"TROUBLE MAY COME TO ME ONE DAY."
Bessie had hardly fallen asleep before the storm broke. A peal of
thunder crashing over the house woke her; the next minute a flash of
lightning seemed to fill her room with white light.
"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.
"Edna! what does this mean? You have not been to bed at all?" exclaimed
Bessie, regarding her friend with dismay. Edna's pale, disordered looks
excited her alarm.
"No," she returned, in a tone of forced composure, as she put down the
candle with a shaking hand; "I was too nervous to sleep. I knew the
storm was coming, and I sat up and waited for it; but I could not stop
by myself any longer. Did I wake you, Bessie?"
"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.