Chapter 4

"It is then true, my Betty? And I am to wish you joy?" cried Mary Jones, with both hands outstretched.

"It is true," answered Betty, her lips parted in a smile of sunshiny happiness. "Congratulate me, Mary; yes, wish me joy, for there is no happier woman to-day between the Northern and Southern seas."

"I am glad to see you so happy, dear child!" cried Mary affectionately, but there was something pinched and starved in her voice. Ah, pity for those who possess the capacity for love and yet must go hungry to their dying day!

This odd want is none the less bitter that it meets with scant sympathy in this hard world. In the breast of many an unsought woman lies a wealth of wasted treasure, treasure which no one has cared to seek, and yet what a treasure it might have been!

Mary Jones's heart had grown somewhat starved, but it was the heart of a loving woman still, and when the bright sunshine of her young friend's happiness shed its light on her soul, it awakened an echo of old dead days, and swelled it with sympathy.

"Sit down, sweet one," she said, drawing Betty down on the sofa beside her. "Tell me all about it. When did he ask you to be his wife?"

"This morning, Mary, only this morning; but it seems as if years had passed since then."

"And what says Mr. Ives? Does he welcome the stranger who takes from him his only child?"

"Not far, Mary--but two miles away--and my father is always to live with me, if he so will it, so says Mr. Johnstone."

"But is he pleased?" asked Mary, with a little persistence.

"Yes, he is well pleased; he already loves him as a son. Mary, perhaps the thing that most readily won my heart was his reverence and tender courtesy to my father."

"I can believe it, Betty. His manners are perfect. I was only making that same remark to Deborah this morning. Yes, I knew only one other whose manners could compare with your John Johnstone's, Betty--only one."

Mary Jones sighed deeply and looked down. Betty gently pressed her hand.

Hitherto she had always laughed at her friend's tender recollections; now, it seemed to her that her eyes were opened to her former cruelty.

But Mistress Mary was too much interested to waste too much time even on such reflections.

"You must tell me all, dear," she said. "What is his family? Has he parents living, brothers and sisters? Is his fortune assured?"

"Ah, there is some little difficulty there," answered Betty, her face falling a little. "He has no parents, no friends, no kindred; he is all alone in the wide world. And as for his fortune, that is assured, but it is somehow mysteriously bound up in trusts--I know not what--he has no papers to show my father, he asks for perfect confidence."

Mistress Mary was a prudent woman. She pursed up her lips and uttered a little sound expressive of discontent.

"Dear Betty," she said, "it is doubtless a very good thing to be in love with a stranger romantically, but still--"

"He is no stranger," said Betty quickly.

"No, no, not to be called a stranger," cried Mary, laughing--"an old and valued friend of two months' standing."

"The time is short," said Betty thoughtfully. "But a whole lifetime seems to have passed in that space! My father," she cried, as Mr. Ives entered the room, "here is Mistress Mary Jones."

"Come to offer my warmest good wishes," said the lady, "and also all the assistance in my power when the important day approaches."

"I shall indeed be glad and grateful for your help," said Betty affectionately.

Mr. Ives persuaded Mary to remain for supper. The candles were brought in, and the room looked bright and cheery.

"Stay with me and cheer my loneliness," said the parson cheerily. "The young folk will stroll in the garden till supper be ready. I am too old for dewy twilight walks, egad."

Was it a new idea that flashed into Mary's mind that caused her to start? She glanced at Mr. Ives' comely person, at his glossy cassock, his smartly-buckled shoes, at the neat tie-wig which surmounted a face which she hastily pronounced as handsome as it ever had been.

With a sweep of her fan Mistress Mary renounced her waning youth.

"Stay with you!" she cried, "that will I! and you and I from the window will superintend our dear young ones. Alas!" she said, with a languishing look, "how lonely the house will seem when you are bereft of your daughter."

Mr. Ives sighed deeply.

Outside in the gloaming, Betty Ives and her young lover walked slowly backwards and forwards under the orchard trees.

"No father, no mother, no sisters!" she said, looking up into his face. "No one to love, no one to love you!"

"I do not know whether I am to be pitied," he answered with a light laugh. "My life has been one of strange vicissitudes. No, no, sweet Bet; I have often thanked God that no one shared my life."

"But you will never do so again," she said earnestly.

"Sweetheart!" he answered. "Until you have once drunk of the cup of happiness you know not what it is; but once tasted, you can ill spare it thenceforth."

"Ah, some day you will tell me about this life of yours--will you not?"

"Some day, my heart, when you and I are alone together in the fair woods of Belton--when you are my precious wife, and when days have passed on, and our full trust and confidence each in the other is proved and strengthened by time. But not now, beloved, not now."

"Have you known griefs, sorrows?"

"A few."

"Happiness?"

"Yes, and triumphs often."

Betty bent down her head thoughtfully; fain would she have swept away the veil of mystery which surrounded her betrothed, but she would take no step to do so--no confidence was precious save that which was given unasked.

The twilight gathered softly. Presently Betty turned round, and placed her two clasped hands on his arm, her noble head proudly raised, her large eyes seeking his.

"Look you," she said, "there is something I would wish to say to you. You and I are to be man and wife--and I have accepted you--I know nothing of you, John--I know not whence you come, or from among what kinsfolk; I have taken all on trust. I love you, John, so I fear not. They say that perfect love casteth out fear. There can be no dark secret in your life, no deed or deeds that you shame to disclose to me. I take you with infinite faith. So tell me what you will, dear, or as much as you will. My heart will give you gratitude for the confidence you give to me, and, John, my love shall cover your silence."

With a sudden impulse John Johnstone was down on his knees, he pressed her hands to his lips with a passion akin to worship.

"My life, my love!" he cried--"my whole life shall be devoted to rewarding your trust in me. Oh, would to God I were more worthy of you!"

Within the house Mistress Mary and Mr. Ives were very comfortable: they played a game of patience together (in which the former was a great proficient), they chatted, they waxed confidential, and not till Dame Martha summoned them to sup, did they perceive the lapse of time. Mr. Ives called from the window, and the betrothed pair came in, their eyes shining and dazzled by the bright light.

Matters went on happily thus for many days--it seemed that the course of true love was to run very smooth--when one evening a little incident occurred that startled all.

The little party of four were dining together, as they generally did.

Mr. Ives was in a merry mood: he poured out a glass of good red wine, wine that was not often brought forth from the depth of his cellar; he bade John Johnstone fill up his glass, and as each gentleman raised it brimming to his lips, pledged "His sacred Majesty, good King George."

With a sharp rattle John Johnstone's glass crashed untasted on the table, and the red wine splashed like blood on the white napery.

The parson looked at him, and the colour forsook his cheek.

Mistress Mary glanced tremulously from one to another, and half rose in consternation.

The colour flushed high in Betty Ives' cheek. "Was this then the mystery?"

The absent king held all her sympathies.

Mr. Ives moved back his chair from the table, and said somewhat unsteadily:

"Good sir, I am a man of peace. I love order and a strong government. Can I hazard my daughter by--"

Now, strangely enough, Mary Jones came to the rescue.

"Sirs," she said, "allow me to make a proposition; it is this, that not one of us breathe a word elsewhere of what has happened tonight. For heaven's sake say nothing, keep all dark, and on this understanding," she stooped forward and daintily raised her own glass, "I also pledge his Majesty over the sea."

But Mr. Ives did not recover his spirits that night: presentiments of evil haunted him, misgivings that he had not done wisely by his darling. When the small hours of the morning struck he still lay awake, tossing restlessly to and fro.