looked hastily up, and confronted Mr. Russell.

"Oh!" she said, stretching out her hand to him impulsively. "It is all so miserable, Mr. Russell. Why does God let things all go wrong? Why should some people have such trouble, and others none at all?"

"Are you in trouble?"

"No; I am thinking about Mr. Arundel. He seems so brave and cheerful about it and people say such things, that he doesn't care a bit, and has no heart, and is so cold-blooded,—and it makes my blood boil to hear them! If they only knew!"

Mr. Russell's eyebrows elevated themselves very slightly.

"Don't take other people's troubles too hardly, Betty. You will have enough to bear of your own, without adding to them."

"I hate people to be unhappy!" Betty cried vehemently. "And good people oughtn't to be."

"Hush! Remember who sends trouble. You taught me that lesson long, long ago Gerald is not unhappy, he will tell you."

Betty was silent.

"The bitterness is over," he had said to her, as they looked up at the starry heaven above them. But she had seen him when it was full upon him, and she could not forget that time.

"You feel things too much," Mr. Russell continued. "Come out for a drive with me, and forget it all."

"And you call yourself his friend!" Betty said reproachfully. "I thought Mat's trouble bad enough, but I think this is almost worse."

"No, no," said Mr. Russell quickly. "Death is a worse foe than poverty. And Gerald has health and strength, and all his faculties perfect. Did you not want to go and see the Red Manor almshouses? Shall we drive there now?"

"Will those be sold too?" Betty enquired dolefully. "And why are you not at the sale? Everybody is. It is quite a gala day."

"Do not let me see that twist to your lips, my little friend! I hope you will leave sarcasm alone. It never suits a woman. I have now just come from the sale."

Betty rose a little reluctantly from her seat. She would have been better content if Mr. Russell had not roused her from her musings; but a few minutes later, when she was driving swiftly along the roads in his high dog-cart, her spirit revived.

"Isn't the world delicious?" she said, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. "And aren't those bright green fields a picture in the sun? Young wheat, is it not? And the smell of the hay is enchanting! Oh, I wish I could be always in the country! I mean to make the very most of my summer here."

For the rest of the drive Mr. Russell could not complain of Betty's dulness; she seemed to have entirely shaken off her fit of the blues. When they arrived at the almshouses, she was delighted afresh. They were picturesque, red-bricked buildings with thatched roofs, built in a row in a green meadow, with some old chestnuts standing like sentinels in front.

"Now," said Mr. Russell, as he helped her to alight, "I am going to leave you here while I drive on farther. There are six old women to visit, and you must not leave out one, or you will hurt their feelings. Will an hour be long enough for you?"

"Oh yes," Betty replied. "Perhaps I shall find they do not want me so long. Must I portion out the time equally? Ten minutes to each?"

She laughed gaily, and waved her hand to him as he drove off, then made her way to the first cottage. She was welcomed by a cheery talkative old woman, who was cleaning up her hearth, and apologised for her appearance.

"I've just bin a cookin' meself an apple pastie, me dear. Sit 'ee down, for master did tell us of a young leddy a-comin' a-visitin'. I be allays on me feet, for I be a terrible active body, an' if the place be small, it takes a brave lot o' cleanin'. Now, Mary Dunster nex' door, her be just t'other way. Her be allays groanin' an' wantin' folk to do for her, an' never a word o' thanks. Her thinketh her be of higher stock than me, because her lived in Lunnon town for a spell, an' her took in dressmakin'. Her were maid to old Mrs. Fitz Hume, an' her be allays mindin' us o' the quality her have a lived with. All said an' done, I be an independent stock; for my father were head shepherd to Farmer Watson, an' I kep' house after mother died, an' never went to service, an' me dear husband were Squire Arundel's carpenter. Ah, dearie me! What a day to see! 'Tis true what the Scripture saith, 'He putteth down one, an' setteth up another.'"

Betty fancied there was a little suppressed satisfaction in her tone, and felt indignant at once.

"I don't know what you will all do when your squire goes away. You will never get another like him."

"Maybe not. He be a well-meanin' young man, an' I hath nought to say agen he. But 'tis pitiful to see how folks taketh of him in; an' Martha Button be a proper one to do it. Her be two door off, me dear, an' were nurse to the fam'ly. You 'm be pretty well wearied wi' her lasting chatteration of the squire's sayin's and doin's, when her tongue be started. Her be allays looked to first an' foremost, an' her seeth to it that her be so!"

"And who are your other neighbours?" asked Betty, not feeling quite sure whether she liked this garrulous old woman.

"There be Widder Newcombe and Widder Long, an' they be that thick together that, 'pon me word, us don't know which house belangs to which. If so be you droppeth in to Widder Newcombe's, Widder Long be havin' her cup o' tay by the fireside, if you looketh in at Widder Long, Widder Newcombe be sittin' wi' her knittin' as if her never be goin' to leave. An' then on washin' day there be a gran' bust up, an' they be callin' each other all the bad names they can think on. Us always calleth them the widders, though us be all that, save our newcomer Susan Crane; but they losted their husban's in the same day in a quarry explosion, an' allays have worked on the gentry's feelin's. They be both out, for they be gone to the Red Manor sale, which is onfeelin', to say nothin' of the disrespec', in thinkin' o' buyin' the squire's saucepans an' such like. But Widder Newcombe be very savin', an' her always go to the sales, and nice rubbish her doth pick up at 'em!"

"Susan Crane came from our village, did she not?" asked Betty, wishing to stop this flow of talk.

"Her did that; but her be not much company for us. Her be the village nurse, and maybe it made her turn pious. Her be overmuch that way, if so be it be real, but I have me doubts. Folks can sit wi' the Scriptures open before 'em, when squire cometh by, an' spout streams of tex'es an' hymns till they right daze one; but 'tis a different song when there be none to see an' praise 'em, an' Susan be too holy, I fancy!"

"I don't think any one can be that," said Betty gravely. "I couldn't; could you?"

"No, me dear, Lucy Finch be just a poor sinner, like the rest o' the world. I doth not set meself above me neighbours."

Betty stayed a little longer, but she was glad to leave Mrs. Finch. She did not seem to her to be her ideal old woman in an alms house.

Mary Dunster was a pale, sweet-faced woman, sitting in her chair, stiff with rheumatism. To Betty, her little kitchen perhaps lacked the shine and polish of her neighbour's, but it was clean and comfortable.

She brightened up at the sight of a visitor.

"I heard the voices through the wall, miss; and I hoped you might be looking in here. We get very tired of each other, and the days are long."

"I have been envying you," Betty said brightly. "I thought it must be so restful in these sweet little cottages. Aren't you very happy here?"

Mrs. Dunster gave a heavy sigh.

"'Tis a difficult matter to be happy, when you suffer so, miss. I never spend a night without pain. I am crippled up with rheumatism, just a useless old creature sitting here till I die."

"But," said Betty, with shining eyes, "in all probability you are nearer heaven than I am. You have that to look forward to, haven't you? No more pain."

Mrs. Dunster sighed again.

"It seems unreal to me. I doubt sometimes if I shall get there."

"Why?"

Mrs. Dunster looked uneasy, but said nothing.

"May I come and read to you about heaven, to make it real?" asked Betty eagerly. "Ever since I was quite a little girl I have loved reading about it. It makes everything so bright when you think of it; and it is the way to make it real to one. I have a brother out in India, he is at a place called Quetta. I never took any interest in it before he went there, but he tells us so much about it in his letters, and sends us so many photos of it, and curiosities, that now I feel I know it quite well."

"It would pass the time," said Mrs. Dunster, with a sigh. "It is such a treat to hear a young lady speak. My neighbours have not received any education, and I've always been accustomed to the gentry. What a sad pity 'tis about the squire! Have you heard, miss, whether the place have been bought? I've thought lately how worried the squire has been looking! 'Tis a crying shame to turn him out so sudden like. And they do say he hasn't a penny now! 'Tis a terrible business!"

"Yes," said Betty soberly, "it is. I can't think how he must feel to-day."

"'Tis likely he'll be upset."

Betty stayed some time with Mrs. Dunster, then she went on to Mrs. Button's. Here she met with a surprise. Mrs. Button was seated at a round tea-table, and opposite her, leaning back in a grandfather's chair with a smile on his face, and a cup of tea halfway to his lips, was Gerald Arundel. The tea-table was daintily spread—a snow-white cloth with a glass of old-fashioned moss-roses in the centre. A home-made loaf, some honey in a glass dish, and some clotted cream, all made a cosy picture; and Martha Button, in her snow-white cap and apron, with her rosy cheeks and kindly smile, was the chief attraction in it.

For an instant Betty hesitated, but Gerald was on his feet in an second.

"Why, nurse, here is Miss Stuart come to see you. Do you think you have another cup of your excellent tea to give her?"

"Indeed I have, sir," said Martha, dropping Betty a curtsey; "and I do feel highly honoured to have you both to tea."

"I feel I am intruding," Betty said, as she shook hands with Gerald; "but you do look so cosy that I cannot resist joining you."

"When I am tired or low-spirited, I always come to my old nurse to be heartened up," Gerald said, smiling. "She does me more good than some of the medicines she is fond of recommending."

[Illustration: FOR AN INSTANT BETTY HESITATED, BUT GERALD WAS ON HIS FEET IN A SECOND.]

"Ay, sir, but there be always two ways of looking at life, like both ends of a spyglass—one makes all our trouble bigger than they be by rights, the other smaller."

"You have made mine look much smaller this afternoon."

"She must be a wonderful person!" said Betty, almost under her breath.

Gerald laughed aloud.

"Now, Miss Betty, come and sit down. Do you like honey? Ah, that is right! Nurse keeps bees, and always has a store of it. Well, have you seen any of our inmates here?"

"Yes," said Betty brightly, "I have. Mrs. Finch kept me with her a long time."

Mrs. Button smiled.

"She is a rare talker, is Lucy Finch. I dare say she have told you all about us, miss; and I'm afraid not any of us stand in her good books."

"I didn't like the way she talked."

"'Tis only her tongue, miss. She can't help herself. If any one is really ill or in trouble, Lucy comes to them at once, and is first-rate. But she be a bit jealous of folks."

"So I gathered. And then I went to see Mrs. Dunster. And I am coming another day to read to her. She seems so unhappy."

"She does suffer cruel with rheumatics, and if a body never goes outside the door, 'tis very lonesome."

"I think there is only one more to see," Betty continued, "for two are out."

"Yes," said Gerald quietly. "I met them on their way to the Manor. Pots and pans at any sale are Mrs. Newcombe's specialties. I hope she will pick up some bargain, poor soul!"

Betty wondered that he could speak so calmly. She thoroughly enjoyed her tea, and, taking her cue from Gerald's mood, was as gay and joyous as if no cloud had darkened her sunshine that day.

Mrs. Button's cheery society was certainly inspiriting.

"I've been telling the squire, miss, that he be only on the threshold o' his life, and there be many greater things coming to him than the Red Manor. 'Twas just a trust lent him by the Lord, and when he were found faithful to it, the Lord took it away, to hand on to another and give him a chance; and now another trust be waitin' for the squire. It doesn't matter if it be a high or a low position, 'tis only a stewardship. The Lord have small bits o' land as well as big that want a steward; and 'tis faithfulness He looks for."

"We are all stewards, Miss Betty, are we not?" said Gerald, looking across at her with a smile.

"I am not sure of my stewardship yet," replied Betty thoughtfully. Then she got up to go.

"I was told I was not to miss seeing any one; so I must go to Mrs. Crane. Good-bye, Mrs. Button, and thank you for your delicious tea. May I come and see you another day? Good-bye, Mr. Arundel."

"I shall see you again, for I want to speak to Russell when he comes. Well, nurse, I must be bidding you good-day."

"God bless you, sir! He will. I be quite sure of that. And I'm hopin' that you will find a nice wife one o' these days. She'll be a comfort to you, and make up for all you've lost."

A shadow fell across Gerald's face. He made no response, but crossed the flagstones with Betty to Susan Crane's door.

They were both silent. Betty's smiles and dimples had disappeared. She was thinking over stewardships and their responsibilities, wondering if she were unknowingly wasting or hoarding what had been entrusted to her care.

And Gerald's thoughts had wandered from stewardships to dreams in the future.

He saw himself a lonely man in a dreary farm, forsaken by those who judged a man by his possessions. He wondered if such comfort as his old nurse had mentioned would ever be his lot.

Betty left him outside Susan Crane's door. She found her at her tea, and was welcomed warmly.

"This be a lonesome place, miss. 'Tis right off the high road, and us sees nought go by. I have bin accustomed to live in the middle of a village where there be a good bit o' life goin' on, so I miss it sorely, and get downhearted at times. I fretted to give up my work, but I be gettin' old, and the young squire be good enough to offer me these rooms. It was just an answer to prayer, so I ought to be content, but it do seem nice to see a visitor. Us six old women living here together do rub each other up wonderful. I tries to keep myself to myself, but there be always such a lot o' talk one agen another that I do be fair puzzled which side to take."

"I thought an almshouse was an abode of rest and peace," said Betty. "I am a little disappointed to-day."

"So it be, miss, to most; and 'tis our own fault if us makes it other than that. When us have the Lord and His goodness with us, what more can us want?"

"'I nothing lack if I am His, and He is mine, for ever,'" quoted Betty with a smile. "But we do forget it so, Mrs. Crane. I do, dreadfully."

They chatted on. Mrs. Crane,—for though she was not a married woman, she had always been given that title, in respect for her office of sick nurse,—was a tiny, wiry-looking old woman. She was an earnest Christian, and could not perhaps understand why every one was not the same as herself. She had scant sympathy with Lucy Finch, or with the two friendly widows.

"They be all such ill-natured gossips, miss, and so hard of heart and slow to believe."

"You will be a help to them," Betty suggested.

"Eh dear, no, miss; they don't take no notice of the likes o' me, leastways only to make mock of. Now Mrs. Button and me does have some nice talk together, but they say us holds ourselves too high."

"I shall come and see you all again soon," said Betty, as she departed; "and I think I shall give you a scolding all round, for not living at peace in such a sweet old resting-place."

She laughed merrily when she saw Susan Crane's face of dismay.

"Eh, dearie me! Us be like a set o' quarrelsome children; but us will try to like each other better afore your nex' visit comes round."

The wheels of Mr. Russell's trap were heard on the high road. Betty ran out, and found Gerald already at the gate waiting for his friend.

Mr. Russell insisted upon driving him back to his house to dine and sleep that night.

"And we will drop this young lady on her way. I have just met Mrs. Stuart on her way home."

"Mrs. Stuart is able to drive out again?" Gerald asked Betty.

"Yes," said Betty confusedly. Then with crimson cheeks she blurted out,—

"She was—at the sale to-day."

There was a minute's silence, then Gerald said quietly,—

"I am so glad. I can guess what attracted her there. If you are benefitted by any of my well-worn favourites, Miss Betty, I shall be very pleased."

Betty made no reply. She felt she could not. For the rest of the drive she was strangely silent.