Our Bessie

CHAPTER XV.

“SHE WILL NOT COME.”

“Richard told me you were tired and had gone up to bed,” she said, more kindly than usual. “I am so sorry, my dear, that you have had such an uncomfortable afternoon. Edna has been very naughty—very naughty indeed; but Richard and I feel very grateful to you for accompanying her.”

“I thought it was the right thing to do, Mrs. Sefton.”

“Yes, of course; there was nothing else to be done; but it was a foolish freak on Edna’s part.” Mrs. Sefton spoke in a worried voice, and her face looked tired and harassed. Bessie said as much, and she replied:

“Oh, yes; I am worried enough. I have had a fatiguing day in town, and then when Neville and I entered the house, expecting a welcome, there was Richard’s moody face and your note to greet us. And now, to make things worse, Edna chooses to be offended at Neville’s coming down in this way, and declares he meant to be a spy on her. She won’t say a civil word to him, and yet it is for him to be displeased; but I think he would waive all that if she would only own that she has acted ungenerously to him. I must say Neville is behaving beautifully. He speaks as gently as possible; but Edna is in one of her tempers, and she will not listen to reason.”

“I am sorry,” replied Bessie, looking so full of sympathy that Mrs. Sefton relaxed from her usual cold dignity.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, and now there were tears in her eyes, “I am afraid it is all my fault. I have indulged Edna too much, and given her her own way in everything; and now she tyrannizes over us all. If I had only acted differently.” And here the poor woman sighed.

Bessie echoed the sigh, but she could think of nothing to say that could comfort Mrs. Sefton; she was evidently reaping the effects of her own injudicious weakness. She had not taught her child to practice self-discipline and self-control. Her waywardness had been fostered by indulgence, and her temper had become more faulty. “What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?” asked the Divine Teacher; and yet there are many parents who offer these stony gifts to their children, loading them with false kindness and indulgence, leaving evil weeds unchecked, and teaching them everything but the one thing needful.

“Oh, how different from mother!” thought Bessie, when she was left alone, and recalled the time when her young will had been over strong, and there had been difficult points in her character, and yet, how sensibly and how tenderly her mother had dealt with them.

She had never been blind to one of her children’s faults, and up to a certain age it had been her habit on the eve of their birthdays, to talk quietly to them, pointing out their failings and defective habits, and giving her opinion on the year’s improvement. “On a birthday one ought to begin afresh,” she would say, “and make a new start.” How well Bessie could remember these talks, and the gentle words of praise that generally closed them. She was almost sorry when she was too grown up for them, and quiet self-examinations took the place of those fond maternal admonitions.

When Bessie joined the family at breakfast she found Mr. Sinclair helping Edna with the urn. He accosted Bessie with much friendliness, and seemed pleased to see her again. She had been prepossessed with him at their first meeting, and she thought his manner still pleasanter on this second occasion, and she was struck afresh with his air of quiet refinement. He took part in the conversation with much animation, and talked more to Richard than to any one else.

Edna did not appear to have recovered herself; she took very little notice of anybody, and received her fiancé’s attention rather ungraciously. Bessie thought she looked as though she had not slept well; her eyes had a heavy look in them, as though her head ached. Bessie had her ride directly afterward, and as Richard assisted her to mount, Mr. Sinclair stood on the steps and watched them.

“What are you and Edna going to do with yourselves?” asked Richard presently.

Mr. Sinclair smiled.

“I shall do whatever Edna likes; perhaps she will drive me somewhere; she looks as though the fresh air would do her good. I shall have to go back to town this evening, so I must make the most of my day in the country.”

The house was so still when they returned that Bessie thought they had started for the drive, when she ran upstairs to take off her habit. She seated herself presently by one of the drawing-room windows with her work, wondering what everyone was doing.

Her work interested her, and she was quietly enjoying herself when she heard quick footsteps in the hall outside, and a moment afterward a door slammed.

“They have come back, I suppose,” thought Bessie; and she worked on, until the drawing-room door opened and Mr. Sinclair came in alone. He seemed surprised to see Bessie, but the next minute he had crossed the room hastily.

“Miss Lambert, will you do me a favor? I cannot find Mrs. Sefton, and I have no one else to ask.”

“Certainly,” returned Bessie, and she rose at once.

Mr. Sinclair looked pale and troubled, and his manner was extremely nervous.

“Then will you be so good as to beg Edna to come down to me for a moment; she has misunderstood—that is, I wish to speak to her—there is a slight misconception. Edna has gone to her own room.”

“I will go at once,” exclaimed Bessie, feeling convinced by his manner that something was very wrong. Edna must have quarrelled with him again. She ran upstairs and knocked on Edna’s door, but received no answer; it was not locked, however, and after a moment’s hesitation she entered.

Edna had evidently not heard her; she was standing by the window in her walking-dress. As Bessie spoke to attract her attention, she turned round and frowned angrily; something in her face made Bessie breathless with apprehension.

“What do you want?” she asked harshly.

“Mr. Sinclair sent me,” pleaded Bessie; “he is very anxious to speak to you; he begs that you will come downstairs. He thinks that there is some mistake.”

“No, there is no mistake,” replied Edna slowly; “you may tell him so for me.”

“Why not tell him yourself, Edna?”

“Because I have had enough of Mr. Sinclair’s company this morning. Because nothing would induce me to speak to him again. I thought I had locked my door to prevent intrusion; but I suppose I forgot. Please give him my message that there is no mistake—oh, none at all.”

Bessie hesitated, but another look at Edna’s face showed her that any entreaty at this moment would be in vain, so she went out of the room without another word.

Mr. Sinclair was standing just where she had left him; he looked at her anxiously. Bessie shook her head.

“She will not come,” she said sorrowfully.

“Will not? Did she give no reason—send no message?”

“Only that there was no mistake; she repeated that more than once. Perhaps she will change her mind in a little while.”

But Mr. Sinclair did not seem to hear her.

“No mistake! Then she meant it—she meant it!” he muttered, and his face became quite changed. He had walked to the window, but he came back again.

“Thank you, Miss Lambert. I am very much obliged to you,” he said, as though feeling he had been deficient in politeness; but before she could reply he had left the room.

The gong sounded for luncheon directly afterward, but Bessie found the dining-room empty, so she sat down to her work again, and bye and bye Dixon brought her a message that his mistress was waiting. Mrs. Sefton was in the room alone; she motioned Bessie to a seat, and began to carve the chicken before her. No one else made their appearance; but Mrs. Sefton did not apologize for their absence. She scarcely eat anything herself, and made no attempt to sustain the conversation. She looked preoccupied and troubled, and as soon as the meal was over she begged Bessie to amuse herself, as she had some important business to settle, and left the room.

Bessie passed a solitary afternoon; but though her book was interesting her attention often wandered. She was sure something was seriously wrong, and she felt vaguely unhappy on Edna’s account. She could not forget Mr. Sinclair’s face when she had brought him that message. It was as though he had received a blow that he scarcely knew how to bear.

Dixon brought her some tea, and told her that his mistress and Miss Edna were having theirs in the dressing-room. Later on, as she went indoors to prepare for dinner, she encountered Richard; he had just driven up to the door in his dog-cart, and Brand and Gelert were with him.

“Where is Mr. Sinclair?” she ventured to ask, as he smiled at seeing her.

“He has gone,” he replied. “I have just driven him to the station. Do you know where my mother is to be found?”

“I have not seen her since luncheon,” answered Bessie. “I think she is with Edna.”

“Very likely. I will go and see.” And Richard sprung up the staircase three steps at a time. Bessie thought he looked tired and worried, too; and to add to the general oppression, a storm seemed gathering, for the air felt unusually still and sultry.

Edna did not join them at dinner, and the meal was hardly more festive than the luncheon had been. Mrs. Sefton hardly opened her lips, and Richard only made a few general remarks.

Bessie expected that her evening would be as solitary as her afternoon, but, rather to her surprise, Mrs. Sefton beckoned her to sit down beside her.

“My dear,” she said, “you are feeling very uncomfortable, I can see, and you do not like to ask questions; you think something is the matter, and you are right. Edna is making us all very unhappy. She has quarrelled with Neville, and has broken off her engagement with him, and nothing that Richard or I can say to her will induce her to listen to reason.”

“Oh, Mrs. Sefton, how dreadful!”

“Yes, is it not heart-breaking? Poor Neville! and he is so devoted to her. They were to have been married next spring, but now Edna declares that nothing would induce her to marry him. She will have it that he is jealous and monopolizing, and that he distrusts her. Over and over again she told us both that she would be the slave of no man’s caprice. Of course it is all her temper; she is just mad with him because he is always in the right, and she knows how ungenerously she has acted; but bye and bye she will repent, and break her heart, for she is certainly fond of him, and then it will be too late.”

“And she has really sent him away?”

“Yes; she told him to go, that she never wanted to see him again; and he has gone, poor fellow! Richard drove him to the station. He says he never saw a man so terribly cut up, but he told Richard, just at the last, that perhaps it might prove the best for them in the end, that they were not suited to each other, and never had been, but that Edna had never shown him her temper quite so plainly before.”

“Oh, Mrs. Sefton, how terrible it all seems! Can nothing be done?”

“Nothing,” in a voice of despair. “Richard and I have talked to her for hours, but it is no use. She declares that it is a good thing she and Neville at last understand each other, that she will never repent her decision, and yet all the time she looks utterly wretched. But she will not own it; it is just her pride and her temper,” finished the unhappy mother, “and I must stand by and see her sacrifice her own happiness, and say nothing.”

“May I go up to her, Mrs. Sefton? Do you think she would care to see me?”

“I think she will see you now, and it is not good for her to be alone; but you will find her very hard and impracticable.”

“I shall not mind that, if she will only let me be with her a little; but I cannot bear to think of her shut up with only miserable thoughts to keep her company;” and here Bessie’s eyes filled with tears, for she was very sympathetic and soft-hearted.

“Then go to her, my dear, and I hope you may do her some good.” And Bessie went at once.

Just outside the door she met Richard; he was on his way to the drawing-room.

“I am going up to Edna,” she said, as he looked at her inquiringly. “Oh, Mr. Sefton, I am so sorry for her! She is making herself and every one else miserable.”

“I am more sorry for Sinclair,” he returned, and his face looked very stern as he spoke. “She has treated him abominably. Wait a moment, Miss Lambert,” as she seemed about to leave him; “there is no hurry, is there? and I have not spoken to you to-day. Do you think you are wise to mix yourself up in this? My mother is thinking more of Edna than of you, but you will do no good, and only make yourself miserable. Leave Edna alone to-night, and come and play to me instead.”

“Mr. Sefton, I never thought you could be so selfish.”

He laughed outright as Bessie said this very seriously.

“Never trust any man; we are all of us selfish. But to tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my own enjoyment at that minute. I wanted to save you an hour’s unpleasantness, but I see you prefer to make yourself miserable.”

“I think I do in the present instance,” returned Bessie quietly.

“Very well, have your own way; but if you take my advice, you will not waste your pity upon Edna. She is flinging away her happiness with her eyes open, just to gratify her temper. You see I can speak plainly, Miss Lambert, and call things by their right names. Just out of pride and self-will, she is bidding good-bye to one of the best fellows living, and all the time she knows that he is a good fellow. She won’t find another Neville Sinclair, I tell her.”

“No; and it is just because she is doing it herself that I am sorry for her,” replied Bessie. “Please don’t keep me, Mr. Sefton; you do not understand—how can you? If he had died, if anything else had separated them, it would be so much easier to bear, but to do it herself, and then to be so sorry for it afterward—oh, how miserable that must be!” and Bessie’s voice became a little unsteady as she hastily bade him good night.

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CHAPTER XVI.

A NOTE FROM HATTY.

“Yes, thanks; only this book is so stupid. I think novels are stupid nowadays; the heroes are so gaudy, and the heroines have not a spark of spirit. You may talk to me instead, if you like. What have you been doing with yourself all day?”

Bessie was dumb with amazement. Was this pride or was Edna acting a part, and pretending not to care? She could break her lover’s heart one minute and talk of novels the next. Bessie’s simplicity was at fault; she could make nothing of this.

“Why are you looking at me in that way?” asked Edna fretfully, on receiving no answer; and as she raised herself on the cushions, Bessie could see her face more plainly. It looked very pale, and her eyes were painfully bright, and then she gave a hard little laugh that had no mirth in it. “So mamma or Richard has been talking to you! What a transparent little creature you are, Bessie! You are dreadfully shocked, are you not, that I have sent Neville about his business?”

“Oh, Edna, please don’t talk about it in that way.”

“If I talk about it at all it must be in my own way. If Neville thought I could not live without him, he finds himself mistaken now. I am not the sort of girl who could put up with tyranny; other people may submit to be ordered about and treated like a child, but I am not one of them.”

“Edna, surely you consider that you owe a duty to the man you have promised to marry.”

“I owe him none—I will never owe him any duty.” And here Edna’s manner became excited. “It is mamma I ought to obey, and I will not always yield to her; but I have never given Neville the right to lecture and control me; no man shall—no man!” angrily.

“Edna, how can you bear to part with Mr. Sinclair, when he is so good and loves you so much?”

“I can bear it very well. I can do without him,” she replied obstinately; “at least I have regained my liberty, and become my own mistress.”

“Will that console you for making him miserable? Oh, Edna, if you had only seen his face when I gave him your message, I am sure you must have relented. He has gone away unhappy, and you let him go.”

“Yes, I let him go. How dare he come down here to spy on my movements? Captain Grant, indeed! But it is all of a piece; his jealously is unbearable. I will no longer put up with it. Why do you talk about it, Bessie? You do not know Mr. Neville—Mr. Sinclair, I mean. He is a stranger to you; he has given me plenty to bear during our engagement. He has a difficult nature,it does not suit mine; I must be treated wholly or not at all.”

“Will you not let your mother explain this to him and send for him to come back?” But Edna drew herself up so haughtily that Bessie did not proceed.

“I will never call him back, if I wanted him ever so; but I am not likely to want him, he has made me too miserable. No one shall speak to him; it is my affair, and no one has any right to meddle. Mamma takes his part, and Richard, too. Every one is against me, but they cannot influence me,” finished Edna proudly.

“Mrs. Sefton was right; I can do no good,” thought Bessie sorrowfully; “it seems as though some demon of pride has taken possession of the girl. Mr. Sinclair is nothing to her to-night; she is only conscious of her own proud, injured feelings.” And Bessie showed her wisdom by ceasing to argue the point; she let Edna talk on without checking her, until she had exhausted herself, and then she rose and bade her good night.

Edna seemed taken aback.

“You are going to leave me, Bessie?”

“Yes, it is very late; and your mother will be coming up directly. I can do you no good; no one could to-night. I shall go and pray for you instead.”

“You will pray for me! May I ask why?”

“I will not even tell you that to-night; it would be no use, the evil spirits will not let you listen, Edna; they have stopped your ears too; to-night you are in their power, you have placed yourself at their mercy; no one can help you except One, and you will not even ask Him.”

“You are very incomprehensible, Bessie.”

“Yes, I dare say I seem so, but perhaps one day you may understand better. You want us not to think you unhappy, and you are utterly miserable. I never could pretend things, even when I was a child. I must say everything out. I think you are unhappy now, and that you will be more unhappy to-morrow; and when you begin to realize your unhappiness, you will begin to look for a remedy. Good-night, dear Edna. Don’t be angry at my plain speaking, for I really want to do you good.”

Edna made no answer, and yielded her cheek coldly to Bessie’s kiss. If something wet touched her face she took no apparent notice, but Bessie could not restrain her tears as she left the room.

“Oh, why, why were people so mad and wicked? How could any one calling herself by the sacred name of Christian suffer herself to be overmastered by these bitter and angry passions? It is just temper; Mrs. Sefton is right,” thought Bessie; and her mind was so oppressed by the thought of Edna’s wretchedness that it was long before she could compose herself to sleep.

But she rose at her usual early hour, and wrote out of the fullness of her heart to her mother, not mentioning any facts, but relieving her overwrought feelings by loving words that were very sweet to her mother.

“I think it is good to go away sometimes from one’s belongings,” wrote Bessie; “absence makes one realize one’s blessings more. I don’t think I ever felt more thankful that I had such a mother than last night, when Edna was talking in a way that troubled me.”

When Bessie went downstairs after finishing her letter, she was much surprised to see Edna in her usual place pouring out the coffee. She looked a little pale and heavy-eyed; but no one could have detected from her manner that there was anything much amiss. A slight restlessness, however, an eagerness for occupation and amusement, and a shade of impatience when any one opposed her, spoke of inward irritability. Now and then, too, there was a sharpness in her voice that betrayed nervous tension; but none dared to express sympathy by look or word. Once when she announced her intention of joining Bessie and Richard in their ride, and her mother asked her if she were not too tired, she turned on her almost fiercely.

“I tired, mamma! What an absurd idea; as though riding ever tired me! I am not an old woman yet. Bessie,” turning to her, “the Athertons are coming this afternoon, and I have written to the Powers to join them. We must have a good practice, because we have to go to the Badderleys’ to-morrow, and Major Sullivan will be my partner; he is our best player, and we have Captain Grant and Mrs. Matchett against us.”

It was so in everything. Edna seemed bent all that day on tiring herself out. She rode at a pace that morning that left the others far behind, but Richard took no notice; he continued his conversation with Bessie, and left Edna to her own devices.

In the afternoon she played tennis in the same reckless fashion; once Bessie saw her turn very pale, and put her hand to her side, but the next minute she was playing again.

“What spirits Edna is in!” Florence said once. “Really I do not know what we shall all do next spring when she gets married, for she is the life and soul of everything;” for none of the girls had noticed that the diamond ring was missing on Edna’s finger; some brilliant emerald and ruby rings had replaced it.

Edna continued in this unsatisfactory state for weeks and not once did she open her lips, even to her mother, on the subject of her broken engagement. Every morning she made her plans for the day. It seemed to Bessie as though air and movement were absolutely necessary to her. When the morning ride was over she would arrange to drive her mother or Bessie to some given place, and the intervening hours were always spent in tennis or archery. When the evening came she would often lie on the drawing-room couch in a state of exhaustion, until she compelled herself to some exertion.

“Oh, how stupid every one is!” she would say, jumping up in a quick, restless manner. “Ritchie, why don’t you think of something amusing to do? Bessie, I hate those dreamy old ballads; do come and play some game. Mamma,” she exclaimed, one evening, “we must have a regular picnic for Bessie; she has never been at a large one in her life. We will go to Ardley, and Florence shall take her violin, and Dr. Merton his cornet, and we will have a dance on the turf; it will be delightful.”

Well, to please her, they talked of the picnic, and Richard good-naturedly promised to hire a wagonette for the occasion, but she had forgotten all about it the next day, and there was to be an archery meeting in the long meadow instead.

“Bessie, she is killing herself,” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, for in those days she found Bessie a great comfort. “Do you see how thin she is getting? And she eats next to nothing; she is losing her strength, and all that exercise is too much for her. The weather is too hot for those morning rides. I must speak to Richard.”

“She does not really enjoy them,” replied Bessie; “but I think she feels better when she is in the air, and then it is something to do. Mrs. Sefton, I want to speak to you about something else. I have been here nearly a month, and it is time for me to go home.”

“You are not thinking of leaving us,” interrupted Mrs. Sefton, in genuine alarm. “I cannot spare you, Bessie; I must write to your father. What would Edna do without you? My dear, I cannot let you go.”

“Hatty is not well,” observed Bessie anxiously. “She always flags in the warm weather. I don’t believe Cliffe really suits her; but father never likes to send her away. Christine wrote to me yesterday, and she said Hatty had had one of her old fainting fits, and had been very weak ever since. I cannot be happy in leaving her any longer, though they say nothing about my coming home.”

“But she has your mother and Christine. You are not really wanted,” urged Mrs. Sefton rather selfishly, for she was thinking of her own and Edna’s loss, and not of Bessie’s anxiety.

“Hatty always wants me,” returned Bessie firmly. “I think I am more to her than any one else, except mother. I have written to father this morning to ask what I had better do. I told him that I had had a long holiday, and that I was ready to come home at once if Hatty wanted me.”

“Oh, very well, if you have made your plans,” returned Mrs. Sefton, in rather a chilling manner; but Bessie would not let her proceed.

“Dear Mrs. Sefton,” she said, much distressed at her obvious displeasure, “you must not think that I leave you willingly. I have been so happy here; it has been such a real holiday that I am afraid I am not a bit anxious to go home, but if father thinks it is my duty——”

“Your father is a sensible man. I don’t believe he will recall you, anyhow. I will write to him myself, and tell him how anxious we are to keep you. That will do no harm, eh, Bessie?”

“No,” hesitated the girl; “I dare say he will only think you are all too kind to me.” She did not like to offend her hostess by begging her not to write. Her father knew her well enough; he would not misunderstand her. He knew her love for Hatty would never let pleasure stand in the way if she required her. “All the enjoyments in the world would not keep me from Hatty if she really needed me, and father knows that; we are both quite safe with him.”

Bessie was perfectly comfortable in her own mind; she was sure of her own motives, and she had implicit faith in her father; but she would not have been quite so easy if she had known that Mrs. Sefton intended to send a little note to Hatty as well. It was only a kindly worded note, full of sympathy for Hatty’s little ailments, such as any friendly stranger might write; but the closing sentence was terribly damaging to Bessie’s plans.

And then followed a few kindly expressions of goodwill and sympathy.

Bessie was rather surprised to receive a letter from Christine the following morning, with a little penciled note from Hatty inside.

“Father was too busy to write,” Christine said. “He had a very anxious case on hand, but he hoped Hatty was rather better that day, and he thought they could do without Bessie a little longer, as her friends seemed to need her so much. He was sorry to hear Miss Sefton had broken off her engagement; it was a very serious thing for any young lady to do, and he hoped none of his girls would act so dishonorably to any man.”

Hatty’s note was short and much underlined.

“I suppose I must stop a week or ten days longer,” thought Bessie, laying down her letters with rather a dissatisfied feeling. “I wish father could have written, himself, but I dare say he will in a day or two. I will try not to fidget. I will wait a little, and then write to mother and tell her how I feel about things. When she understands how difficult it is for me to get away without giving offense, she will be sure to help me, and six weeks are enough to satisfy Mrs. Sefton.”

Bessie spoke of her letters at luncheon-time. Edna heard her with languid attention, but Mrs. Sefton was triumphant.

“I knew they could spare you, Bessie,” she said, with a look of amusement that made Bessie feel a little small.

Richard glanced at her without speaking, and then busied himself in his carving. But that evening, as Bessie was pausing in the hall to look out at the dark clouds that were scurrying across the sky, she found Richard at her elbow.

“There is going to be a storm,” he said quietly. “I have been expecting it all day. Edna is always nervous; she hates the thunder. What was that my mother was saying at luncheon, Miss Lambert? Surely you do not intend leaving us?”

“Not just yet—not for another week,” returned Bessie, much surprised by the gravity of his manner. “They will want me at home after that.”

“They will not want you as much as some of us do here,” he returned, with much feeling. “Miss Lambert, do not go unless you are obliged. My sister needs you, and so—” He broke off abruptly, colored, and finally wished her good-night.

“I wonder why he did not finish his sentence?” thought Bessie innocently, as she went up to her room.

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CHAPTER XVII.

“TROUBLE MAY COME TO ME ONE DAY.”

“What a terrific clap! It must have woke Edna,” she thought; and just as she was summoning up resolution to cross the dark passage in search of her, there was a hasty tap at the door, and Edna entered, fully dressed, and with a candle in her hand.

“The thunder woke me, and I thought of you. I am not a bit frightened; but one cannot sleep in such a noise. Hark at the rain; a perfect deluge! Come and lie down beside me, Edna, dear. You look quite wan and exhausted.

“I have been thinking myself stupid, but I am still too restless to lie down. I feel as though I never want to sleep again, and yet I am so tired. Ah, you don’t know the feeling! One seems on wires, and all sorts of horrid, troublesome thoughts keep surging through one’s brain, and there seems no rest, no peace anywhere.” And she shivered, and hid her face on the pillow as another peal broke over the house.

Bessie did not speak for a minute, and then she said very tenderly:

“Edna, dear, I know all about it. I am quite sure that you are miserable; I have known it all the time. Pride does not help you a bit now; in your heart you are sorrowful and repentant. You would give all you have in the world to bring him back again.”

But Edna silenced her. “Don’t, Bessie, you are torturing me. I cannot bear sympathy; it seems to madden me somehow. I want people to think I don’t care—that it is all nothing to me.”

“Ah, but you do care, Edna.”

“Yes, I know I do,” in a despairing voice. “I will own, if you like, that I am very miserable, but you must not take advantage of me. I am weak to-night, and I seem to have no strength to brave it out. Don’t be hard upon me, Bessie; you have never been in trouble yourself. You cannot put yourself in my place.”

A great pity rose in Bessie’s heart as she listened to Edna’s sad voice. “No,” she said gently, “I have never known real trouble, thank God, except when Frank died. Mine has been a very happy life; but trouble may come to me one day.”

“Yes, but not through your own fault,” replied Edna, in the same dreary hopeless voice. “There is no trouble so hard to bear as that. To think that I might have been so happy, and that my own temper has spoiled it all. Let me tell you all about it, Bessie; it will be a relief, even though you cannot help me, for to-night the misery is more than I can bear.” And here she hid her face in her hands, and gave vent to a few choking sobs.

Bessie only answered by a quiet caress or two, and after a few moments Edna recovered herself.

“I was unreasonably angry with Neville that day, but I never guessed that my passion would overmaster me to that extent. Oh, Bessie! why, why was I never taught to control my temper? Why was my mother so cruelly kind to me? If I had been brought up differently—but no, I will only reproach myself. If Neville had been more masterful—if he had shown more spirit; but there again I am ungenerous, for nothing could exceed his gentleness; but it only exasperated me. I was bent on quarrelling with him, and I fully succeeded; and I worked myself up to such a pitch that I almost hated the sight of him. I wanted to be free—I would be free; and I told him so. I was still in the same mind when you brought me that message, but, all the same, something seemed to whisper to me that I should live to repent that day’s work; but I would not listen to this inward prompting—I would be firm. Bessie, I verily believe some evil spirit dominated me—I felt so cold, so inexorable, so determined on my own undoing. For one moment I quailed, and that was when I saw Neville drive away from the house. I saw his face, and it looked so pale and sad. Something within me said, ‘Call him back, and he will come even now;’ but I was too proud to give the sign. I wanted to do it, but my demon would not suffer me, and in a moment he was gone. Oh, Bessie, how I suffered that night and the night after! But my pride was strong. I would not let people see how unhappy I was. But I want him back now. There is no one in the world like Neville—so gentle, and brave, and good; but I have lost him, and I deserve to lose him, for I was never worthy of his love.” And here Edna broke into bitter weeping, and for a little while there was no comforting her.

“Oh, how selfish I am!” she exclaimed at last, starting up. “I have only made you miserable; and, after all, no one can do me any good. Don’t look at me so reproachfully, Bessie; you are very dear and good to me, but you cannot put yourself in my place.”

“You are wrong,” returned Bessie quickly. “Though I have never been through your experiences, I can still sympathize with you. If I were in your position, Edna, I would not speak as you are doing now, as though there were no hope for you, as though everything were only black and miserable. The Lord Jesus is always able and willing to help all who penitently and trustfully look to Him for pardon. There are no depths of human suffering deep enough to hide us from His tender sympathy and forgiving love.”

“Oh, but I am not religious, Bessie. I am not good, like you.”

“Please don’t talk so, Edna; it only pains me to hear you. Let me tell you how I think I should try to feel in your place. I would try to bear my trouble bravely, knowing that it had come through my own fault. If we do wrong, we must surely take our punishment. Oh, I know it is easy to talk, but all the same this is how I would strive to carry my burden.”

“Ah, but such a burden would crush any girl.”

“You must not let it crush you, Edna. You must not let it lead you to despair. However heavy the burden, and however much we deserve the suffering which our follies and mistakes and sins bring, there is one all-sufficient way of deliverance. Jesus, by His death on the cross, has made it possible for us to be freely forgiven; and if we come to Him in faith and prayer, the Holy Spirit will lead us into the full experience of salvation and peace. Your will is very strong; why do you not will this one thing—to become worthy of the love of a true man like Mr. Sinclair? I do not say that things will be the same between you; I know too little about the world to guess how a man acts under such circumstances; but if you care for him really—if indeed he stands so high in your estimation as a good man whom you have misunderstood and wronged, then, even if you lead your lives apart, you may still try to live nobly that he may think of you with respect. You may still let the influence of this trial guide you to a higher and better life. Would not this make things more bearable?”

Bessie’s words, spoken with intense earnestness, seemed to stir Edna’s mind, rousing it from its bitter apathy of hopeless remorse and grief; a faint light came into her eyes.

“Do you think I could grow better—that Neville would ever hear of me? Oh, I should like to try. I do so hate myself, Bessie. I seem to grow more selfish and horrid every year. I thought Neville would help me to be good, but without him——” And here the tears came again.

“Without him it will be doubly hard. Yes, I know that, Edna dear; but you must lean on a stronger arm than his—an arm that will never fail you. Cast all your burden upon the loving sympathy and tender heart of the Lord Jesus, and He will lead and comfort you. Now you are utterly exhausted, and the storm is quite lulled; do go back to your room; you will be able to sleep, and it is nearly three o’clock.”

“And I have kept you awake all this time,” remorsefully. “Well, I will go; the pain is a little easier to bear now. I will think over your words; they seem to have a sort of comfort in them. Yes, I deserve to be unhappy for making Neville so wretched. Good-bye, dear Bessie; you are a real friend to me, for you tell me nothing but the truth.”

Bessie kissed her affectionately, and then Edna left the room; but Bessie found it difficult to resume her interrupted dreams; the splash of the raindrops against her windows had a depressing sound, the darkness was dense and oppressive, a vague sadness seemed to brood over everything, and it was long before she could quiet herself enough to sleep. Strangely enough, her last waking thoughts were of Hatty, not of Edna, and she was dreaming about her when the maid came to wake her in the morning.

Edna did not come down to breakfast; the storm had disturbed her, Mrs. Sefton said. “I think it must have kept you awake, too,” she observed, with a glance at Bessie’s tired face.

Bessie smiled and said a word or two about the wild night, but she did not speak of Edna’s visit to her room. Afterward she went up to prepare for her ride, but during the next hour Richard noticed she was not in her usual spirits, and questioned her kindly as to the cause of her depression. Bessie made some trifling excuse; she had slept badly, and her head ached; but in reality she could find no reason for her vague discomfort.

The morning was fresh and lovely, and bore no signs of last night’s storm. Whitefoot was in frisky spirits, but she found herself looking at everything with melancholy eyes, as though she were looking her last at the pleasant prospect. In vain she strove to shake off the uncanny feeling, and to answer Richard’s remarks in her usual sprightly fashion. The very effort to speak brought the tears to her eyes, and she had the vexed feeling that Richard saw them and thought something was amiss, for he told her very kindly to be sure and rest herself that afternoon.

Edna was in the front garden when they returned; she was standing at the gate evidently watching for them. Bessie thought she looked very pale. As Richard lifted her down Edna opened the gate.

“You have had a longer ride than usual, have you not, Richard? Bessie looks very tired. Will you take off your habit, or will you go into the drawing-room? Your brother has just arrived, Bessie.”

“My brother? Do you mean Tom? Oh, what does he want with me? Hatty must be worse.” And here Bessie’s numb, unaccountable feelings quickened into life. “Oh, Edna, speak—what is it?” And then Bessie grew pale with apprehension.

“Hatty is not very well,” replied Edna gently; “but Mr. Tom will tell you himself.”

“Yes, go to him,” whispered Richard; “your brother will be your best informant; don’t wait to ask Edna.”

And Bessie needed no further bidding. Oh, she knew now what that vague presentiment meant! That was her last ride—her last everything, she told herself, as she hurried into the house. Of course, Hatty was ill, very ill—dying perhaps—she always knew she would die. Tom’s boyish face looked unusually grave as he caught sight of Bessie. She walked up to him and grasped his arm.

“What is it, Tom?” she said almost clinging to him.

Poor Tom was hardly equal to the occasion. He was young, and hated scenes, and Mrs. Sefton was looking at them both, and he felt uncommonly choky himself; but Edna, who had followed Bessie, said promptly:

“Don’t be afraid of telling Bessie, Mr. Lambert; she knows that Hatty is not so well. You have come to fetch her—have you not?—because Hatty had another bad fainting fit, and your father thinks her very ill.”

“That is about it,” blurted out Tom. “Can you get ready and come back with me, Bessie? Hatty asked for you last night for the first time, and then father said I had better come and fetch you; so I took the last train to London, and slept at Uncle George’s, and came on this morning.”

“And Hatty is very ill?” asked Bessie, with a sort of desperate calmness that appeared very ominous to Tom, for he answered nervously:

“Well, she is pretty bad. Father says it is a sudden failure. It is her heart; and he says he always expected it. He never did think well of Hatty, only he would not tell us so—what was the use? he said. But now these fainting attacks have made him anxious, for he says one can never tell what may happen; and then he said you must be fetched at once.”

“I suppose we can start by the next train, Tom?”

“Yes, by the 3:15; there is none before that. We must catch the 6:05 from Paddington, so you will have time to look about you.”

“Let me help you,” exclaimed Edna eagerly. “Mamma, will you send Brandon to us?” And she followed Bessie.

Richard came into the room that moment, and took possession of Tom, carrying him off to the garden and stable-yard, and trying to make the time pass in a less irksome manner. Richard could show his sympathy for Bessie in no other way than this, and he felt sorry for Tom, who was feeling awkward among so many strangers, and was trying to repress his feelings, after the fashion of young men.

“I am afraid your sister is very much cut up about this,” observed Richard presently.

“Oh, yes, she will take it uncommonly badly; she and Hatty are such chums.”

“Yes, but I trust that your sister is not dangerously ill?”

“Well, she does not seem so to me,” replied Tom vaguely. “She is weak, of course; any one would be weak after such an attack; but she looks and talks much as usual, only she is too tired to get up.”

“And it is her heart, you say?”

“Well, my father says so. You see, she has always been weakly, but there never seemed much amiss to us; and now my father says that he never expects her to make an old woman, and that there is something wrong with her heart, and he is afraid that she may go off in one of these attacks, and that is why he wants Bessie to come home at once.”

“Yes, I see; it looks very serious. Oh, there is the luncheon-bell. I have ordered the carriage round directly afterward, so you will be in plenty of time.”

When the two young men returned to the house they found Bessie in the dining-room. She took her old place by Richard, and made some pretense of eating. Once, when Richard spoke to her, begging her to remember the long journey before her, she looked up at him with a faint smile; that smile, so gentle and childlike, haunted Richard during the remainder of the day.

Bessie was battling bravely with her feelings all luncheon, and during the short interval that elapsed before the carriage was brought round she managed to say a few words to Mrs. Sefton, thanking her for all her kindness, and just before she left the house she found an opportunity to speak to Edna.

“Edna,” she whispered, holding her friend’s hand, “you will not forget our talk. I shall be thinking of you even when I am with Hatty.” And then for the moment she could say no more.

“Will you come, Miss Lambert?” urged Richard gently. He had followed the girls, and had overheard this little speech; but Bessie did not heed him.

“Will you try to be brave, Edna?” But her voice was almost inaudible.

“Go with Richard, Bessie, darling; he is waiting for you.” And then Bessie got into the carriage.

She looked back and waved her hand as they drove away, but this time there was no smile on her face. Edna was standing on the porch, and the afternoon sun was shining on her face and hair and white dress, and her large wistful eyes were full of sadness. Bessie’s lip quivered, her heart ached. How beautiful it all was! The world seemed glorified in sunshine; every one they met seemed happy, and yet Edna was wretched, and Hatty ill—perhaps dying; and a great black cloud seemed to overshadow everything, a sense of terror and confusion, of utter chaos. “In the midst of life we are in death.” Why did those words come to Bessie? Just before the train moved Richard broke the silence.

“You will let us hear how things are, Miss Lambert?”

“Oh, yes, I will write to Edna.”

“And you will take care of yourself?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Things maybe better than you expect; one can never tell.” He stopped and looked earnestly in her face, and she could see that he was very much moved. “I wish you could be spared all this, but I know you will do your best for everybody. I will not tell you now how we shall all miss you; the house will seem very empty when I go back.”

“You have been very good to me, Mr. Sefton; thank you for everything.”

“No one can help being good to you,” he replied gravely. “Good-bye, God bless you!” The train moved on, and he lifted his hat and stood aside.

“Oh, how kind every one is!” thought Bessie, as she leaned back wearily and closed her eyes. Was it all a dream, or was her beautiful holiday really over? Alas! the dull, aching consciousness told her too truly that it was sorrowful reality.

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CHAPTER XVIII.

“FAREWELL, NIGHT!”

But the longest day must have an end, and at last they reached Cliffe. No one met them at the station, but Tom assured her that he never expected to be met; he put Bessie into a fly, and again there was need for patience, as the horse toiled slowly up the steep road. It was long past nine when they reached the house, and by that time Bessie’s overwrought feelings bordered on nervous irritability.

The door opened as the fly stopped, and by the hall lamp she saw her mother’s face, looking paler and sadder, but her voice was as quiet and gentle as ever.

“Is that you, Bessie? My dear child, how tired you must be!”

“Oh, mother, mother!” and now Bessie literally fell on her mother’s neck and wept.

Mrs. Lambert seemed to understand all about it; she made her sit down on the couch, and took off her hat, and smoothed her hair with caressing fingers.

“You have had a long day, and have been keeping up as well as you could; don’t be afraid of giving way a little, now you are with your own mother,” she said tenderly.

“Oh, mother, you are such a comfort; but I must not trouble you like this, and I am keeping you from Hatty.”

“Hattie is asleep,” replied her mother quietly. “Christine is with her; you must come into the dining-room with me, and have something to eat and drink before you go upstairs;” but Bessie detained her “Wait a moment, mother, darling; Tom is there, and I want to speak to you alone. What does father really think of Hatty?”

“He thinks her very ill,” was the sorrowful answer; “it seems a sudden failure. She was much as usual until the warm weather came, and then one evening she complained of palpitation and faintness, and the next day she seemed very weak, and so it has gone on. Your father says he was always afraid there was latent mischief, but I think he hardly expected it would be like this. There was a consultation this morning, but they say there is no rallying power, and another attack may carry her off.”

“Oh, mother, if I had only stayed at home!”

“Don’t say that, Bessie; you must not even think of it; no care on your part could have prevented this. Hatty seemed as well as usual for a week or two after you left, and none of us suspected anything. You are very good not to reproach us for not sending for you before, but Hatty prevented us; she would not have your pleasure spoiled, and it was only last night that your father looked so grave, and said Tom had better fetch you.”

“But is there no hope—no hope at all, mother?”

“I dare not ask the question,” and here Mrs. Lambert’s eyes filled with tears. “Your father looks so harassed. Dr. Morton said she might go on like this for a long time, getting weaker and weaker, or it might be sudden. Dear little Hatty is so good and patient, and gives us no trouble. Now you must not talk any more, and you must be a good child and take your supper; we all need to keep up our strength. I will leave Tom to take care of you while I go up to Hatty.”

Bessie did as she was told, and Ella and Katie waited on her, and then she went up to her own room, and stayed there until Christine came to fetch her.

“Hattie is awake now, Bessie, and she is asking for you, and mother has gone downstairs to speak to father.”

“Thank you, Chrissy dear. I will go to her at once;” and Bessie went hurriedly across the passage.

Hattie lay on her little bed with her eyes closed. As she opened them a sudden sweet smile came over her face, and she held out her arms to Bessie. “My own Betty, is it really you?”

“Yes, it is really I,” returned Bessie, trying to speak brightly; but now her heart sunk as she looked at her sister. There was no need to tell her Hatty was very ill; the life was flickering in the feeble body, the mysterious wasting disease had made rapid strides, even in these few days. “Oh, Hatty darling, to find you like this! Why—why did you not let them send for me? You wanted me; I am sure you wanted me.”

“Why, of course I wanted you,” returned Hatty, in a weak, happy voice, “and that is just why I would not let them send. You know how unhappy I have always been because of my horrid selfishness, and I did want to be good for once, and I said to myself when Mrs. Sefton’s letter came, ‘Bessie shall not know how poorly I feel, nor what strange suffocating feelings I have sometimes. I won’t try to get my own way this time; she shall be happy a little longer.̻”

“Oh, Hatty! as though I cared for any happiness without you!”

“You must not say that, Bessie dear,” replied Hatty, stroking her sister’s hand; “and yet it seems nice to hear you say so. Do you recollect what I used to say—that it would take very little to kill me, because I was so weak? Well, I think it is coming true.”

“Don’t talk so, Hatty; I can’t bear it. I feel as if I want to lie there in your stead.”

But Hatty shook her head.

“No, darling, no; that would not do at all. You are so strong and full of life, and people could not spare you. It does not matter for a weakly little creature like myself. I have never been strong enough to enjoy anything. I have just been ‘Little Miss Much-Afraid,’ full of troublesome fears and fancies; but they seem gone somehow.”

“I am so glad, my Hatty; but ought you to talk?”

“Yes, when I feel like this. Oh, I am so comfortable, and it is so nice to have you with me again. What talks we will have! Yes, I don’t feel like dying yet. Oh, there’s mother, and she is going to send you away.”

“Yes, for to-night, love. Bessie is tired, and it is not good for you to talk so much. Bessie shall be head nurse to-morrow, if she likes, but father says she is to go to bed now.”

“Very well, mother,” replied Hatty meekly. “Bid me good-night, Bessie. I don’t mean to be selfish ever again.” And as Bessie kissed her without speaking and moved away, she said to herself, “It was Bessie that always helped me to be good; but bye and bye I shall be quite good. Oh, how nice that will be!”

Bessie’s life was changed, indeed, from this day. No more thoughtless, merry hours, no more rides and drives and pleasant musical evenings. Her days were passed in a sick-room, and from hour to hour she seemed only to live on Hatty’s looks and words. Bessie had for many years been her mother’s right hand, and now she shared her watch beside the sick-bed. Her bright, healthy color began to fade from fatigue and anxiety, and it needed her father’s stringent orders to induce her to take needful rest and exercise. For the first time in her life Bessie found it difficult to submit, and she had to fight more than one battle with herself before she yielded. More than once her mother remonstrated with her tenderly but firmly.

“Bessie dear,” she said once, “this may be a long illness, and it is your duty to husband your strength most carefully. You are looking pale from confinement to the house and want of exercise. You know your father insists that Christine should relieve you for two hours in the afternoon.”

“Yes, mother; and of course father is thinking of me; but what does it matter if I look a little pale? I cannot bear to lose an hour of Hatty’s company when—when—” but Bessie could not finish her sentence.

“My dear, the feeling is natural; but don’t you think Chrissy likes to have her to herself sometimes? We all love Hatty; you must remember that.”

“Oh, mother, how selfish I am, after all! I see what you mean. I want to monopolize Hatty, and I grudge her to every one else—even to you and Chrissy. I never knew I could be so horrid; but I see even trouble has its temptations.”

“Indeed it has, Bessie; but I will not have you say such hard things about yourself. You are our dear child, and our greatest comfort, and I do not know what your father and I would do without you. Don’t fret any more, darling; go out with Katie, and get a little turn in the woods, and come back fresh for the evening work.”

Mrs. Lambert’s words were not thrown away. Bessie’s sweet, reasonable nature was easily guided; her passionate love for Hatty had blinded her to her own selfishness, but now her eyes were open. The mother’s heart was often touched by the cheerful alacrity with which Bessie would yield her place to Christine. Even Hatty’s plaintive, “Oh, must you go, Bessie?” seemed to make no impression; but how long those two hours seemed!

Bessie did not forget her friends in her trouble; she sent frequent notes to Edna, and heard often from her in return. Now and then a kind message came from Richard, and every week a hamper filled with farm produce and fruit and flowers were sent from The Grange. Hatty used to revel in those flowers; she liked to arrange them herself, and would sit pillowed up on her bed or couch, and fill the vases with slow, tremulous fingers.

“Doesn’t the room look lovely?” she would say, in a tone of intense satisfaction. When her weakness permitted she loved to talk to Bessie about her friends at The Grange, and was never weary of listening to Bessie’s descriptions.

“What a nice man Mr. Richard must be, Betty!” she would say. “I should like to see him.” And she often harped on this theme, and questioned Bessie closely on this subject; but often their talk went deeper than this.

One evening, about five weeks after Bessie’s return, she was alone with Hatty; she had been reading to her, and now Hatty asked her to put down the book.

“Yes, it is very nice, but I feel inclined to talk. Come and lie on the bed, Bessie, and let us have one of our old cosy talks. Put your head down on the pillow beside me. Yes, that is how I mean; isn’t that comfortable? I always did like you to put your arm round me. How strong and firm your hand feels! Look at the difference.” And Hatty laid her wasted, transparent fingers on Bessie’s pink palm.

“Poor little Hatty?”

“No, I am not poor a bit now. You must not call me that. I don’t think I have ever been so happy in my life. Every one is so kind to me—even Tom—he never finds fault with me now.”

“We are all so sorry for you.”

“Yes, but you must not be too sorry. Somehow I am glad of this illness, because it makes you all think better of me. You will not remember now how cross, and jealous, and selfish I used to be. You will only say, ‘Poor little thing, she always wanted to be good, even when she was most naughty and troublesome.’”

“Don’t, Hatty; I can’t bear to hear you!”

“Yes, let me say it, please; it seems to do me good. How often you have helped me over my difficulties. ‘If I could only tell Bessie,’ that was what I used to say. I am glad you went away and gave me something to bear. I used to be glad every night when I prayed; it was something to do for you, and something to bear for His sake.” And Hatty dropped her voice reverently, for she was speaking of the Lord Jesus.

“Yes, darling, I see what you mean.”

“I am glad that it has not been too easy, and that I have really tried for once not to be selfish. I don’t want to get well, Bessie. I should have all the old, miserable feelings over again. I have been ‘Little Miss Much-Afraid’ all my life, and the fears have been a part of me. Do you recollect what Bunyan said about Much-Afraid? ‘She went through the river singing;’ that was because she had left all her fears and troubles on the bank.”

“And you are not afraid to die, Hatty?”

“No, not really afraid. Sometimes in the night, when I lie awake with that strange oppression, I think how strange it will be without you all, and to have only the angels to talk to me. But I suppose I shall get used to it. I always say that psalm over to myself, and then the queer feeling leaves me. Don’t you know? ‘He shall give His angels charge over thee. They shall bear thee up in their hands.’ That verse gives one such a restful feeling; just as though one were a little child again.”

“Dear Hatty, you will be in that city where ‘the inhabitants shall not say, I am sick, and they that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity.’ You will be where Jesus is.

‘Peace, perfect peace with loved ones far away!
In Jesus’ keeping we are safe—and they.’

It does me good to hear you; but you must not talk any more, your voice is so weak. Let me repeat one of your favorite hymns, and then perhaps you will get drowsy.” And then Hatty consented to be silent.

After all, the end came very suddenly, just when it was least expected. Hatty had seemed better that day; there was a strange flicker of life and energy; she had talked much to her mother and Bessie, and had sent a loving, playful message to Tom, who was away from home.

It had been her father’s custom to take the early part of the night-watch, and then to summon one of the others to relieve him. He had persisted in this, in spite of long, laborious days. Hatty was very dear to her father’s heart, and he loved those quiet hours beside her. Bessie had retired to bed early, as it was her turn to be roused, but long before the usual hour her mother was beside her.

“Come, my child, come; do not wait to dress, Hatty is going home fast.”

One startled, non-comprehending look, and then the truth rushed on Bessie, and she threw on her dressing-gown and hurried to the sick-room.

“Going home fast!” nay, she had gone; the last sigh was breathed as Bessie crossed the threshold “Thank God, she has not suffered!” murmured her father. Bessie heard him as she flung herself down beside Hatty.

There had been no pain, no struggle; a sudden change, a few short sighs, and Hatty had crossed the river. How peaceful and happy she looked in her last sleep—the sweet, deep sleep that knows no awaking! An innocent smile seemed to linger on her face. Never more would Hatty mourn over her faults and shortcomings; never more would morbid fears torment and harass her weary mind; never more would she plead for forgiveness, nor falter underneath her life’s burden, for, as Maguire says, “To those doubting ones earth was a night season of gloom and darkness, and in the borderland they saw the dawn of day; and when the summons comes they are glad to bid farewell to the night that is past, and to welcome with joy and singing the eternal day, whose rising shall know no sunset.”