'I think it was very happy, as regarded the choice of the hymn; it was peculiar, but very effective. My question meant, why did you sing a hymn at all?'

'I will tell you,' said the other. 'I do not know if you will understand me. I sang that, because I have given myself to Christ, and my voice must be used only as His servant.'

Quick as thought it flashed upon Betty, the words she had heard Pitt Dallas quote so lately, quote and descant upon, about giving his body 'a living sacrifice.' 'How you two think alike!' was her instant reflection; 'and how you would fit if you could come together!—which you never shall, if I can prevent it.' But her face showed only serious attention and interest.

'I do not quite understand,' she said. 'Your words are so unusual'—

'I cannot put my meaning in simpler words.'

'Then do you think it wrong to sing common songs?—those everybody sings?'

'I cannot sing them,' said Esther simply. 'My voice is Christ's servant.' But the smile with which these (to Betty) severe words were spoken was entirely charming. There was not severity but gladness upon every line of the curving lips, along with a trait of tenderness which touched Betty's heart. In all her life she had never had such a feeling of inferiority. She had given due reverence to persons older than herself; it was the fashion in those days; she had acknowledged a certain social precedence in ladies who were leaders of society and heads of families; she had never had such a feeling of being set down, as before this young, pure, stately creature. Mentally, Betty, as it were, stepped down from the dais and stood with her arms folded over her breast, in the Eastern attitude of reverence, during the rest of the interview.

'Then you do not do anything,' said Betty incredulously, 'if you cannot do it so?'

'Not if I know it,' the other said, smiling more broadly and with some archness.

'But still—may I speak frankly?—that does not tell me all. You know—you must know—that not everybody would like your choice of music?'

'I suppose, very few.'

'Would it do any good, in any way, to displease them?'

'That is not the first question. The first question, in any case, is, How may I best do this thing for God?—for His honour and His kingdom.'

'I do not see what His honour and His kingdom have to do with it.'

'It is for His honour that His servants should obey Him, is it not?' said Esther, with another smile. 'And is it not for His kingdom, that His invitations should be given?'

'But here?'

'Why not here?'

'It is unusual.'

'I have no business to be anywhere where I cannot do it.'

'That sounds—dreadful!' said Betty honestly.

'Why?'

'Oh, it sounds strict, narrow, like a sort of slavery, as if one could never be free.'

'Free for what?'

'Whatever one likes! I should be miserable if I felt I could not do what I liked!'

'Can you do it now?' said Esther.

'Well, not always; but I am free to try,' said Betty frankly.

'Is that your definition of happiness?—to try for that which you cannot attain.'

'I do attain it,—sometimes.'

'And keep it?'

'Keep it? You cannot keep anything in this world.'

'I do not think anything is happiness, that you cannot keep.'

'But—if you come to that—what can you keep?' said Betty.

Esther bent forward a little, and said, with an intense gleam in her grey eyes, which seemed to dance and sparkle,

'"Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever."'

'I do not know Him,' Betty breathed out, after staring at her companion.

'I saw that.'

Esther rose, and Betty felt constrained to rise too.

'Oh, are you going?' she cried. 'I have not done talking. How can I know Him?'

'Do you wish me to tell you?'

'Indeed, yes.'

'If you are in dead earnest, and seek Him, He will reveal Himself to you. But then, you must be willing to obey every word He says. Good night.'

She offered her hand. Before Miss Frere, however, could take it, up came the lady of the house.

'You are not going, Miss Gainsborough?'

'My father would be uneasy if I stayed out late.'

'Oh, well, for once! What have you two been talking about? I saw several gentlemen casting longing looks in this direction, but they did not venture to interrupt. What were you discussing?'

'Life in general,' said Betty.

'Life!' echoed the older woman, and her brow was instantly clouded. 'What is the use of talking about that? Can either of you say that her life is not a failure?'

'Miss Gainsborough will say that,' replied Betty. 'As for me, my life is a problem that I have not solved.'

'What do you mean by a "failure," Mrs. Chatsworth?' the other girl asked.

'Oh, just a failure! Turning out nothing, coming to nothing; nothing, I mean, that is satisfying. "Tout lasse,—tout casse,—tout passe!" A true record; but isn't it sorrowful?'

'I do not think it need be true,' said Esther.

'It is not true with you?'

'No, certainly not.'

'Your smile says more than your words. What a smile! My dear, I envy you. And yet I do not. You have got to wake up from all that. You are seventeen, eighteen—nineteen, is it?—and you have not found out yet that the world is hollow and your doll stuffed with sawdust.'

'But the world is not all.'

'Isn't it? What is?'

'The Lord said, "He that believeth on me hath everlasting life."'

'Everlasting life! In the next world! Oh yes, my dear, but I was speaking of life now.'

'Does not everlasting life begin now?' said Esther, with another of those rare smiles. They were so rare and so beautiful that Betty had come to watch for them,—arch, bright, above all happy, and full of a kind of loving power. 'The Lord said "hath"; He did not say will "have."'

'Miss Gainsborough, you talk riddles.'

'I am sorry,' said Esther; 'I do not mean to do that. I am speaking the simplest truth. We were made to be happy in the love of God; and as we were made for that, nothing less will do.'

'Are you happy? My dear, I need not ask; your face speaks for you. I believe that pricked me on to ask the question with which we began, in pure envy. I see you are happy. But confess honestly now, honestly, and quite between ourselves, confess there is some delightful lover somewhere, who provokes those smiles, with which no doubt you reward him?'

Esther's grey eyes opened unmistakeably at her hostess while she was speaking, and then a light colour rose on her cheek, and then she laughed.

'I neither have, nor ever expect to have, anything of the kind,' she said. And then she was no longer to be detained, but took leave, and went away.

'She is a little too certain about the lover,' remarked Miss Frere. 'That looks as if there were already one, in petto.'

'She is poor,' said Mrs. Chatsworth. 'She has not much chance. I believe she supports herself and her father—he is old or invalid or something—by teaching; perhaps they have a little something to help her out. But I fancy she sees very little society. I never meet her anywhere. The lady in whose house she was educated is a very warm friend of hers, and she introduced her to me. So I get her to come here sometimes for a little change.'

Betty went home with a great many thoughts in her mind, which kept her half the night awake. Jealousy perhaps pricked her the most. Not that Pitt loved this girl; about that Betty was not sure; but how he would love her if he could see her! How anybody would, especially a man of refined nature and truth of character, who requires the same in those connected with him. What a pure creature this was! and then, she was not only tender, but strong. The look on her face, the lines of her lips, told surely of self-control, self-denial, and habitual patience. People do not look so, who have all they need of this world's goods, and have always dipped their hands into full money bags. No; Esther had something to bear, and something to do, both of which called for and called out that strength and sweetness; and yet she was so happy!—happy after Pitt's fashion. And this was the girl he had been looking to find. Betty could deserve well of him by letting him know where to find her! But then, all would be lost, and Betty's life a failure indeed. She could not face it. And besides, as things were, they were quite safe for the other two. The childish friendship had faded out; would start up again, no doubt, if it had a chance; but there was no need that it should. Pitt was at least heart-whole, if not memory-free; and as for Esther, she had just declared a lover to be a possibility nowhere within the range of her horizon. Esther would not lose anything by not seeing Pitt any more. But then, would she lose nothing? The girl teaching to support herself and her father, alone and poor, what would it be to her life if Pitt suddenly came into it, with his strong hand and genial temper and plenty of means? What would it be to Betty's life, if he went out of it? She turned and tossed, she battled and struggled with thoughts; but the end was, she went on to Washington without ever paying Esther a visit, or letting her know that her old friend was looking for her.



CHAPTER XL.

LONDON.

The winter passed. In the spring Betty received a letter from Mrs. Dallas, part of which ran as follows:—

'My husband and I have a new plan on foot; we have been meditating it all winter, so it ought to be ripe now. We are going over to spend the summer in England. My son talked of making us a visit again this year, and we decided it was better we should go to him. Time is nothing to us, and to him it is something; for although he will have no need to practise in any profession, I agree with him and Mr. Dallas in thinking that it is good a young man should have a profession; and, at any rate, what has been begun had better be finished. So, some time in May we think to leave Seaforth, on our way to London. Dear Betty, will you take pity on an old woman and go with us, to give us the brightness of your youth? Don't you want to see London? and I presume by this time Pitt has qualified himself to be a good cicerone. Besides, we shall not be fixed in London. We will go to see whatever you would most like to see in the kingdom; perhaps run up to Scotland. Of course what I want to see is my boy; but other things would naturally have an attraction for you. Do not say no; it would be a great disappointment to me. Meet us in New York about the middle of May. Mr. Dallas wishes to go as soon as the spring storms are over. I have another reason for making this journey; I wish to keep Pitt from coming over to America.'

Betty's heart made a bound as she read this letter, and went on with faster beats than usual after she had folded it up. A voyage, and London, and Pitt Dallas for a showman! What could be more alluring in its temptation and promise? Going about in London with him to guide and explain things—could opportunity be more favourable to finish the work which last summer left undone? Betty's heart jumped at it; she knew she would say yes to Mrs. Dallas; she could say nothing but yes; and yet, questions did come up to her. Would it not be putting herself unduly forward? would it not look as though she went on purpose to see—not London but somebody in London? That would be the very truth, Betty confessed to herself, with a pang of shame and humiliation; the pang was keen, yet it did not change her resolution. What if? Nobody knew, she argued, and nobody would have cause to suspect. There was reason enough, ostensible, why she should go to England with Mrs. Dallas; if she refused to visit all the old ladies who had sons, her social limits would be restricted indeed. But Mrs. Dallas herself; would not she understand? Mrs. Dallas understood enough already, Betty said to herself defiantly; they were allies in this cause. It was very miserable that it should be so; however, not now to be undone or set aside. Lightly she had gone into Mrs. Dallas's proposition last summer; if it had grown to be life and death earnest with her, there was no need Mrs. Dallas should know that. It was life and death earnest, and she must go to London. It was a capital plan. To have met Pitt Dallas again at Seaforth and again spent weeks in his mother's house while he was there, would have been too obvious; this was better every way. Of course she could not refuse such an invitation; such a chance of seeing something of the world; she who had always been too poor to travel. Pitt could not find any matter of surprise nor any ground for criticism in her doing that. And it would give her all the opportunity she wished for.

Here, most inopportunely, came before her the image of Esther. How those two would suit each other! How infallibly Pitt would be devoted to her if he could see her! But Betty said to herself that she had a better right. They did not know each other; he was nothing to Esther, Esther was nothing to him. She set her teeth, and wrote to Mrs. Dallas that she would be delighted to go.

And then, having made her choice, she put away thought. All through the voyage she was a most delightful companion. A little stifled excitement, like forcing heat in a greenhouse, made all her social qualities blossom out in unwonted brilliancy. She was entertaining, bright, gay, witty, graceful; she was the admiration and delight of the whole company on board; and Mrs. Dallas thought to herself with proud satisfaction that Pitt could find nothing better than that, nor more attractive, and that she need wish nothing better than that at the head of her son's household and by his side. That Pitt could withstand such enchantment was impossible. She was doing the very best thing she could do in coming to England and in bringing Betty with her.

Having meditated this journey for months, Mr. Dallas had made all his preparations. Rooms had been engaged in a pleasant part of the city, and there, very soon after landing, the little party found themselves comfortably established and quite at home.

'Nothing like England!' Mr. Dallas grumbled with satisfaction. 'You couldn't do this in New York; they understand nothing about it, and they are too stupid to learn. I believe there isn't a lodging-house in all the little Dutch city over there; you could not find a single house where they let lodgings in the English fashion.'

'Mr. Dallas, it is not a Dutch city!'

'Half Dutch, and that's enough. Have you let Pitt know we are here, wife?'

Mrs. Dallas had done that; but the evening passed away, nevertheless, without any news of him. They made themselves very comfortable; had an excellent dinner, and went to rest in rooms pleasant and well appointed; but Betty was in a state of feverish excitement which would not let her be a moment at ease. Now she was here, she almost was ready to wish herself back again. How would Pitt look at her? how would he receive her? and yet, what affair was it of his, if his mother brought a young friend with her, to enjoy the journey and make it agreeable? It was nothing to Pitt; and yet, if it were nothing to him, Betty would want to take passage in the next packetship sailing for New York or Boston. She drew her breath short, until she could see him.

He came about the middle of the next morning. Mr. Dallas had gone out, and the two ladies were alone, in a high state of expectancy; joyous on one part, most anxious and painful on the other. The first sight of him calmed Betty's heart-beating; at the same time it gave her a great thrill of pain. Pitt was himself so frank and so quiet, she said to herself, there was no occasion for her to fear anything in his thoughts; his greeting of her was entirely cordial and friendly. He was neither surprised nor displeased to see her. At the same time, while this was certainly comforting, Pitt looked too composedly happy for Betty's peace of mind. Apparently he needed neither her nor anybody;—'Do men ever?' said Betty to herself bitterly. And besides, there was in his face and manner a nobleness and a pureness which at one blow drove home, as it were, the impressions of the last year. Such a look she had never seen on any face in her life; except—yes, there was one exception, and the thought sent another pang of pain through her. But women do not show what they feel; and Pitt, if he noticed Miss Frere at all, saw nothing but the well-bred quiet which always belonged to Betty's demeanour. He was busy with his mother.

'This is a pleasure, to have you here!' he was saying heartily.

'I thought we should have seen you last night. My letter was in time. Didn't you get it?'

'It went to my chambers in the Temple; and I was not there.'

'Where were you?'

'At Kensington.'

'At Kensington! With Mr. Strahan.'

'Not with Mr. Strahan,' said Pitt gravely. 'I have been with him a great deal these last weeks. You got my letter in which I told you he was ill?'

'Yes, and that you were nursing him.'

'Then you did not get my letter telling of the end of his illness? You left home before it arrived.'

'You do not mean that uncle Strahan is dead?'

'It is a month ago, and more. But there is nothing to regret, mother. He died perfectly happy.'

Mrs. Dallas passed over this sentence, which she did not like, and asked abruptly,—

'Then what were you doing at Kensington?'

'There was business. I have been obliged to give some time to it. You will be as much surprised as I was, to learn that my old uncle has left all he had in the world to me.'

'To you!' Mrs. Dallas did not utter a scream of delight, or embrace her son, or do anything that many women would have done in honour of the occasion; but her head took a little loftier set upon her shoulders, and in her cheeks rose a very pretty rosy flush.

'I am not surprised in the least,' she said. 'I do not see how he could have done anything else; but I did not know the old gentleman had so much sense, for all that. Is the property large?'

'Rather large.'

'My dear, I am very glad. That makes you independent at once. I do not know whether I ought to be glad of that; but you would never be led off from any line of conduct you thought fit to enter, by either having or wanting money.'

'I hope not. It is not high praise to say that I am not mercenary. Who was thinking to bribe me? and to what?'

'Never mind,' said Mrs. Dallas hastily. 'Was not the house at Kensington part of the property?'

'Certainly.'

'And has that come to you too?'

'Yes, of course; just as it stood. I was going to ask if you would not move in and take possession?'

'Take possession!—we?'

'Yes, mother; it is all ready. The old servants are there, and will take very passably good care of you. Mrs. Bunce can cook a chop, and boil an egg, and make a piece of toast; let me see, what else can she do? Everything that my old uncle liked, I know; beyond that, I cannot say how far her power extends. But I think she can make you comfortable.'

'My dear, aren't you going to let the house?'

'No, mother.'

'Why not? You cannot live in chambers and there too?'

'I can never let the house. In the first place, it is too full of things which have all of them more or less value, many of them more. In the second place, the old servants have their home there, and will always have it.'

'You are bound by the will?'

'Not at all. The will binds me to nothing.'

'Then, my dear boy! it may be a long time before you would want to set up housekeeping there yourself; you might never wish it; and in the meantime all this expense going on?'

'I know what uncle Strahan would have liked, mamma; but apart from that, I could never turn adrift his old servants. They are devoted to me now; and, besides, I wish to have the house taken care of. When you have seen it, you will not talk any more about having it let. You will come at once, will you not? It is better than this. I told Mrs. Bunce she might make ready for you; and there is a special room for Miss Frere, where she may study several things.'

He gave a pleasant glance at the young lady as he spoke, which certainly assured her of a welcome. But Betty felt painfully embarrassed.

'This is something we never contemplated,' she said, turning to Mrs. Dallas. 'What will you do with me? I have no right to Mr. Pitt's hospitality, generous as it is.'

'You will come with us, of course,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'You are one of us, as much as anybody could be.'

'And you would be very sorry afterwards if you did not, I can tell you,' said Pitt frankly. 'My old house is quite something to see; and I promise myself some pleasure in the enjoyment you all will have in it. I hope we are so much old friends that you would not refuse me such an honour?'

There was no more to say, after the manner in which this was spoken; and from embarrassment Betty went over to great exultation. What could be better than this? and did even her dreams offer her such a bewildering prospect of pleasure. She heard with but half an ear what Pitt and his mother were saying; yet she did hear it, and lost not a word, braiding in her own reflections diligently with the thoughts thus suggested. They talked of Mr. Strahan, of his illness, through which Pitt had nursed him; of the studies thus interrupted; of the property thus suddenly come into Pitt's hands.

'I do not see why you should go on with your law reading,' Mrs. Dallas broke out at last. 'Really,—why should you? You are perfectly independent already, without any help from your father; house and servants and all, and money enough; your father would say, too much. Haven't you thought of giving up your chambers in the Temple?'

'No, mother.'

'Any other young man would. Why not you? What do you want to study law for any more?'

'One must do something, you know.'

'Something—but I never heard that law was an amusing study. Is it not the driest of the dry?'

'Rather dry—in spots.'

'What is your notion, then, Pitt?—if you do not like it.'

'I do like it. And I am thinking of the use it may be.'

'The use?' said Mrs. Dallas bewilderedly.

'It is a grand profession,' he went on; 'a grand profession, when used for its legitimate purposes! I want to have the command of it. If the study is sometimes dry, the practice is often, or it often may be, in the highest degree interesting.'

'Purposes! What purposes?' Mrs. Dallas pursued, fastening on that one word in Pitt's speech.

'Righting the wrong, mother, and lifting up the oppressed. A knowledge of law is necessary often for that; and the practice too.'

'Pitt,' said his mother, 'I don't understand you.'

Betty thought she did, and she was glad that Mr. Dallas's entrance broke off the conversation. Then it was all gone over again, Mr. Strahan's illness, Pitt's ministrations, the will, the property, the house; concluding with the plan of removing thither. Betty, saying nothing herself, watched the other members of the party; the gleam in Mr. Dallas's money-loving eyes, the contained satisfaction of Mrs. Dallas's motherly pride, and the extremely different look on the younger man's face. With all the brightness and life of his talk to them, with all the interest and pleasure he showed in the things talked about, there was a quiet apartness on his brow and in his eyes, a lift above trifles, a sweetness and a gravity that certainly found their aliment neither in the sudden advent of a fortune nor in any of the accessories of money. Betty saw and read, while the others were talking; and her outward calm and careless demeanour was no true indication of how she felt. The very things which drew her to Pitt, alas, made her feel set away at a distance from him. What had her restless soul in common with that happy repose that was about him? And yet, how restlessness is attracted by rest! Of all things it seemed to Betty one of the most delightful and desirable. Not to be fretted, not to be anxious; to be never 'out of sorts,' never, seemingly, discontented with anything or afraid of anything!—while these terms were the very reverse of all which must describe her and every one else whom she knew. Where did that high calm come from? No face that Betty had ever seen had that look upon it; except—

Oh, she wished she had never seen that other, or that she could forget it. Those two fitted together. 'But I should make him just as good a wife,' said Betty to herself; 'perhaps better. And she does not care; and I do. Oh, what a fool I was ever to go into this thing!'



CHAPTER XLI.

AN OLD HOUSE.

Arrangements were soon made. The landlady of the house was contented with a handsome bonus; baggage was sent off; a carriage was ordered, and the party set forth.

It was a very strange experience to Betty. If her position was felt to be a little awkward, at the same time it was most deliciously adventurous and novel. She sat demurely enough by Mrs. Dallas's side, eyeing the strange streets through which they passed, hearing every word that was spoken by anybody, and keeping the while herself an extremely smooth and careless exterior. She was full of interest for all she saw, and yet the girl saw it as in a dream, or only as a background upon which she saw Pitt. She saw him always, without often seeming to look at him. The content of Mr. and Mrs. Dallas was inexpressible.

'Where will you find anything like that, now?' said Mr. Dallas, as they were passing Hyde Park. 'Ah, Miss Betty, wait; you will never want to see Washington again. The Capitol? Pooh, pooh! it may do for a little beginning of a colony; but wait till you have seen a few things here. What will you show her first, Pitt?'

'Kensington.'

'Kensington! Ah, to be sure. Well, I suppose your new house takes precedence of all other things for the present.'

'Not my new house,' said Pitt. 'It is anything but that. There is nothing new about it but the master. I thought I should bring you back with me, mother; so I told Mrs. Bunce to have luncheon ready. As I said, she can cook a chop.'

By degrees the houses became thinner, as they drove on; grass and trees were again prominent; and it was in a region that looked at least half country that the carriage at last stopped. Indeed more than half country, for the city was certainly left behind. Everything was in fresh green; the air was mild and delicious; the place quiet. The carriage turned from the road and passed through an iron gateway and up a gravel sweep to the door of an old house, shaded by old trees and surrounded by a spread of velvety turf. The impression, as Betty descended from the carriage, was that here had been ages of dignified order and grave tranquillity. The green-sward was even and soft and of vivid freshness; the old trees were stately with their length of limb and great solid trunks; and the house?—

The house, towards which she turned, as if to ask questions of it, was of moderate size, built of stone, and so massively built as if it had been meant to stand for ever. That was seen at once in the thickness of the walls, the strong oaken doorway, and the heavy window frames. But as soon as Betty set foot within the door she could almost have screamed with delight.

'Upon my word, very good! very well!' said Mr. Dallas, standing in the hall and reviewing it. And then, perceiving the presence of the servants, he checked himself and reviewed them.

'These are my uncle's faithful old friends, mother,' Pitt was saying; 'Mrs. Bunce, and Stephen Hill. Have you got something ready for travellers, Mrs. Bunce?'

Dignified order and grave tranquillity was the impression on Betty's mind again, as they were ushered into the dining-room. It was late, and the party sat down at once to table.

But Betty could hardly eat, for feasting her eyes. And when they went up-stairs to their rooms that feast still continued. The house was irregular, with rather small rooms and low ceilings; which itself was pleasant after the more commonplace regularity to which Miss Frere had been accustomed; and then it was full—all the rooms were full—of quaintness and beauty. Oak wainscottings, dark with time; oaken doorways with singular carvings; chimney-pieces, before which Betty stood in speechless delight and admiration; small-paned windows set in deep window niches; in one or two rooms dark draperies; but the late Mr. Strahan had not favoured anything that shut out the light, and in most of the house there were no curtains put up. And then, on the walls, in cupboards and presses, on tables and shelves, and in cabinets, there was an endless variety and wealth of treasures and curiosities. Pictures, bronzes, coins, old armour, old weapons, curiosities of historical value, others of natural production, others, still, of art; some of all these were very valuable and precious. To examine them must be the work of many days; it was merely the fact of their being there which Betty took in now, with a sense of the great riches of the new mental pasture-ground in which she found herself. She changed her dress in a kind of breathless mood; noticing as she did so the old-fashioned and aged furniture of her room. Aged, not infirm; the manufacture solid and strong as ever; the wood darkened by time, the patterns quaint, but to Betty's eye the more picturesque. Her apartment was a corner room, with one deep window on each of two sides; the look-out over a sunny landscape of grass, trees, and scattered buildings. On another side was a deep chimney-place, with curious wrought-iron fire-dogs. What a delightful adventure—or what a terrible adventure—was it which had brought her to this house! She would not think of that; she dressed and went down.

The rest of the party were gathered in the library, and this room finished Betty's enchantment. It was a well-sized room, the largest in the house, on the second floor; and all the properties that made the house generally interesting were gathered and culminated here. Dark wainscotting, dark bookcases, and dark books, gave it an aspect that might have been gloomy, yet was not so; perhaps because of the many other objects in the room, which gave points of light or bits of colour. What they were, Betty could only find out by degrees; she saw at once, in general, that this must have been a favourite place of the late owner, and that here he had collected a special assemblage of the things that pleased him best. A table at one side must have been made, she thought, about the same time with her chamber furniture, and by the same hand. The floor was dark and polished, and on it lay here and there bits of soft carpeting, which were well worn. Betty advanced slowly to the corner where the party were siting, taking in the effect of all this; then almost started as Pitt gave her a chair, to see in the corner just beyond the group a stuffed bear showing his teeth at her.

The father and mother had been talking about various matters at home, and the talk went on. Betty presently left them, and began to examine the sides of the room. She studied the bear, which was in an upright position, resting one paw on a stick, while the other supported a lamp. From the bear her eyes passed on to a fire-screen, which stood before the empty chimney, and then she went to look at it nearer by. It was a most exquisite thing. Two great panes of plate glass were so set in a frame that a space of some three or four inches separated them. In this space, in every variety of position, were suspended on invisible wires some twenty humming birds, of different kinds; and whether the light fell upon this screen in front or came through it from behind, the display was in either case most beautiful and novel. Betty at last wandered to the chimney-piece, and went no farther for a good while; studying the rich carving and the coat of arms which was both sculptured and painted in the midst of it. By and by she found that Pitt was beside her.

'Mr. Strahan's?' she asked.

'No; they belonged to a former possessor of the house. It came into my uncle's family by the marriage of his father.'

'It is very old?'

'Pretty old; that is, what in America we would call so. It reaches back to the time of the Stuarts. Really that is not so long ago as it seems.'

'It is worth while to be old, if it gives one such a chimney-piece as that. But I should not like another man's arms in it, if I were you.'

'Why not?'

'I don't know—I believe it diminishes the sense of possession.'

'A good thing, then,' said Pitt. 'Do you remember that "they that have" are told to be "as though they possessed not"?'

'How can they?' answered Betty, looking at him.

'You know the words?'

'I seem to have read them—I suppose I have.'

'Then there must be some way of making them true.'

'What is this concern, Pitt?' inquired his father, who had followed them, and was looking at a sort of cabinet which was framed into the wall.

'I was going to invite Miss Frere's attention to it; yet, on reflection, I believe she is not enthusiastic for that sort of thing. That is valuable, father. It is a collection of early Greek coins. Uncle Strahan was very fond of that collection, and very proud of it. He had brought it together with a great deal of pains.'

'Rubbish, I should say,' observed the elder man; and he moved on, while Betty took his place.

'Now, I do not understand them,' she said.

'You can see the beauty of some of them. Look at this head of Apollo.'

'That is beautiful—exquisite! Was that a common coin of trade?'

'Doubtful, in this case. It is not certain that this was not rather a medal struck for the members of the Amphictyonic Council. But see this coin of Syracuse; this was a common coin of trade; only of a size not the most common.'

'All I can say is, their coinage was far handsomer than ours, if it was like that.'

'The reverse is as fine as the obverse. A chariot with four horses, done with infinite spirit.'

'How can you remember what is on the other side—I suppose this side is what you mean by the obverse—of this particular coin? Are you sure?'

Pitt produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the glass door of the cabinet, and took the coin from its bed. On the other side was what he had stated to be there. Betty took the piece in her hands to look and admire.

'That is certainly very fine,' she said; but her attention was not entirely bent on the coin 'Is this lovely head meant for Apollo too?'

'No; don't you see it is feminine? Ceres, it is thought; but Mr. Strahan held that it was Arethusa, in honour of the nymph that presided over the fine fountain of sweet water near Syracuse. The coinage of that city was extremely beautiful and diversified; yielding to hardly any other in design and workmanship. Here is an earlier one; you see the very different stage art had attained to.'

'A regular Greek face,' remarked Betty, going back to the coin she held in her hand. 'See the straight line of the nose and the very short upper lip. Do you hold that the Greek type is the only true beauty?'

'Not I. The only true beauty, I think, is that of the soul; or at least that which the soul shines through.'

'What are these little fish swimming about the head? They would seem to indicate a marine deity.'

'The dolphin; the Syracusan emblem.'

'I wish I had been born in those times!' said Betty. And the wish had a meaning in the speaker's mind which the hearer could not divine.

'Why do you wish that?' asked Pitt, smiling.

'I suppose the principal reason is, that then I should not have been born in this. Everything is dreadfully prosy in our age. Oh, not here, at this moment! but this is a fairy tale we are living through. I know how the plain world will look when I go back to it.'

'At present,' said Pitt, taking the Syracusan coin and restoring it to its place, 'you are not an enthusiastic numismatist!'

'No; how should I? Coins are not a thing to excite enthusiasm. They are beautiful, and curious, but not exactly—not exactly stirring.'

'I had a scholar once,' remarked Pitt, as he locked the glass door of the cabinet, 'whose eyes would have opened very wide at sight of this collection. Have you heard anything of the Gainsboroughs, mother?'

Betty started, inwardly, and was seized with an unreasoning fear lest the question might next be put to herself. Quietly, as soon as she could, she moved away from the coin cabinet, and seemed to be examining something else; but she was listening all the while.

'Nothing whatever,' Mrs. Dallas had answered.

'They have not come back to England. I have made out so much. I looked up the family after I came home last fall; their headquarters are at a nice old place down in Devonshire. I introduced myself and got acquainted with them. They are pleasant people. But they knew nothing of the colonel. He has not come home, and he has not written. Thus much I have found out.'

'It is not certain, however,' grumbled Mr. Dallas. 'I believe he has come home; that is, to England. He was on bad terms with his people, you know.'

'When are you going to show Miss Frere and me London?' asked Mrs. Dallas. She was as willing to lead off from the other subject as Betty herself.

'Show you London, mamma! Show you a bit of it, you mean. It would take something like a lifetime to show you London. What bit will you begin with?'

'What first, Betty?' said Mrs. Dallas.

Betty turned and slowly came back to the others.

'Take her to see the lions in the Tower,' suggested Mr. Dallas; 'and the wax-work.'

'Do you think I have never seen a lion, Mr. Dallas?' said the young lady.

'Well,—small ones,' said the gentleman, stroking his chin. 'But the Tower is a big lion itself. I believe I should like to go to the Tower. I have never been there yet, old as I am.'

'I do not want to go to the Tower,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'I do not care for that kind of thing. I should like to see the Temple, and Pitt's chambers.'

'So should I,' said the younger lady.

'You might do worse,' said Pitt. 'Then to-morrow we will go to the Temple, and to St. Paul's.'

'St. Paul's? that will not hold us long, will it?' said Betty. 'Is it so much to see?'

'A good deal, if you go through and study the monuments!'

'Well,' said Betty, 'I suppose it will be all delightful.'

But when she had retired to her room at night, her mood was not just so. She sat down before her glass and ruminated. That case of coins, and Pitt's old scholar, and the Gainsboroughs, who had not come home. He would find them yet; yes, and Esther would one day be standing before those coins; and Pitt would be showing them to her; and she—she would enter into his talk about them, and would understand and have sympathy, and there would be sympathy on other points too. If Esther ever stood there, in that beautiful old library, it would be as mistress and at home. Betty had a premonition of it; she put her hands before her eyes to shut out the picture. Suppose she earned well of the two and gained their lasting friendship by saying the words that would bring them to each other? That was one way out of her difficulty. But then, why should she? What right had Esther Gainsborough to be happy more than Betty Frere? The other way out of her difficulty, namely, to win Pitt's liking, would be much better; and then, they both of them might be Esther's friends. For of one thing Betty was certain; if she could win Pitt, he would be won. No half way-work was possible with him. He would never woo a woman he did not entirely love; and any woman so loved by him would not need to fear any other woman; it would be once for all. Betty had never, as it happened, met thoroughgoing truth before; she recognised it and trusted it perfectly in Pitt; and it was one of the things, she confessed to herself, that drew her most mightily to him. A person whom she could absolutely believe, and always be sure of. Whom else in the world could she trust so? Not her own brothers; not her own father; mother she had none. How did she know so securely that Pitt was an exception to the universal rule?—the question might be asked, and she asked it. She had not seen him tested in any great thing. But she had seen him tried in little bits of everyday things, in which most people think it is no harm to dodge the truth a little; and Betty recognised the soundness of the axiom,—'He that is faithful in that which is least, is faithful also in much.'



CHAPTER XLII.

THE TOWER.

The next morning they went to inspect the Temple; Pitt and the two ladies. Mr. Dallas preferred some other occupation. But the interest brought to the inspection was not altogether legitimate. Mrs. Dallas cared principally to see how comfortable her son's chambers were, and to refresh herself with the tokens of antiquity and importance which attached to the place and the institution to which he belonged. Betty was no antiquarian in the best of times, and at present had all her faculties concentrated on one subject and one question which was not of the past. Nevertheless, it is of the nature of things that a high strain of the mind renders it intensely receptive and sensitive for outward impressions, even though they be not welcomed; like a taut string, which answers to a breath breathed upon it. Betty did not care for the Temple; had no interest in the old Templars' arms on the sides of the gateways; and thought its medley of dull courts and lanes a very undesirable place. What was it to her where Dr. Johnson had lived? she did not care for Dr. Johnson at all, and as little for Oliver Goldsmith. Pitt, she saw, cared; how odd it was! It was some comfort that Mrs. Dallas shared her indifference.

'My dear,' she said, 'I do not care about anybody's lodgings but yours. Dr. Johnson is not there now, I suppose. Where are your rooms?'

But Pitt laughed, and took them first to the Temple church.

Here Betty could not refuse to look and be interested a little. How little, she did not show. The beauty of the old church, its venerable age, and the strange relics of the past in its monuments, did command some attention. Yet Betty grudged it; and went over the Halls and the Courts afterward with a half reluctant foot, hearing as if against her will all that Pitt was telling her and his mother about them. Oh, what did it matter, that one of Shakspeare's plays had been performed in the Middle Temple Hall during its author's lifetime? and what did it signify whether a given piece of architecture were Early English or Perpendicular Gothic? What did interest her, was to see how lively and warm was Pitt's knowledge and liking of all these things. Evidently he delighted in them and was full of information concerning them; and his interest did move Betty a little. It moved her to speculation also. Could this man be so earnest in his enjoyment of Norman arches and polished shafts and the effigies of old knights, and still hold to the views and principles he had avowed and advocated last year? Could he, who took such pleasure in the doings and records of the past, really mean to attach himself to another sort of life, with which the honours and dignities and delights of this common world have nothing to do?

The question recurred again afresh on their return home. As Betty entered the house, she was struck by the beauty of the carved oak staircase, and exclaimed upon it.

'Yes,' said Pitt; 'that is the prettiest part of the house. It is said to be by Inigo Jones; but perhaps that cannot be proved.'

'Does it matter?' said Betty, laughing.

'Not to any real lover of it; but to the rest, you know, the name is the thing.'

'"Lover of it"!' said Betty. 'Can you love a staircase?'

Pitt laughed out; then he answered seriously.

'Don't you know that all that is good and true is in a way bound up together? it is one whole; and I take it to be certain that in proportion to anyone's love for spiritual and moral beauty will be, coeteris paribus, his appreciation of all expression of it, in nature or art.'

'But', said Betty, '"spiritual and moral beauty"! You do not mean that this oak staircase is an expression of either?'

'Of both, perhaps. At any rate, the things are very closely connected.'

'You are an enigma!' said Betty.

'I hope not always to remain so,' he answered.

Betty went up the beautiful staircase, noting as she went its beauties, from storey to storey. She had not noticed it before, although it really took up more room than was proportionate to the size of the house. What did Pitt mean by those last words? she was querying. And could it be possible that the owner of a house like this, with a property corresponding, would not be of the world and live in the world like other men? He must, Betty thought. It is all very well for people who have not the means to make a figure in society, to talk of isolating themselves from society. A man may give up a little; but when he has much, he holds on to it. But how was it with Pitt? She must try and find out.

She accordingly made an attempt that same evening, beginning with the staircase again.

'I admired Inigo Jones all the way up-stairs,' she said, when she had an opportunity to talk to Pitt alone. Mr. Dallas had gone to sleep after dinner, and his wife was knitting at a sufficient distance. 'The quaint fancies and delicate work are really such as I never imagined before in wood-carving. But your words about it remain a puzzle to me.'

'My words? About art being an expression of truth? Surely that is not new?'

'It may be very old; but I do not understand it.'

'You understand, that so far as art is genuine, it is a setter forth of truth?'

'Well, I suppose so; of some truth. Roses must be roses, and trees must be trees; and of course must look as like the reality as possible.'

'That is the very lowest thing art can do, and in some cases is not true art at all. Her business is to tell truth—never to deceive.'

'What sort of truth then?'

'What I said; spiritual and moral.'

'Ah, there it is! Now you have got back to it. Now you are talking mystery, or—forgive me—transcendentalism.'

'No; nothing but simple and very plain fact. It is this first,—that all truth is one; and this next,—that in the world of creation things material are the expression of things spiritual. So all real beauty in form or colour has back of it a greater beauty of higher degree.'

'You are talking pure mystery.'

'No, surely,' said Pitt eagerly. 'You certainly recognise the truth of what I am saying, in some things. For instance, you cannot look up steadily into the blue infinity of one of our American skies on a clear day—at least I cannot—without presently getting the impression of truth, pure, unfailing, incorruptible truth, in its Creator. The rose, everywhere in the world, so far as I know, is the accepted emblem of love. And for another very familiar instance,—Christ is called in the Bible the Sun of righteousness—the Light that is the life of man. Do you know how close to fact that is? What this earth would be if deprived of the sun for a few days, is but a true image of the condition of any soul finally forsaken by the Sun of righteousness. In one word, death; and that is what the Bible means by death, of which the death we commonly speak of is again but a faint image.'

Betty fidgeted a little; this was not what she wished to speak of; it was getting away from her point.

'Your staircase set me wondering about you,' she said boldly, not answering his speech at all.

'In yet another connection?' said Pitt, smiling.

'In another connection. You remember you used to talk to me pretty freely last summer about your new views and plans of life?'

'I remember. But my staircase?'—

'Yes, your staircase. You know it is rich and stately, as well as beautiful. Whatever it signifies to you, to my lower vision it means a position in the world and the means to maintain it. And I debated with myself, as I went up the stairs, whether the owner of all this would still think it his duty to live altogether for others, and not for himself like common people.'

She looked at him, and Pitt met her inquiring eyes with a steady, penetrating, grave look, which half made her wish she had let the question alone. He delayed his answer a little, and then he said,—

'Will you let me meet that doubt in my own way?'

'Certainly!' said Betty, surprised; 'if you will forgive me its arising.'

'Is one responsible for doubts? One may be responsible for the state of mind from which they spring. Then, if you will allow me, I will say no more on the subject for a day or two. But I will not leave you unanswered; that is, unless you refuse to submit to my guidance, and will not let me take my own way.'

'You are mysterious!'

'Will you go with me when I ask you?'

'Yes.'

'Then that is sufficient.'

Betty thought she had not gained much by her move.

The next day was given to the Tower. Mrs. Dallas did not go; her husband was of the party instead. The inspection of the place was thorough, and occupied some hours; Pitt, being able, through an old friend of Mr. Strahan's who was now also his friend, to obtain an order from the Constable for seeing the whole. At dinner Betty delivered herself of her opinion.

'Were you busy all day with nothing but the Tower? asked Mrs. Dallas.

'Stopped for luncheon,' said her husband.

'And we did our work thoroughly, mamma,' added Pitt. 'You must take time, if you want to see anything.'

'Well,' said Betty, 'I must say, if this is what it means, to live in an old country, I am thankful I live in a new one.'

'What now?' asked Mr. Dallas. 'What's the matter?'

'Mrs. Dallas was wiser, that she did not go,' Betty went on. '"I have supped fall of horrors." Really I have read history, but that gives it to one diluted. I had no notion that the English people were so savage.'

'Come, come! no worse than other people,' Mr. Dallas put in.

'I do not know how it is with other people. I am thankful we have no such monument in America. I shouldn't think snow would lie on the Tower!'

'Doesn't often,' said Pitt.

'Think, Mrs. Dallas! I stood in that little chapel there,—the prisoners' chapel,—and beneath the pavement lay between thirty and forty people, the remains of them, who lay there with their heads separated from their bodies; and some of them with no heads at all. The heads had been set up on London bridge, or on Temple Bar, or some other dreadful place. And then as we went round I was told that here was the spot where Lady Jane Grey was beheaded; and there was the window from which she saw the headless body of her husband carried by; and there stood the rack on which Anne Askew was tortured; and there was the prison where Arabella Stuart died insane; and here was the axe which used to be carried before the Lieutenant when he took a prisoner to his trial, and was carried before the prisoner when he returned, mostly with the sharp edge turned towards him. I do not see how people used to live in those times. There are Anne Boleyn and her brother, Lady Jane Grey and her husband, and other Dudleys innumerable'—

'My dear, do stop,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'I cannot eat my dinner, and you cannot.'

'Eat dinner! Did anybody use to eat dinner, in those times? Did the world go on as usual? with such horrors on the throne and in the dungeon?'

'It is a great national monument,' said Mr. Dallas, 'that any people might be proud of.'

'Proud! Well, I am glad, as I said, that the sky is blue over America.'

'The blue looks down on nothing so fine as our old Tower. And it isn't so blue, either, if you could know all.'

'Where are you going to take us next, Pitt?' Mrs. Dallas asked, to give things a pleasanter turn.

'How did you like St. Paul's, Miss Betty?' her husband went on, before Pitt could speak.

'It is very black!'

'That is one of its beauties,' remarked Pitt.

'Is it? But I am accustomed to purer air. I do not like so much smoke.'

'You were interested in the monuments?' said Mrs. Dallas.

'Honestly, I am not fond of monuments. Besides, there is really a reminiscence of the Tower and the axe there very often. I had no conception London was such a place.'

'Let us take her to Hyde Park and show her something cheerful, Pitt.'

'I should like above all things to go to the House of Commons and hear a debate—if it could be managed.'

Pitt said it could be managed; and it was managed; and they went to the Park; and they drove out to see some of the beauties near London, Richmond, Hampton Court, and Windsor; and several days passed away in great enjoyment for the whole party. Betty forgot the Tower and grew gay. The strangeness of her position was forgotten; the house came to be familiar; the alternation of sight-seeing with the quiet household life was delightful. Nothing could be better, might it last. Could it not last? Nay, Betty would have relinquished the sight-seeing and bargained for only the household life, if she could have retained that.



CHAPTER XLIII.

MARTIN'S COURT.

'What is for to-day, Pitt?'

There had been a succession of rather gay days, visiting of galleries and palaces. Mrs. Dallas put the question at breakfast.

'I am going to show Miss Frere something, if she will allow me.'

'She will allow you, of course. You have done it pretty often lately. Where is it now?'

'Nowhere for you, mamma. My show to-day is for Miss Frere alone.'

'Alone? Why may I not go?'

'You would not enjoy it.'

'Then perhaps she will not enjoy it.'

'Perhaps not.'

'But, Pitt, what do you mean? and what is this you want to show her which she does not want to see?'

'She can tell you all about it afterwards, if she chooses.'

'Perhaps she will not choose to go with you on such a doubtful invitation.'

Betty, however, declared herself ready for anything. So she was, under such guidance.

They took a cab for a certain distance; then Pitt dismissed it, and they went forward on foot. It was a dull, hot day; clouds hanging low and threatening rain, but no rain falling as yet. Rain, if decided, to a good degree keeps down exhalations in the streets of a city, and so far is a help to the wayfarer who is at all particular about the air he breathes. No such beneficent influence was abroad to-day; and Betty's impressions were not altogether agreeable.

'What part of the city is this?' she asked.

'Not a bad part at all. In fact, we are near a very fashionable quarter. This particular street is a business thoroughfare, as you see.'

Betty was silent, and they went on a while; then turned sharp out of this thoroughfare into a narrow alley. It was hot and close and dank enough here to make Miss Frere shrink, though she would not betray it. But dead cats and decaying cabbage leaves, in a not very clean alley, where the sun rarely shines, and briefly then, with the thermometer well up, on a summer day, altogether make an atmosphere not suited to delicate senses. Pitt picked the way along the narrow passage, which at the end opened into a little court. This was somewhat cleaner than the alley; also it lay so that the sun sometimes visited it, though here too his visits could be but brief, for on the opposite side the court was shut in and overshadowed by the tall backs of great houses. They seemed, to Betty's fancy, to cast as much moral as physical shadow over the place. The houses in this court were small and dingy. If one looked straight up, there was a space of grey cloud visible; some days it would no doubt be a space of blue sky. No other thing even dimly suggesting refreshment or purity was within the range of vision. Pitt slowly paced along the row of houses.

'Who lives here?' Betty asked, partly to relieve the oppression that was creeping upon her.

'No householders, that I know of. People who live in one room, or perhaps in two rooms; therefore in every house there are a number of families. This is Martin's court. And here,'—he stopped before one of the doors,—'in this house, in a room on the third floor—let me suppose a case'—

'Third floor? why, there are only two stories.'

'In the garret, then,—there lives an old woman, over seventy years old, all alone. She has been ill for a long time, and suffers a great deal of pain.'

'Who takes care of her?' Betty asked, wondering at the same time why Pitt told her all this.

'She has no means to pay anybody to take care of her.'

'But how does she live?—if she cannot do anything for herself.'

'She can do nothing at all for herself. She has been dependent on the kindness of her neighbours. They are poor, too, and have their hands full; still, from time to time one and another would look in upon her, light a fire for her, and give her something to eat; that is, when they did not forget it.'

'And what if they did forget it?'

'Then she must wait till somebody remembered; wait perhaps days, to get her bed made; lie alone in her pain all day, except for those rare visits; and even have to hire a boy with a penny to bring her a pitcher of water; lie alone all night and wait in the morning till somebody could give her her breakfast.'

'Why do you tell me all this, Mr. Pitt?' said Betty, facing round on him.

'Ask me that by and by. Come a little farther. Here, in this next house but one, there is a man sick with rheumatism—in a fever; when I first saw him he was lying there shivering and in great pain, with no fire; and his daughter, a girl of perhaps a dozen years old, was trying to light a fire with a few splinters of sticks that she had picked up. That was last winter, in cold weather. They were poverty-stricken, since the man had been some time out of work.'

'Well?' said Betty. 'I must not repeat my question, but what is all this to me? I have no power to help them. Do you know these people yourself?'

'Yes, I know them. In the last house of the row there is another old woman I want to tell you of; and then we will go. She is not ill, nor disabled; she is only very old and quite alone. She is not unhappy either, for she is a true old Christian. But think of this: in the room which she occupies, which is half underground, there is just one hour in the day when a sunbeam can find entrance. For that hour she watches; and when the sky is not clouded, and it comes, she takes her Bible and holds it in the sunshine to read for that blessed hour. It is all she has in the twenty-four. The rest of the time she must only think of what she has read; the place is too dark for any more.'

'Do let us go!' said Betty; and she turned, and almost fled back to the alley, and through the alley back to the street. There they walked more moderately a space of some rods before she found breath and words. She faced round on her conductor again.

'Why do you take me to such a place, and tell me such things?'

'Will you let that question still rest a little while?' Almost as he spoke Pitt called another cab, and Betty and he were presently speeding on again, whither she knew not. It was a good time to talk, and she repeated her question.

'Instead of answering you, I would like to put a question on my side,' he returned. 'What do you think is duty, on the part of a servant of Christ, towards such cases?'

'Pray tell me, is there not some system of poor relief in this place?'

'Yes, there is the parish help. And sorrowful help it is! The parishes are often very large, the sufferers very many, the cases of fraud and trickery almost—perhaps quite—as numerous as those at least which come to the notice of the parish authorities. The parish authorities are but average men; is it wonderful if they are hard administrators? I can tell you, justice is bitterly hard, as she walks the streets here; and mercy's hand has grown rough with friction!'

Betty looked at the speaker, whose brow was knit and his eye darkened and flashing; she half laughed.

'You are eloquent,' she said. 'You ought to be representing the case on the floor of the House of Commons.'

'Well,' he said, coming down to an easier tone, 'the parish authorities are but men, as I said, and they grow suspicious, naturally; and in any case the relief they give is utterly insufficient. A shilling a week, or two shillings a week,—what would they do for the people I have been telling you of? And it is hard dealing with the parish authorities. I know it, for here and there at least I have followed Job's example; "the cause I knew not, I searched out." One must do that, or one runs the risk of being taken in, and throwing money away upon rogues which ought to go to help honest people.'

'But that takes time?'

'Yes.'

'A great deal of time, if it is to be done often.'

'Yes.'

'Mr. Pitt, if you follow out that sort of business, it would leave you time for nothing else.'

'What better can I do with my time?'

'Just suppose everybody did the like!'

'Suppose they did.'

'What would be the state of things?'

'I should say, the world would be in a better state of health; and that elephant we once spoke of would not shake his head quite so often.'

'But you are not the elephant, as I pointed out, if I remember; the world does not rest on your head.'

'Part of it does. Go on and answer my question. What ought I to do for these people of whom I have told you?'

'But you cannot reach everybody. You can reach only a few.'

'Yes. For those few, what ought I to do?'

'I daresay you know of other cases, that you have not said anything about, equally miserable?'

'More miserable, I assure you,' said Pitt, looking at her. 'What then? Answer my question, like a good woman.'

'I am not a good woman.'

'Answer it like a good woman, anyhow,' said Pitt, smiling. 'What should I do, properly, for such people as those I have brought to your notice? Apply the golden rule—the only one that can give the measure of things. In their place, what would you wish—and have a right to wish—that some one should do for you? what may those who have nothing demand from those who have everything?'

'Why, they could demand all you have got!'

'Not justly. Cannot you set your imagination to work and answer me? I am not talking for nothing. Take my old Christian, near eighty, who sees a sunbeam for one hour in the twenty-four, when the sun shines, and uses it to read her Bible. The rest of the twenty-four hours without even the company of a sunbeam. Imagine—what would you, in her place, wish for?'

'I should wish to die, I think.'

'It would be welcome to Mrs. Gregory, I do not doubt, though perhaps for a different reason. Still, you would not counsel suicide, or manslaughter. While you continued in life, what would you like?'

'Oh,' said Betty, with an emphatic utterance, 'I would like a place where I could breathe!'

'Better lodgings?'

'Fresh air. I would beg for air. Of all the horrors of such places, the worst seems to me the want of air fit to breathe.'

'Then you think she ought to have a better lodging, in a better quarter. She cannot pay for it. I can. Ought I to give it to her?'

Betty fidgeted, inwardly. The conditions of the cab did not allow of much external fidgeting.

'I do not know why you ask me this,' she said.

'No; but indulge me! I do not ask you without a purpose.'

'I am afraid of your purpose! Yes; if I must tell you, I should say, Oh, take me out of this! Let me see the sun whenever he can be seen in this rainy London; and let me have sweet air outside of my windows. Then I would like somebody to look after me; to open my window in summer and make my fire in winter, and prepare nice meals for me. I would like good bread, and a cup of drinkable tea, and a little bit of butter on my bread. And clothes enough to keep clean; and then I would like to live to thank you!'

Betty had worked herself up to a point where she was very near a great burst of tears. She stopped with a choked sob in her throat, and looked out of the cab window. Pitt's voice was changed when he spoke.

'That is just what I thought.'

'And you have done it!'

'No; I am doing it. I could not at once find what I wanted. Now I have got it, I believe. Go on now, please, and tell me what ought to be done for the man in rheumatic fever.'

'The doctor would know better than I.'

'He cannot pay for a doctor.'

'But he ought to have one!'

'Yes, I thought so.'

'I see what you are coming to,' said Betty; 'but, Mr. Pitt, I can not see that it is your duty to pay physician's bills for everybody that cannot afford it.'

'I am not talking of everybody. I am speaking of this Mr. Hutchins.'

'But there are plenty more, as badly off.'

'As badly,—and worse.'

'You cannot take care of them all.'

'Therefore—? What is your deduction from that fact?'

'Where are you going to stop?'

'Where ought I to stop? Put yourself, in imagination, in that condition I have described; the chill of a rheumatic fever, and a room without fire, in the depth of winter. What would your sense of justice demand from the well and strong and comfortable and able? Honestly.'

'Why,' said Betty, again surveying Pitt from one side, 'with my notions, I should want a doctor, and an attendant, and a comfortable room.'

'I do not doubt his notions would agree with yours,—if his fancy could get so far.'

'But who ought to furnish those things for him is another question.'

'Another, but not more hard to answer. The Bible rule is, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it—"'

'Will you, ought you, to do all that you find to do?'

But Pitt went on, in a quiet business tone: 'In that same court I found, some time ago, a man who had been injured by an accident. A heavy piece of iron had fallen on his foot; he worked in a machine shop. For months he was obliged to stay at home under the doctor's care. He used up all his earnings; and strength and health were alike gone. The man of fifty looked like seventy. The doctor said he could hardly grow strong again, without change of air.'

'Mr. Pitt!'—said Betty, and stopped.

'He has a wife and nine children.'

'What did you do?'

'What would you have done?'

'I don't know! I never thought it was my business to supplement all the world's failures.'

'Suppose for a moment it were Christ the Lord himself in either of these situations we have been looking at?'

'I cannot suppose it!'

'How would you feel about ministry then?'

Betty was silent, choked with discomfort now.

'Would you think you could do enough? But, Miss Frere, He says it is Himself, in every case of His servants; and what is done to them He counts as done to Himself. And so it is!'

Looking again keenly at the speaker, Betty was sure that the eyes, which did not meet hers, were soft with moisture.

'What did you do for that man?'

'I sent him to the seaside for three weeks. He came back perfectly well. But then his employers would not take him on again; they said they wanted younger men; so I had to find new work for him.'

'There was another old woman you told me of in that dreadful court; what did you do for her?'

'Put her in clover,' said Pitt, smiling. 'I moved Hutchins and his family into a better lodging, where they could have a room to spare; and then I paid Mrs. Hutchins to take care of her.'

'You might go on, for aught I see, and spend your whole life, and all you have, in this sort of work.'

'Do you think it would be a disagreeable disposition to make of both?'

'Why, yes!' said Betty. 'Would you give up all your tastes and pursuits,—literary, and artistic, and antiquarian, and I don't know what all,—and be a mere walking Benevolent Society?'

'No need to give them up, any further than as they would interfere with something more important and more enjoyable.'

'More enjoyable!'

'Yes. I think, Miss Betty, the pleasure of doing something for Christ is the greatest pleasure I know.'

Betty could have cried with vexation; in which, however, there was a distracting mingling of other feelings,—admiration of Pitt, envy of his evident happiness, regret that she herself was so different; but, above all, dismay that she was so far off. She was silent the rest of the drive.



CHAPTER XLIV.

THE DUKE OF TREFOIL.

They drove a long distance, much of the way through uninteresting regions. Pitt stopped the cab at last, took Betty out, and led her through one and another street and round corner after corner, till at last he turned into an alley again.

'Where are you taking me now, Mr. Pitt?' she asked, in some trepidation. 'Not another Martin's Court?'

'I want you to look well at this place.'

'I see it. What for?' asked Betty, casting her eyes about her. It was a very narrow alley, leading again, as might be seen by the gleam of light at the farther end, into a somewhat more open space—another court. Here the word open had no application. The sides of the alley were very near together and very high, leaving a strange gap between walls of brick, at least strange when considered with reference to human habitation; all of freedom or expanse there was indicated anywhere being a long and very distant strip of blue sky overhead when the weather was clear. Not even that to-day. The heavy clouds hung low, seeming to rest upon the house-tops, and shutting up all below under their breathless envelopment. Hot, sultry, stifling, the air felt to Betty; well-nigh unendurable; but Pitt seemed to be of intent that she should endure it for a while, and with some difficulty she submitted. Happily the place was cleaner than Martin's Court, and no dead cats nor decaying vegetables poisoned what air there was. But surely somewhat else poisoned it. The doors of dwellings on the one side and on the other stood open, and here and there a woman or two had pressed to the opening with her work, both to get light and to get some freshness, if there were any to be had.

Half way down the alley, Pitt paused before one of these open doors. A woman had placed herself as close to it as she could, having apparently some fine work in hand for which she could not get light enough. Betty could without much difficulty see past her into the space behind. It was a tiny apartment, smaller than anything Miss Frere had ever seen used as a living room; yet a living room it was. She saw that a very minute stove was in it, a small table, and another chair; and on some shelves against the wall there was apparently the inmate's store of what stood to her for china and plate. Two cups Betty thought she could perceive; what else might be there the light did not serve to show. The woman was respectable-looking, because her dress was whole and tolerably clean; but it showed great poverty nevertheless, being frequently mended and patched, and of that indeterminate dull grey to which all colours come with overmuch wear. She seemed to be middle-aged; but as she raised her head to see who had stopped in front of her, Betty was so struck by the expression and tale-telling of it that she forgot the question of age. Age? she might have been a hundred and fifty years old, to judge by the life-weary set of her features. A complexion that told of confinement, eyes dim with over-straining, lines of face that spoke weariness and disgust; and further, what to Betty's surprise seemed a hostile look of defiance. The face cleared, however, as she saw who stood before her; a great softening and a little light came into it; she rose and dropped a curtsey, which was evidently not a mere matter of form.

'How do you do, Mrs. Mills?' said Pitt, and his voice was very gentle as he spoke, and half to Betty's indignation he lifted his hat also. 'This is rather a warm day!'

'Well, it be, sir,' said the woman, resuming her seat. 'It nigh stifles the heart in one, it do!'

'I am afraid you cannot see to work very well, the clouds are so thick?'

'I thank you, sir; the clouds is allays thick, these days. Had you business with me, Mr. Dallas?'

'Not to-day, Mrs. Mills. I am showing this lady a bit of London.'

'And would the lady be your wife, sir?'

'Oh no,' said Pitt, laughing a little; 'you honour me too much. This is an American lady, from over the sea ever so far; and I want her to know what sort of a place London is.'

'It's a bitter poor place for the likes of us,' said the woman. 'You should show her where the grand folk lives, that built these houses for the poor to be stowed in.'

'Yes, I have showed her some of those, and now I have brought her to see your part of the world.'

'It's not to call a part o' the world!' said the woman. 'Do you call this a part of the world, Mr. Dallas? I mind when I lived where trees grow, and there was primroses in the grass; them's happier that hasn't known it. If you axed me sometimes, I would tell you that this is hell! Yet it ain't so bad as most. It's what folk call very decent. Oh yes! it's decent, it is, no doubt. I'll be carried out of it some day, and bless the day!'

'How is your boy?'

'He's fairly, sir, thank you.'

'No better?' said Pitt gently.

'He won't never be no better,' the woman said, with a doggedness which Betty guessed was assumed to hide the tenderer feeling beneath. 'He's done for. There ain't nothin' but ill luck comes upon folks as lives in such a hole, and couldn't other!'

'I'll come and see you about Tim,' said Pitt. 'Keep up a good heart in the mean while. Good-bye! I'll see you soon.'

He went no farther in that alley. He turned and brought Betty out, called another cab, and ordered the man to drive to Kensington Gardens. Till they arrived there he would not talk; bade Betty wait with her questions. The way was long enough to let her think them all over several times. At last the cab stopped, Pitt handed her out, and led her into the Gardens. Here was a change. Trees of noble age and growth shadowed the ground, greensward stretched away in peaceful smoothness, the dust and the noise of the great city seemed to be escaped. It was fresh and shady, and even sweet. They could hear each other speak, without unduly raising their voices. Pitt went on till he found a place that suited him, and they sat down, in a refreshing greenness and quiet.

'Now,' said Betty, 'I suppose I may ask. What did you take me to that last place for?'

'That will appear in due time. What did you think of it?'

'It is difficult to tell you what I think of it. Is much of London like that?'

'Much of it is far worse.'

'Well, there is nothing like that in New York or Washington.'

'Do not be too sure. There is something like that wherever rich men are congregated in large numbers to live.'

'Rich men!' cried Betty.

'Yes. So far as I know, this sort of thing is to be found nowhere else, but where rich men dwell. It is the growth of their desire for large incomes. That woman we visited—what did you think of her?'

'She impressed me very much, and oddly. I could not quite read her look. She seemed to be in a manner hostile, not to you, but I thought to all the world beside; a disagreeable look!'

'She is a lace-mender'—

'A lace-mender!' broke in Betty. 'Down in that den of darkness?'

'And she pays— Did you see where she lived?'

'I saw a room not bigger than a good-sized box; is that all?'

'There is an inner room—or box—without windows, where she and her child sleep. For that lodging that woman pays half-a-crown a week—that is, about five shillings American money—to one of the richest noblemen in England.'

'A nobleman!' cried Betty.

'The Duke of Trefoil.'

'A nobleman!' Betty repeated. 'A duke, and a lace-mender, and five shillings a week!'

'The glass roofs of his hothouses and greenhouses would cover an acre of ground. His wife sits in a boudoir opening into a conservatory where it is summer all the year round; roses bloom and violets, and geraniums wreathe the walls, and palm trees are grouped around fountains. She eats ripe strawberries every day in the year if she chooses, and might, like Judah, "wash her feet in the blood of the grape," the fruit is so plenty, the while my lace-mender strains her eyes to get half-a-crown a week for his Grace. All that alley and its poor crowded lodgings belong to him.'

'I don't wonder she looks bitter, poor thing. Do you suppose she knows how her landlord lives?'

'I doubt if she does. She perhaps never heard of the house and gardens at Trefoil Park. But in her youth she was a servant in a good house in the country,—not so great a house,—and she knows something of the difference between the way the rich live and the poor. She is very bitter over the contrast, and I cannot much blame her!'

'Yet it is not just.'

'Which?' said Pitt, smiling.

'That feeling of the poor towards the rich.'

'Is it not? It has some justice. I was coming home one night last winter, late, and found my way obstructed by the crowd of arrivals to an entertainment given at a certain great house. The house stood a little back from the street, and carpeting was laid down for the softly shod feet to pass over. Of course there were gathered a small crowd of lookers-on, pressing as near as they were allowed to come; trying to catch, if they might, a gleam or a glitter from the glories they could not approach. I don't know if the contrast struck them, but it struck me; the contrast between those satin slippers treading the carpet, and the bare feet standing on the muddy stones; feet that had never known the touch of a carpet anywhere, nor of anything else either clean or soft.'

'But those contrasts must be, Mr. Dallas.'

'Must they? Is not something wrong, do you think, when the Duke of Trefoil eats strawberries all the year long, and my lace-mender, in the height of the season, perhaps never sees one?—when the duchess sits in her bower of beauty, with the violets under her feet and the palms over her head, and the poor in her husband's houses cannot get a flower to remind them that all the world is not like a London alley? Does not something within you say that the scales of the social balance might be a little more evenly adjusted?'

'How are you going to do it?'

'If you do not feel that,' Pitt went on, 'I am afraid that some of the lower classes do. I said I did not know whether the contrast struck the people that night, but I do know it did. I heard words and saw looks that betrayed it. And when the day comes that the poor will know more and begin to think about these things, I am afraid there will be trouble.'

'But what can you do?'

'That is exactly what I was going to ask you,' said Pitt, changing his tone and with a genial smile. 'Take my lace-mender for an example. These things must be handled in detail, if at all. She is bitter in the feeling of wrong done her somewhere, bitter to hatred; what can, not you, but I, do for her, to help her out of it?'

'I should say that is the Duke of Trefoil's business.'

'I leave his business to him. What is mine?'

'You have done something already, I can see, for she makes an exception of you.'

'I have not done much,' said Pitt gravely. 'What do you think it was? Her boy was ill; he had met with an accident, and was a thin, pale, wasted-looking child when I first saw them. I took him a rosebush, in full flower.'

'Were they so glad of it?'

Pitt was silent a minute.

'It was about as much as I could stand, to see it. Then I got the child some things that he could eat. He is well now; as well as he ever will be.'

'I did not see the rosebush.'

'Ah, it did not live. Nothing could there.'

'Well, Mr. Pitt, haven't you done your part, as far as this case is concerned?'

'Have I? Would you stop with that?'

Betty sat very quiet, but internally fidgeted. What did Pitt ask her these questions for? Why had he taken her on this expedition? She wished she had not gone; she wished she had not come to England; and yet she would not be anywhere else at this moment but where she was, for any possible consideration. She wished Pitt would be different, and not fill his head with lace-menders and London alleys; and yet—even so—things might be worse. Suppose Pitt had devoted his energies to gambling, and absorbed all his interests in hunters and racers. Betty had known that sort of thing; and now summarily concluded that men must make themselves troublesome in one way or another. But this particular turn this man had taken did seem to set him so far off from her!

'What would you do, Mr. Pitt?' she said, with a somewhat weary cadence in her voice which he could not interpret.

'Look at it, and tell me, from your standpoint.'

'If you took that woman out of those lodgings, there would come somebody else into them, and you might begin the whole thing over again. In that way the Duke of Trefoil might give you enough to do for a lifetime.'

'Well?—the conclusion?'

'How can you ask? Some things are self-evident.'

'What do you think that means: "He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none"?'

'I don't think it means that,' said Betty. 'That you are to give away all you have, till you haven't left yourself an overcoat.'

'Are you sure? Not if somebody else needed it more? That is the question. We come back to the—"Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you." "Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out devils." How, do you think, can I best do that in the case of Mrs. Mills and her boy? One thing at a time. Never mind what the Duke of Trefoil may complicate in the future.'

'Raise the dead!' Betty echoed.

'Ay,' he said. 'There are worse deaths than that of the body.'

Betty paused, but Pitt waited.

'If they are to be kept alive in any sense,' she said at last, 'they must be taken out of that hole where they are now.'

'And, as you truly suggest that the number of persons wanting such relief is unlimited, the first thing to be done is to build proper houses for the poor. That is what I have set about.'

'You have!' cried Betty.

'I cannot do much. True, but that is nothing whatever to the question. I have begun to put up a few houses, which shall be comfortable, easy to keep clean, and rentable for what the industrious poor can afford to pay. That will give sufficient interest for the capital expended, and even allow me, without further outlay, to go on extending my accommodations. Mrs. Mills will move into the first of my new houses, I hope, next month.'

'What have you taken me all this day's expedition for, Mr. Dallas?' Betty asked suddenly. The pain of the thing was pressing her.

'You remember, you asked a question of me; to wit, whether I were minded still as I seemed to be minded last year. I have showed you a fraction of the reasons why I should not have changed, and you have approved them.'

Betty found nothing to answer; it was difficult not to approve them, and yet she hated the conclusion. The conversation was not resumed immediately. All the quiet beauty of the scene around them spoke, to Betty, for a life of ease and luxury; it seemed to say, Keep at a distance from disagreeable things; if want and squalor are in the world, you belong to a different part of the world; let London be London, you stay in Kensington Gardens. Take the good of your advantages, and enjoy them. That this was the noblest view or the justest conclusion, she would not say to herself; but it was the view in which she had been brought up; and the leopard's spots, we know, are persistent. Pitt had been brought up so too; what a tangent he had taken from the even round of society in general! Not to be brought back?