"Yes, I know what you mean; but, indeed, Chrissy, dear, you need not distress yourself so. Hatty forgave everything long ago; she was never one to bear malice--no, her nature was too sweet for that."
"But I might have made her happier," persisted Christine. "I need not have minded her worrying so over every little trifle, but I was always losing patience, and getting vexed with her. I used to wonder at your bearing with her as you did, and I thought it a mistake to give way to all her humors. I never imagined that she was cross because she was suffering, but father says all her gloomy fancies and tiresome little ways came from her bad health."
"I might have made her happier!" That speech went to Bessie"s heart.
"Listen to me, darling," she said eagerly; "think rather of how, by your waywardness, you have wounded the loving heart of Jesus, and sinned against Him. Let the sense of Hatty"s loss send you to him in penitence for pardon. Nothing can now undo the past; but you can set yourself in the grace and strength which Jesus gives to do all in your power to make the lives of those around you happier. I do not want to make you more miserable, but what you have just said reminds me so of a pa.s.sage I copied only the other day out of one of Tom"s books; it was written by a man who failed in his own life, but was very gentle and very tolerant of other people. "Oh, let us not wait," he says, "to be just, or pitiful, or demonstrative toward those we love, until they or we are struck down by illness, or threatened with death. Life is short, and we have never too much time for gladdening the hearts of those who are travelling the dark journey with us. Oh, be swift to love, make haste to be kind!" And then in another place he says, and that is so true, too, "Never to tire, never to grow cold; to be patient, sympathetic, tender; to look for the budding flower and the opening heart, to hope always like G.o.d; to love always--this is duty.""
Christine made a despairing gesture. "It is a duty in which I have utterly failed," she said bitterly.
"You think you might have been kinder to Hatty; that is just what Tom said of himself the other day. I am afraid many people have these sort of reproachful thoughts when they lose one they love. Everything seems different," she continued, in a musing tone; "we see with other eyes.
Death seems to throw such a strange, searching light over one"s life; big things are dwarfed, and little things come into pre-eminence; our looks and words and actions pa.s.s in review before us--we see where we have failed, and our successes do not comfort us."
"But you, at least, are free from these thoughts, Bessie?"
"Not entirely. There were times when I found Hatty trying, when she depressed me, and made me impatient. Indeed, Chrissy dear, we must remember that we are human, and not angels. None of us are free from blame; we have all failed in our turn. You have never been morbid before; try to forget the little everyday frictions, for which Hatty was to blame as well as you, and only remember how good you were to her in her illness--what a comfort to me as well as to her. "Chrissy has been such a darling," Hatty said to me one day."
After all, Christine was quite willing to be comforted, and presently she dried her eyes.
"You must let me talk to you sometimes, Bessie," she said; "it will do me good, because you have such a nice clear way of putting things, and you never mind trouble. I know I can"t take Hatty"s place, but if you will let me do things for you sometimes, and feel that I am a help, for we are sisters as much as you and Hatty were, and I want to get nearer to you somehow."
"And so you shall, dear," replied Bessie, touched by this humility. "You must not think that I do not love you because Hatty was so much to me.
There is nothing I would not do for you, Chrissy--oh, you may be sure of that;" and Bessie kissed her affectionately.
This conversation made Christine happier, for she was a good-hearted girl, and her repentance was very real, and it strengthened Bessie in her resolve to do her best for them all. Sorrow is a great test of character; it makes the selfish more selfish, and hardens the proud, but Bessie grew softer under its influence. After all, Edna was right in saying that it was harder to suffer through one"s own fault. An affliction that comes straight from G.o.d"s hand (though, in one sense, all trouble is permitted by His providence) wounds, and yet heals at the same time, and Bessie was to learn this by degrees; and, after all, her cross was wreathed with the soft flowers of hope.
One morning early in October Bessie had a most unexpected pleasure. She had just returned from a long walk, and was on her way to the morning-room in search of her mother, when Christine opened the drawing-room door and beckoned to her with a very excited face.
"Do come in, Betty," she said, in a loud whisper that must have been distinctly audible inside the room. "What a time you have been! and there is a friend of yours waiting for you."
Bessie quickened her steps, feeling somewhat mystified by Christine"s manner, and the next moment she was face to face with Edna. Bessie turned very pale and could hardly speak at first for surprise and emotion; but Edna took her in her arms and kissed her.
"My dear Bessie," she said softly; and then she laughed a little nervously, and it was not the old musical laugh at all--"are you very surprised to see me? Oh, it was a bright idea of mine. I have been visiting those same friends (I had returned from them that day, you know, when we were snowed up together). Well, when I saw Sheen Valley, all of a sudden the thought popped into my head that I would stop at Cliffe, and take a later train; so I telegraphed to mamma, who is in London, and now I have a whole hour to spend with you. Is not that nice?"
"Very nice indeed. I am so glad to see you, Edna; but you are looking delicate; you have lost your color."
"What nonsense!" with a touch of her old impatience. "You are as bad as mamma; she is always finding fault with me. People who live in gla.s.s houses should not throw stones at their neighbors. You do not look like yourself either, Bessie."
"Oh, that is different," and Bessie"s lips trembled a little; "I have gone through so much since we parted. I try to take it properly, and every one helps me, but I think I miss my Hatty more every day."
"You want a change," returned Edna kindly, for she was much touched by the alteration in her friend"s looks.
Bessie had lost her pretty fresh color, and looked pale and subdued in her black dress; her gray eyes had a sad look in them, even her voice had lost its old cheery tones, and her very movements were quieter; the bright elasticity that had been her charm was missing now, and yet Edna thought she had never looked so sweet.
"My poor little Daisy," she continued, "you have a crushed look. You want country air to revive you. Will you come to us? Mamma will be delighted; you are such a favorite of hers; and as for myself, I want you more than I can say."
"Not yet; I could not leave mother yet," returned Bessie; but a faint color stole into her face. No, she could not leave her post, and yet it would have been nice to see The Grange again, and Richard"s friendly face; he had been so kind to her; and there was Whitefoot, and the dear dogs, and the lanes would be full of hips and haws. "No, not yet; but I should like to come again one day."
"Well, well, I will not tease you; bye and bye I will make another appeal, but if your mother be not well----" She paused, and then something of the old mischief came into her eyes. "You see I am improving, Bessie; I am not always trying to get my own way; my goodness makes mamma quite uneasy. I think she has got it into her head that I shall die young; all good young people die--in books. No, it was wrong of me to joke," as a pained look crossed Bessie"s face. "Seriously, I am trying to follow your advice; but, oh! it is such hard work."
"Dear Edna, do you think I do not see the difference in you?"
"Am I different?" she asked eagerly, and a wistful look came into her lovely eyes. "Richard said the other day how much nicer I was; we are quite friends, Ritchie and I, now, and I won"t let mamma be so hard on him. He was very kind to me when--when--Neville went away; he tells me about him sometimes, for once or twice he has seen him in London; but just fancy, Bessie, he never even asked after me. "Are your people well?" That is all he said; but of course he will never forgive me; men are like that."
"He may not think that you want to be forgiven," returned Bessie.
Edna"s color rose.
"He will never know it," she said proudly; but the next moment her tone changed. "Oh, Bessie, what shall I do? Sometimes I am so miserable that I hardly know how I am to go on living. I never thought I should miss Neville like this, but I do--I do."
"Do not think me unkind if I say that I rejoice to hear it; it proves how deep and real your affection was."
"It was the only real part of me," was the reply. "Now it is too late, I have discovered it for myself. I never would let myself think seriously of my engagement. I liked Neville, and I meant to marry him one day, and that was all I thought about it; but now I see that the real feeling was there all the time, only choked up with rubbish, and I am quite sure that I could never care for any one else in the same way--never--never."
"Poor Edna! it is very hard, and I am so sorry for you."
But as Bessie spoke Christine came back into the room with a small tray of refreshments, and her mother followed, so she and Edna were obliged to break off the conversation.
CHAPTER XX.
"BESSIE"S SECOND FLITTING."
Just before Edna left them Dr. Lambert came into the room. He seemed very pleased to see her, and at once offered to drive her to the station. Bessie was a little disappointed at this, for she had hoped to walk down with her friend; it would have given them time to finish their conversation; but Edna certainly looked tired, so she refrained from a dissenting word.
Edna bade her good-bye very affectionately, and begged her to write to her frequently, and just before they reached the station she said a word or two to Dr. Lambert; would he spare Bessie to them bye and bye--not now, but a little later--for Oatlands was pleasant even in the winter?
"Yes, bye and bye," he returned hastily; "but her mother cannot spare the girl now; she is not well; her strength has flagged since Hatty"s death, and Bessie is mother"s crutch; but later on you shall have her; and indeed she looks pale, and in need of change, and I shall be thankful to let her go." And when he reached the home he told them all of Edna"s invitation to Bessie, and how he had answered her.
Mrs. Lambert looked wistfully at her daughter.
"You would like to go, Bessie; it would do you good, and indeed I am growing stronger every day. I would spare you willingly."
"No, mother, I am not going to leave you just now. Why, you have not been down yet to breakfast. When you are quite well and strong I will think of it." And Bessie looked tenderly at her mother"s thin, faded face.
Perhaps it was not quite so thin as it was, not so pinched and anxious, but there was plenty of room for improvement; and though Mrs. Lambert sighed, she could not conscientiously own that she was well. But when she was alone with her husband, she spoke to him about Bessie"s looks.
"She is not like the same girl," she said sadly. "She feels darling Hatty"s loss more than the others. What does it matter about me, Herbert? A mother must think of her children before herself."
"Perhaps so," he replied rather dryly, "but it is my duty to think first of you, my dear Dora. We both love our children, and would willingly do our best for them. I am not blind to Bessie"s looks; but she is really strong, and her health will not suffer."
"No; but the change will do her good," she pleaded.
"I do not doubt it, and I wish you were strong enough to spare her; but Bessie is young enough to wait a little. It is we who are growing old, my dear, and who need to be comforted quickly; the young have their life before them."
But though the doctor expressed himself after this stoical fashion, he was very tender in his manner to Bessie, and though he would not have avowed it to his wife, he watched the girl narrowly, and often took her for drives, or contrived errands for her at the other end of the town.
Nay, more, he became extravagant, and brought home books for her and Christine, bidding them improve their minds, and Bessie found herself the possessor of several nice books, not wholly instructive--for "Lorna Doone," and Miss Austen"s "Emma," and "A Sister"s Story," by Mrs.
Craven, were among them.