"FAREWELL, NIGHT!"
The journey seemed endless to Bessie, but she restrained her painful
restlessness for Tom's sake. Tom was very kind after his own fashion; he
got her some tea at Paddington, and was very attentive to her comfort,
and every now and then he gave utterance to a few remarks, bidding her
keep up her heart like a brave little woman.
"'While there is life there is hope,' you know, Bessie," he said. "I
think my father takes too dark a view of the case; but then, you see,
Hatty is his own child. I don't believe she is as bad as all that;
depend upon it, she will take a good turn yet."
"Don't let us talk about it, Tom," pleaded Bessie, with a sick, wretched
feeling that Tom's boyish testimony was not very reliable. How she
wished he would be silent; but in a few minutes he was back again on the
same subject, with another homely axiom for Bessie's comfort.
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."
Many and many a time during that mourning week did Bessie, spent and
weary with weeping, recall those words that her darling had uttered, "I
don't want to get well, Bessie; I should have all the old miserable
feelings over again." And even in her desolation Bessie would not have
called her back.
"My Hatty has gone," she wrote to Edna, in those first days of
her loss. "I shall never see her sweet face again until we meet
in Paradise. I shall never hear her loving voice; but for her
own sake I cannot wish her back. Her life was not a happy one;
no one could make it happy, it was shadowed by physical
depression. She had much to bear, and it was not always easy to
understand her; it was difficult for her to give expression to
the nameless fears, and the strange, morbid feelings that made
life so difficult. She loved us all so much, but even her love
made her wretched, for a careless word or a thoughtless speech
rankled in her mind for days, and it was not easy to extract the
sting; she was too sensitive, too highly organized for daily
life; she made herself miserable about trifles. I know she could
not help it, poor darling, and father says so too. Oh, how I
miss her. But God only knows that, and I dare say He will
comfort me in His own good time. Mother is ill; she is never
strong, and the nursing and grief have broken her down, so we
must all think of her. Pray for us all, dear Edna, for these are
sorrowful days. I do not forget you, but I seem to look at you
through the mist of years; still, I am always your loving
friend,
"BESSIE."