"That is Holland House."
"Holland House! It looks very handsome outside."
"It is one of the finest houses about London. And it is better inside than outside."
"You have been inside?"
"A number of times. I am sorry I cannot take you in; but it is not open to strangers."
"How did you get in?"
"With my uncle."
"Holland House! I have heard that the society there is very fine."
"It has the best society of any house in London; and that is the same, I suppose, as to say any house in the world."
"Do you happen to know that by experience?"
"Yes; its positive, not its relative character," he said, smiling.
"But you-- However, I suppose you pa.s.s for an Englishman."
"Yes, but I have seen Americans there. My late uncle, Mr. Strahan, was a very uncommon man, full of rare knowledge, and very highly regarded by those who knew him. Lord Holland was a great friend of his, and he was always welcomed at Holland House. I slipped in under his wing."
"Then since Mr. Strahan"s death you do not go there any more?"
"Yes, I have been there. Lord Holland is one of the most kindly men in the kingdom, and he has not withdrawn the kindness he showed me as Mr.
Strahan"s nephew and favourite."
"If you go _there_, you must go into a great deal of London society,"
said Betty, wondering. "I am afraid you have been staying at home for our sakes. Mrs. Dallas would not like that."
"No," said Pitt, "the case is not such. Once in a while I have gone to Holland House, but I have not time for general society."
"Not time!"
"No," said Pitt, smiling at her expression.
"Not time for society! That is--_is_ it possibly--because of Martin"s court, and the Duke of Trefoil"s alley, and the like?"
"What do you think?" said Pitt, his eyes sparkling with amus.e.m.e.nt.
"There is society and society, you know. Can you drink from two opposite sides of a cup at the same time?"
"But one has _duties_ to Society!" objected Betty, bewildered somewhat by the argument and the smile together.
"So I think, and I am trying to meet them. Do not mistake me. I do not mean to undervalue _real_ society; I will take gladly all I can that will give me mental stimulus and refreshment. But the round of fashion is somewhat more vapid than ever, I grant you, after a visit to my lace-mender. Those two things cannot go on together. Shall we walk home? It is not very far from here. I am afraid I have tired you!"
Betty denied that; but she walked home very silently.
CHAPTER XLV.
_THE ABBEY_.
This interruption of the pleasure sights was alone in its kind. Pitt let the subject that day so thoroughly handled thenceforth drift out of sight; he referred to it no more; and continually, day after day, he gave himself up to the care of providing new entertainment for his guests. Drives into the country, parties on the river, visits to grand places, to picture galleries, to curiosities, to the British Museum, alternated with and succeeded each other. Pitt seemed untireable. Mrs.
Dallas was in a high state of contentment, trusting that all things were going well for her hopes concerning her son and Miss Frere; but Betty herself was going through an experience of infinite pain. It was impossible not to enjoy at the moment these enjoyable things; the life at Pitt"s old Kensington house was like a fairy tale for strangeness and prettiness; but Betty was living now under a clear impression of the fact that it _was_ a fairy tale, and that she must presently walk out of it. And gradually the desire grew uppermost with her to walk out of it soon, while she could do so with grace and of her own accord. The pretty house which she had so delighted in began to oppress her. She would presently be away, and have no more to do with it; and somebody else would be brought there to reign and enjoy as mistress. It tormented Betty, that thought. Somebody else would come there, would have a right there; would be cherished and cared for and honoured, and have the privilege of standing by Pitt in his works and plans, helping him, and sympathizing with him. A floating image of a fair, stately woman, with speaking grey eyes and a wonderful pure face, would come before her when she thought of these things, though she told herself it was little likely that _she_ would be the one; yet Betty could think of no other, and almost felt superst.i.tiously sure at last that Esther it would be, in spite of everything. Esther it would be, she was almost sure, if she, Betty, spoke one little word of information; would she have done well to speak it? Now it was too late.
"I think, Mrs. Dallas," she began, one day, "I cannot stay much longer with you. Probably you and Mr. Dallas may make up your minds to remain here all the winter; I should think you would. If I can hear of somebody going home that I know, I will go, while the season is good."
Mrs. Dallas roused up, and objected vehemently. Betty persisted.
"I am in a false position here," she said. "It was all very well at first; things came about naturally, and it could not be helped; and I am sure I have enjoyed it exceedingly; but, dear Mrs. Dallas, I cannot stay here always, you know. I am ashamed to remember how long it is already."
"My dear, I am sure my son is delighted to have you," said Mrs. Dallas, looking at her.
"He is not delighted at all," said Betty, half laughing. Poor girl, she was not in the least light-hearted; bitterness can laugh as easily as pleasure sometimes. "He is a very kind friend, and a perfect host; but there is no reason why he should care about my coming or going, you know."
"Everybody must care to have you come, and be sorry to have you go, Betty."
""Everybody" is a general term, ma"am, and always leaves room for important exceptions. I shall have his respect, and my own too, better if I go now."
"My dear, I cannot have you!" said Mrs. Dallas uneasily, but afraid to ask a question. "No, we shall not stay here for the winter. Wait a little longer, Betty, and we will take you down into the country, and make the tour of England. It is more beautiful than you can conceive.
Wait till we have seen Westminster Abbey; and then we will go. You can grant me that, my dear?"
Betty did not know how to refuse.
"Has Pitt got over his extravagancies of last year?" the older lady ventured, after a pause.
"I do not think he gets over anything," said Betty, with inward bitter a.s.surance.
The day came that had been fixed for a visit to the Abbey. Pitt had not been eager to take them there; had rather put it off. He told his mother that one visit to Westminster Abbey was nothing; that two visits were nothing; that a long time and many hours spent in study and enjoyment of the place were necessary before one could so much as begin to know Westminster Abbey. But Mrs. Dallas had declared she did not want to _know_ it; she only desired to see it and see the monuments; and what could be answered to that? So the visit was agreed upon and fixed for this day.
"You did not want to bring us here, because you thought we would not appreciate it?" Betty said to Pitt, in an aside, as they were about entering.
"n.o.body can appreciate it who takes it lightly," he answered.
That day remained fixed in Betty"s memory for ever, with all its details, sharp cut in. The moment they entered the building, the greatness and beauty of the place seemed to overshadow her, and roused up all the higher part of her nature. With that, it stirred into keen life the feeling of being shut out from the life she wanted. The Abbey, with the rest of all the wonders and antiquities and rich beauties of the city, belonged to the accessories of Pitt"s position and home; belonged so in a sort to him; and the sense of the beauty which she could not but feel met in the girl"s heart with the pain which she could not bid away, and the one heightened the other, after the strange fashion that pain and pleasure have of sharpening each other"s powers.
Betty took in with an intensity of perception all the riches of the Abbey that she was capable of understanding; and her capacity in that way was far beyond the common. She never in her life had been quicker of appreciation. The taste of beauty and the delight of curiosity were at times exquisite; never failing to meet and heighten that underlying pain which had so moved her whole nature to sentient life. For the commonplace and the indifferent she had to-day no toleration at all; they were regarded with impatient loathing. Accordingly, the progress round the Poets" corner, which Mrs. Dallas would make slowly, was to Betty almost intolerable. She must go as the rest went, but she went making silent protest.
"You do not care for the poets, Miss Betty," remarked Mr. Dallas jocosely.
"I see here very few names of poets that I care about," she responded.
"To judge by the rest, I should say it was about as much of an honour to be left out of Westminster Abbey as to be put in."
"Fie, fie, Miss Betty! what heresy is here! Westminster Abbey! why, it is the one last desire of ambition."