The History of the Lady Betty Stair

by Molly Elliot Seawell

The abbé nodded his head with pleased approval at this.

“True, very true. It was not of the world that it was said, ‘For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.’”

“And Sister Claire is no exception to the rest. She is so courageous—ready to do anything, to go anywhere—depend upon it, Monsieur l’Abbé, there is something in blood, after all.”

The mother superior said this as if it were a highly original remark, and the abbé smiled,—he felt sure, whatever Lady Betty Stair professed to be, she was that with all her heart. And in a little while the mother superior arose to send Sister Claire to him, and presently he heard a quick, light step tripping down the flagged walk under the lilac-trees behind him. It gave him a weird sensation; he felt as if he were in the long gallery at Holyrood, and Lady Betty Stair was tripping toward him in little high-heeled red slippers, and she would appear before him in a moment in a gay little white gown, and make him a low courtesy as in the old days; and he did not come out of his day dream until he saw Sister Claire standing close by him, her face framed in white, and her graceful figure not wholly concealed by the habit of the Sisters of Mercy.

The abbé’s first idea was, that Lady Betty had grown taller and more beautiful than he could ever have dreamed. In place of her charming prettiness was a lofty and touching beauty. Her old spirit was not gone,—there was the same gleam in her eyes, the same color in her cheeks, but glorified by the dignity of self-sacrifice. She was so glad to see the abbé that she squeezed his hand tightly in her two small palms; and then sat down by him on the bench. Both of them were a little shaken, and a diamond drop or two hung upon Sister Claire’s lashes.

“How kind you were to come!” she cried; and the abbé noticed, even in her voice, the magic change. It had always been sweet, but now it was thrilling. And he felt sure, in one minute, that whatever might have been the storms through which she had passed, now, at least, she was at peace.

“Tell me about yourself, my child,” he asked.

“There is not much to tell—only, that I have to-day obtained the desire of my heart. I have always longed to help our dear, brave soldiers in the field, and I was so afraid I would be made to teach, or to nurse the rich when they are ill, or something really hard. But to-day it is settled—I am to be with an ambulance—not in charge—for I have no experience yet—but I am to do what I have longed to do. I think my fighting blood must make me yearn to help our poor soldiers,—and God has been so good to me in letting me do it.”

“I congratulate you, my child. Nothing is nobler or more useful. You will perhaps find many old acquaintances among the officers, who will be of help to you.”

“I shall make them all help me,” she cried, nodding her head very much as of old. Then she began to ask after the Royal Highnesses both of them had served, and after many other persons they both knew. She could give him news of Madame Mirabel, who was well and happy in being still allowed to follow exiled royalty; and Monsieur Bastien, she said, smiling, had married the widow of a rich contractor. The abbé’s tongue was well under control, but his countenance remained expressive. Something in his look told Sister Claire that the subject of Bastien was unpleasing; and then she asked, quite calmly and naturally, “And Monsieur de Bourmont, what has become of him?”