'And to all the disciples that other command was given, – "Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." And of all the things that a man can want and desire to have given him, there is nothing comparable for preciousness to the knowledge of Christ.'

'But, Mr. Dallas, this is not the general way of thinking?'

'Among those who' – he paused – 'who are glad in the love of Christ, I think it must be.'

'Then what are those who are not "glad" in that way?'

'Greatly to be pitied!'

There was a little pause. Pitt went on busily with his work. Betty sat and looked at him, and looked at the varieties of things he was putting under shelter or out of the way. One after another, all bearing their witness to the tastes and appetite for knowledge possessed by the person who had gathered them together. Yes, if Pitt was not a scientist, he was very fond of sciences; and if he were not to be called an artist in some kinds, he was full of feeling for art. What an anomaly he was! how very unlike this room looked to the abode of a fanatic!

'What is to become of all these things?' she asked, pursuing her thoughts.

'They will be safe here till I return.'

'But I mean – You do not understand me. I was thinking rather, what would become of all the tastes and likings to which they bear evidence? How do they match with your new views of things?'

'How do they not match?' said Pitt, stopping short.

'You spoke of giving up all things, did you not?'

'The Bible does,' said Pitt, smiling. 'But that is, if need be for the service or honour of God. Did you think they were to be renounced in all cases?'

'Then what did you mean?'

'The Bible means, evidently, that we are to be so minded, toward them and toward God, that we are ready to give them up and do give them up just so far and so fast as His service calls for it. That is all, and it is enough!'

Betty watched him a little longer, and then began again.

'You say, it is to be the business of your life to – well, how shall I put it? – to set people right, in short. Why don't you begin at the beginning, and attack me?'

'I don't know how to point my guns.'

'Why? Do you think me such a hard case?'

He hesitated, and said 'Yes.'

'Why?' she asked again, with a mixture of mortification and curiosity.

'Your defences have withstood all I have been able to bring to bear in the shape of ordnance.'

'Why do you say that? I have been very much interested in all I have heard you say.'

'I know that; and not in the least moved.'

Betty was vexed. Had her tactics failed so utterly? Did Pitt think she was a person quite and irremediably out of his plane, and inaccessible to the interests which he ranked first of all? She had wanted to get nearer to him. Had she so failed? She would not let the tears come into her eyes, but they were ready, if she would have let them.

'So you give me up!' she said.

'I have no alternative.'

'You have lost all hope of me?'

'No. But at present your eyes are so set in another direction that you will not look the way I have been pointing you. Of course, you do not see what I see.'

'In what direction are my eyes so set?'

'I will not presume to tell Miss Frere what she knows so much better than I do.'

Betty bit her lip.

'What is in that cabinet?' she asked suddenly.

'Coins.'

'Oh, coins! I never could see the least attractiveness in coins.'

'That was because – like some other things – they were not looked at.'

'Well, what is the interest of them?'

'To find out, I am afraid you must give them your attention. They are like witnesses, stepping out from the darkness of the past and telling the history of it – history in which they moved and had a part, you understand.'

'But the history of the past is not so delightful, is it, that one would care much about hearing the witnesses? What is in that other cabinet, where you are standing?'

'That contains my herbarium.'

'All that? You don't mean that all those drawers are filled with dried flowers?'

'Pretty well filled. There is room for some more.'

'How you must have worked!'

'That was play.'

'Then what do you call work?'

'Well, reading law rather comes into that category.'

'You expect to go on reading law?'

'For the present. I approve of finishing things when they are begun.'

'Mr. Dallas, what are you going to do? In what, after all, are you going to be unlike other men? Your mother seems to apprehend some disastrous and mysterious change in all your prospects; I cannot see the necessity of that. In what are you going to be other than she wishes you to be? Are not her fears mistaken?'

Pitt smiled a grave smile; again stopped in his work and stood opposite her.

'I might say "yes" and "no,"' he answered. 'I do not expect to have a red cross embroidered on my sleeve, like the old crusaders. But judge yourself. Can those who live to do the will of God be just like those whose one concern is to do their own will?'

'Mr. Dallas, you insinuate, or your words might be taken to insinuate, that all the rest of us are in the latter class!'

'Whose will do you do?' he said.

There was no answer, for Betty had too much pluck to speak falsely, and too much sense not to know what was truth. She accordingly did not say anything, and after waiting a minute or two Pitt went on with his preparations, locking up drawers, packing up boxes, taking down and putting away the many objects that filled the room. There was not a little work of this sort to be done, and he went on with it busily, and with an evidently trained and skilled hand.

'Then, after finishing with law, do you expect to come back here and unpack all these pretty things again?' she said finally.

'Perhaps. I do not know.'

'Perhaps you will settle in England?'

'I do not yet know what is the work that I have to do in the world. Ishall know, but I do not know now. It may be to go to India, or to Greenland; or it may be to come here. Though I do not now see what I should do in Seaforth that would be worth living for.'

India or Greenland! For a young man who was heir to no end of money, and would have acres of land! Miss Betty perceived that here was something indeed very different from the general run of rich young men, and that Mrs. Dallas had not been so far wrong in her forebodings. 'How very absurd!' she said to herself as she went away down the open staircase; 'and what a pity!'

CHAPTER XXXIX
SKIRMISHING

To the great chagrin of his mother, and, indeed, of everybody, Pitt took his departure a few days before the necessary set termination of his visit. He must, he declared, have a few days to run down from London into the country and find out the Gainsborough family; if Colonel Gainsborough and his daughter had really gone home, he must know.

'What on earth do you want to know for?' his lather had angrily asked.

'What concern is it to you, in any way? Pitt, I wish you would take all the time you have and use it to make yourself agreeable to Miss Frere.

Where could you do better?'

'I have no time for that now, sir.'

'Time! What is time? Don't you admire her?'

'Everyone must do that.'

'I have an idea she don't dislike you. It would suit your mother and me very well. She has not money, but she has everything else. There has been no girl more admired in Washington these two winters past; no girl. You would have a prize, I can tell you, that many a one would like to hinder your getting.'

'I have no time, sir, now; and I must find out my old friends, first of all.'

'Do you mean, you want to marry that girl?' said Mr. Dallas, imprudently flaming out.

Pitt was at the moment engaged in mending up a precious old volume, which by reason of age and use had become dangerously dilapidated. He was manipulating skilfully, as one accustomed to the business, with awl and a large needle, surrounded by his glue-pot and bits of leather and paper. At the question he lifted up his head and looked at his father. Mr. Dallas did not like the look; it was too keen and had too much recognition in it; he feared he had unwarily showed his play. But Pitt answered then quietly, going on with his work again.

'I said nothing of that, sir; I do not know anything about that. My old friends may be in distress; both or one of them; it is not at all unlikely, I think. If things had gone well with them, you would have been almost sure to hear of their whereabouts at least. I made a promise, at any rate, and I am bound to find them, one side or the other of the Atlantic.'

'Don Quixote!' muttered his father. 'Colonel Gainsborough, I have no doubt, has gone home to his people, whom he ought never to have left.'

'In that case I can certainly find them.'

Mr. Dallas seldom made the mistake of spoiling his cause with words; he let the matter drop, though his mouth was full of things he would have liked to speak.

So the time came for Pitt's departure, and he went; and the two women he left behind him hardly dared to look at each other; the one lest she should betray her sorrow, and the other lest she should seem to see it. Betty honestly suffered. She had found Pitt's society delightful; it had all the urbanity without the emptiness of that she was accustomed to. Whether right or wrong, he was undoubtedly a person in earnest, who meant his life to be something more than a dream or a play, and who had higher ends in view than to understand dining, or even to be an acknowledged critic of light literature, or a leader of fashion. Higher ends even than to be at the head of the State or a leader of its armies. There was enough natural nobleness in Betty to understand Pitt, at least in a degree, and to be mightily attracted by all this. And his temper was so fine, his manners so pleasant, his tender deference to his mother so beautiful. Ah, such a man's wife would be well sheltered from some of the harshest winds that blow in the face of human nature! Even if he were a little fanatical, it was a fanaticism which Betty half hoped, half inconsistently feared, would fade away with time. He had stayed just long enough to kindle a tire in her heart, which now she could not with a blow or a breath extinguish; not long enough for the fire to catch any loose tinder lying about on the outskirts of his. Pitt rode away heart-whole, she was obliged to confess to herself, so far, at least, as she was concerned; and Betty had nothing to do now but to feel how that fire bit her, and to stifle the smoke of it. Mrs. Dallas was a woman and a mother, and she saw what Betty would not have had her see for any money.

'I think Pitt was taken with her,' she said to her husband, as one seeks to strengthen a faint belief by putting it into words.

'He is taken with nothing but his own obstinacy!' growled Mr. Dallas.

'His obstinacy never troubled you,' said the mother. 'Pitt was always like that, but never for anything bad.'

'It's for something foolish, then; and that will do as well.'

'Did you sound him?'

'Yes!'

'And what did he say?'

'Said he must see Esther Gainsborough first, confound him!'

'Esther Gainsborough! But he tried and could not find them.'

'He will try on the other side now. He'll waste his time running all over England to discover the family place; and then he will know that there is more looking to be done in America.'

'And he talked of coming over next year! Husband, he must not come. We must go over there.'

'Next summer. Yes, that is the only thing to do.'

'And we will take Betty Frere along with us.'

Mrs. Dallas said nothing of this scheme at present to the young lady, though it comforted herself. Perhaps it would have comforted Betty too, whose hopes rested on the very faint possibility of another summer's gathering at Seaforth. That was a very doubtful possibility; the hope built upon it was vaporously unsubstantial. She debated with herself whether the best thing were not to take the first passable offer that should present itself, marry and settle down, and so deprive herself of the power of thinking about Pitt, and him of the fancy that she ever had thought about him. Poor girl, she had verified the truth of the word which speaks about going on hot coals; she had burned her feet. She had never done it before; she had played with a dozen men at different times, allowed them to come near enough to be looked at; dallied with them, discussed, and rejected, successively, without her own heart ever even coming in danger; as to danger to their's, that indeed had not been taken into consideration, or had not excited any scruple. Now, now, the fire bit her, and she could not stifle it; and a grave doubt came over her whether even that expedient of marriage might be found able to stifle it. She went away from Seaforth a few days after Pitt's departure, a sadder woman than she had come to it, though, I fear, scarce a wiser.

On her way to Washington she tarried a few days in New York; and there it chanced that she had a meeting which, in the young lady's then state of mind, had a tremendous interest for her.

Society in New York at that day was very little like society there now. Even granting that the same principles of human nature underlay its developments, the developments were different. Small companies, even of fashionable people, could come together for an evening; dancing, although loved and practised, did not quite exclude conversation; supper was a far less magnificent affair; and fashion itself was much more necessarily and universally dependent on the accessories of birth, breeding, and education, than is the case at present. It was known who everybody was; parvenus were few; and there was still a flavour left of old-world traditions and colonial antecedents. So, when Miss Frere was invited to one of the best houses in the city to spend the evening, she was not surprised to find only a moderate little company assembled, and dresses and appointments on an easy and unostentatious footing, which now is nearly unheard of. There was elegance enough, however, both in the dresses and persons of many of those present; and Betty was quite in her element, finding herself as usual surrounded by attentive and admiring eyes, and able to indulge her love of conversation; for this young lady liked talking better than dancing. Indeed, there was no dancing in the early part of the evening; it was rather a musical company, and Betty's favourite amusement was often interrupted; for the music was too good, and the people present too well-bred, to allow of that jumble of sounds musical and unmusical which is so distressing, and alas! not so rare.

Several bits of fine, old-fashioned music had been given, from Mozart and Beethoven and Handel; and Betty had got into full swing of conversation again, when a pause around her gave notice that another performer was taking her seat at the piano. Betty checked her speech with a little impulse of vexation, and cast her eyes across the room.

'Who is it now?' she asked.

There was a little murmur of question and answer, for the gentlemen immediately at hand did not know; then she was told, 'It is a Miss Gainsborough.'

'Gainsborough!' Betty's eyes grew large, and her face took a sudden gravity. 'What Gainsborough?'

Nobody knew. 'English, I believe,' somebody said.

All desire to talk died out of Betty's lips; she became as silent as the most rigid decorum could have demanded, and applied herself to listen, and of course those around her were becomingly silent also. What was the astonishment of them all, to hear the notes of a hymn, and then the hymn itself, sung by a sweet voice with very clear accent, so that every word was audible! The hymn was not known to Miss Frere; it was fine and striking; and the melody, also unfamiliar, was exceedingly simple. Everybody listened, that was manifest; it was more than the silence of politeness which reigned in the rooms until the last note was ended. And Betty listened more eagerly than anybody, and a strange thrill ran through her. The voice which sang the hymn was not finer, not so fine as many a one she had heard; it was thoroughly sweet and had a very full and rich tone; its power was only moderate. The peculiarity lay in the manner with which the meaning was breathed into the notes. Betty could not get rid of the fancy that it was a spirit singing, and not a woman. Simpler musical utterance she had never heard, nor any, in her life, that so went to the heart. She listened, and wondered as she listened what it was that so moved her. The voice was tender, pleading, joyous, triumphant. How anybody should dare sing such words in a mixed company, Betty could not conceive; yet she envied the singer; and heard with a strange twinge at her heart the words of the chorus, which was given with the most penetrating ring of truth —

'Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Glory be to God on high,
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Sing His praises through the sky;
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Glory to the Father give:
Glory, glory, glory, glory,
Sing His praises, all that live!'

The hymn went on to offer Christ's salvation to all who would have it; and closed with a variation of the chorus, taken from the song of the redeemed in heaven, – 'Worthy is the Lamb that was slain.'

As sweet and free as the jubilant shout of a bird the notes rang; with a lift in them, however, which the unthinking creature neither knows nor can express. Betty's eye roved once or twice round the room during the singing to see how the song was taken by the rest of the company. All listened, but she could perceive that some were bored and some others shocked. Others looked curiously grave.

The music ceased and the singer rose. Nobody proposed that she should sing again.

'What do you think of the good taste of that?' one of Betty's cavaliers asked her softly.

'Oh, don't talk about good taste! Who is she?'

'I – really, I don't know – I believe somebody said she was a teacher somewhere. She has tried her hand on us, hasn't she?'

'A teacher!' Betty repeated the word, but gave no attention to the question. She was looking across the room at the musician, who was standing by the piano talking with a gentleman. The apartment was not so large but that she could see plainly, while it was large enough to save her from the charge of ill-bred staring. She saw a moderately tall figure, as straight as an Indian, with the head exquisitely set on the shoulders, the head itself covered with an abundance of pale brown hair, disposed at the back in a manner of careless grace which reminded Betty of a head of Sappho on an old gem in her possession. The face she could not see quite so well, for it was partly turned from her; Betty's attention centred on the figure and carriage. A pang of jealous rivalry shot through her as she looked. There was not a person in the room that carried her head so nobly, nor whose pose was so stately and graceful; yet, stately as it was, it had no air of proud self-consciousness, nor of pride at all; it was not that; it was simple, maidenly dignity, not dignity aped. Betty read so much, and rapidly read what else she could see. She saw that the figure she was admiring was dressed but indifferently; the black silk had certainly seen its best days, if it was not exactly shabby; no ornaments whatever were worn with it. The fashion of garments at that day was, as I have remarked, very trying to any but a good figure, while it certainly showed such a one to advantage. Betty knew her own figure could bear comparison with most; the one she was looking at would bear comparison with any. Miss Gainsborough was standing in the most absolute quiet, the arms crossed over one another, with no ornament but their whiteness.

'A good deal of aplomb there?' whispered one of Betty's attendants, who saw whither her eyes had gone.

'Aplomb!' repeated Betty. 'That is not aplomb!'

'Isn't it? Why not?'

'It is something else,' said Betty, eyeing still the figure she was commenting on. 'You don't speak of balance unless – how shall I put it? Don't you know what I mean?'

'No!' laughed her companion.

'You might save me the trouble of telling you, if you were clever. You know you do not speak of "balance," except – well, except where either the footing or the feet are somehow doubtful. You would not think of "balance" as belonging to a mountain.'

'A mountain!' said the other, looking over at Esther, and still laughing.

'Yes; I grant you there is not much in common between the two things; only that element of undisturbableness. Do you know Miss Gainsborough?'

'I have not the honour. I have never met her before.'

'I must know her. Who can introduce me?' And finding her hostess at this moment near her, Betty went on: 'Dear Mrs. Chatsworth, do take me over and introduce me to Miss Gainsborough! I am filled with admiration and curiosity. But first, who is she?'

'I really can tell you little. She is a great favourite of my friend

Miss Fairbairn; that is how I came to know her. She teaches in Mme.

Duval's school. She is English, I believe. Miss Fairbairn says she is very highly accomplished; and I believe it is true.'

'Well, please introduce me. I am dying to know her.'

The introduction was made; the gentleman who had been talking to Miss

Gainsborough withdrew; the two girls were left face to face.

Yes, what a face! thought Betty, as soon as it was turned upon her; and with every minute of their being together the feeling grew. Not like any face she had ever seen in her life, Betty decided; what the difference was it took longer to determine. Good features, with refinement in every line of them; a fair, delicate skin, matching the pale brown hair, Betty had seen as good repeatedly. What she had not seen was what attracted her. The brow, broad and intellectual, had a most beautiful repose upon it; and from under it looked forth upon Betty two glorious grey eyes, pure, grave, thoughtful, penetrating, sweet. Yet more than all the rest, perhaps, which struck Miss Frere, was an expression, in mouth and eyes both, which is seen on no faces but of those who have gone through discipline and have learned the habit of self-renunciation, endurance, and loving ministry.

The two girls sat down together at Betty's instance.

'Will you forgive me?' she said. 'I am a stranger, but I do want to ask you a question or two. May I? and will you hear me patiently? I see you will.'

The other made a courteous, half smiling sign of assent, not as if she were surprised. Betty noticed that.

'It is very bold, for a stranger,' she went on, making her observations while she spoke; 'but the thing is earnest with me, and I must seize my chance, if it is a chance. It has happened,' – she lowered her voice somewhat and her words came slower, – 'it has happened that I have been studying the subject of religion a good deal lately; it interests me; and I want to ask you, why did you sing that hymn?'

'That particular hymn?'

'No, no; I mean, why did you sing a hymn at all? It is not the usual thing, you know.'

'May I ask you a counter question? What should be the motive with which one sings, or does anything of the sort?'

'Motive? why, to please people, I suppose.'

'And you think my choice was not happy?'

'What does she ask me that for?' thought Betty; 'she knows, just as well as I do, what people thought of it. What is she up to?' But aloud she answered, —

'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.