"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.
Bessie had other little surprises that pleased her greatly; every week
or two a hamper came from Oatlands--new-laid eggs and cream, a chicken
or two, and often a brace of partridges or a pheasant. Bessie, who was
housekeeper, used to rejoice over the contents of these hampers; she
knew the game would tempt her mother's sickly appetite. Many of Dr.
Lambert's patients remembered that he had an invalid wife, and fruit and
flowers and all sorts of delicacies found their way to the doctor's
house, for the Lamberts were much respected in Cliffe, and even the poor
people would step up with a couple of new-laid eggs from a speckled
hen, or a pot of blackberry-jam, or a bottle of elderberry wine for Mrs.
Lambert.
"The world is very full of nice people," observed Bessie one day, when,
near Christmas, she looked at the larder shelves fairly laden with good
things. One kind friend had sent them a barrel of oysters. Aunt
Charlotte's contribution had been a stock of apples that would last them
half through the winter.
The hamper from Oatlands had been unusually rich, for a turkey, and a
great fat goose dangled from the ceiling, and Edna had added a rich cake
and a packet of bonbons and chocolate for Ella and Katie. But the letter
that accompanied it had made Bessie somewhat anxious. Edna had a cold, a
severe cold, for she could not shake it off, and her mother had decided
to take her to Brighton for a month or two. The doctor had recommended
Hastings or Bournemouth as being warmer, but Edna had a fancy for
Brighton, so her mother had taken a suite of rooms in the Glenyan
Mansions--a big drawing-room overlooking King's Road and the sea, and a
small dining-room leading out of it.
"And we have four bedrooms," wrote Edna, "for Richard proposes
to run down for a night or two now and then, and mamma suggests
an invitation to you. Do you think you could come, Bessie--that
your mother could spare you? We are going on the third of
January, and want you to join us a few days afterward. Do try,
there's a dear! My cold has made me so weak and miserable, and
the cough will not let me sleep properly at night, so of course
my life is not very pleasant. It will be such a comfort to have
you, for I never can talk to mamma; she frets herself into a
fuss over everything, and that makes me, oh, so impatient, I
should like to jump into the sea! But you are such a patient,
reasonable little creature, Daisy dear, and I am so fond of you.
Bye the bye, Richard has sent you a message. He was very
particular in repeating it more than once. Let me see; oh, this
is it: 'Do you not think that you owe some duty to your friends,
especially when they need you?' That he was sure you could do me
good, and that he hoped you would make every effort to come, if
only for my sake. Was that not kind and brotherly of him? But
then Richard is very much improved, too."
Bessie hardly knew what she was to say in reply. Her mother was better,
certainly; but she could not propose to leave her. She was much
surprised when her father asked her that evening if no letter had
accompanied the hamper, and on her replying in the affirmative, he
coolly asked to see it.
"Well," he said interrogatively, as he handed back the letter, "what
answer do you propose to give, Bessie?"
"I do not know; at least, I have not thought about it," she answered.
Her father looked at her steadily.
"You have never been to Brighton?"
"Never, father."
"So much the better; it will be all new to you. Sit down and write to
Miss Edna at once, and tell her that you will be glad to spend a week or
two with her and her mother. Let me see, what time did she say? The
first week in January, that will fit in well. I am going up to town on
the seventh, and we can travel together. That will do famously, will it
not, mother?"
"Do you think you can spare me, mother?" asked Bessie anxiously.
And Mrs. Lambert answered without hesitation: "I certainly can and will
spare you, Bessie, and I am very grateful to Mrs. Sefton for her
invitation. My dear," as the girl still hesitated, "your father and I
have long wished you to have a little holiday, so your mind may be quite
at rest." And after this Bessie was satisfied.
But it was with very different feelings that Bessie left her home in the
mild-tempered sunshine of that January day, to those when, seven months
ago, she paid her first visit to The Grange. Things had been well with
her then; no trouble since her brother's death had checkered her bright,
sunshiny existence. She had gone in holiday mood to seek fresh interests
and new enjoyments; but now how utterly changed were her feelings! She
could no longer look out upon the world through the rose-colored
spectacles that youth generally wears. For the second time in her life
she had been brought face to face with death, and the great reality had
sobered her. A deep sense of responsibility, of the inner meaning of
life, seemed to cast a weight of gravity over her. A bond of sympathy
seemed to unite her with all those who were in sorrow; so many were
unhappy, so many had lost their nearest and dearest. Oh, how she longed
to comfort them all!
Bessie was not one to speak of her feelings; the best of her life was
out of sight. Only once she said to Christine, as they were walking home
from church in the starlight:
"People are very proud when their relatives achieve any worldly honor or
attain to any rank, yet no one seems to feel an added dignity when any
dear one has finished his or her earthly conflict most gloriously, and
has won a heavenly crown. Why is it, Chrissy? Somehow it seems such an
honor to me to feel I have a sister as well as a brother in heaven; it
makes one more careful not to do anything unworthy of them."
Bessie's gray eyes had a softer look in them than they had of old; her
voice had grown more gentle. Mrs. Sefton, who was at the station, hardly
recognized the girl as she came quickly toward her; the black dress and
crape bonnet made her look older, but when she smiled it was the same
Bessie.
"My dear, are you very tired?" she asked, looking at her kindly. "It is
such a cold evening that I dare not let Edna come with me, for her
cough is still troublesome. I had some difficulty with her, but at last
I got my way. Edna is not nearly so self-willed as she used to be." But
here Mrs. Sefton sighed.
"Do you think Edna is really better?" asked Bessie, when the carriage
door was closed, and they drove away from the station.
"I do not know," returned Mrs. Sefton, in a troubled voice. "Dr. Milton
assures me that there is nothing radically wrong with her health, only
want of tone and a severe cold; but I cannot feel comfortable about her.
She is losing appetite and flesh, and her spirits are so variable. She
is not happy, Bessie, and she cannot always hide her feelings from her
mother. Richard says that we can do nothing; but how are we to go on
like this?"
Bessie hardly knew what to answer; she was full of sympathy for the
anxious mother; she knew Edna was her one thought in life, and that no
happiness was possible to her if her child suffered. They were in the
King's Road now, and the brightly lighted shop-windows almost dazzled
Bessie. On the opposite side she could see a dark line that was
evidently the sea; a dull, heavy surging of waves broke on her ear; now
and then the splash of the white surf was clearly visible.
"Edna is young," she said vaguely; but, after all, there was scant
consolation in this truism, for the young suffer very keenly; a sense
of impatience, of injustice, aggravates their pain. The old accept their
sorrows more meekly; their reason comes to their aid. "Man is born to
trouble," they say, and the philosophy enables them to endure at least
with some show of dignity.
"Yes, she is young; perhaps she may be consoled," replied Mrs. Sefton,
with another sigh; and then the carriage stopped. "Our rooms are on the
first floor," observed Mrs. Sefton, as they stood in the large,
brilliantly lighted hall, and she conducted Bessie up the staircase and
down a narrow corridor, and then into a long, well-furnished
drawing-room, where they found Edna.
She was sitting on a low chair, looking at the fire, but she sprang up
and welcomed Bessie warmly.
"My dear little Daisy, how delighted I am to see you!" she said, with
something of her old animation. "Mamma, is it not delicious to have her
again? Sit down there; you look tired and cold, and I mean to wait on
you. Mamma, the tea is all ready, and I am going to pour it out. Take
off your warm jacket, Bessie; oh, and your bonnet too; and then you will
look more like yourself."
Bessie did as she was bidden, but her eyes followed Edna's graceful
figure. How delicate she looked--far, far too pretty! She was almost
dazzling to-night. The ruby velveteen set off her fair hair and white
skin; her face was flushed, and her eyes were too bright; and as she
moved about Bessie heard her cough once or twice--a hard, dry cough. But
there seemed nothing wrong with Edna's spirits to-night. She was
evidently overjoyed to have her friend with her again; she talked and
laughed after her old fashion.
"You will be sure to like this place, Bessie," she said. "The shops are
delightful, and it is so amusing to see the people; and the sea is
magnificent. I have my ponies here, so we can have plenty of drives; and
there are some people that we know at the Bedford. We don't intend to
mope, mamma and I; we are going to the grand bazaar at the Pavilion, and
there are some first-rate concerts. But you shall be as quiet as you
like," with a sudden change of tone, as Bessie looked grave; "your only
duty will be to talk to me. Now I will show you your room, and you shall
unpack and get ready for dinner."
Bessie was not sorry to be left alone in her comfortable room. When she
had finished her unpacking, she put on her best cashmere dress, with its
soft white frilling, and fastened a few white flowers at her throat.
Then she sat down before the fire, and had a quiet quarter of an hour
before Edna came in search of her and carried her off.
All the evening Edna was as merry as possible. She played several of
her favorite pieces, and even sung a little; only as the evening drew to
its close she began to have a white, exhausted look; but she followed
Bessie into her room, and sat down on the rug, with the evident
intention of having a talk.
"Edna, you must not stay; you look far too tired," remonstrated Bessie;
"and we shall have plenty of time for talk to-morrow."
"But I like fireside talks best," replied Edna willfully; "and I am not
inclined to sleep yet. I do hate the night!" with sudden petulance. "It
is so stupid to lie awake and watch the fire go out, and count sheep
jumping through a gap in the hedge; anything to cheat one's self into
oblivion. Do you sleep well, Bessie?"
"Yes, always; trouble never keeps me awake. I always think of Hatty when
I lie down, and wonder what she is doing, and what the angels are
teaching her, but I fall asleep in the middle of a thought, and it is
morning before I wake."
"Oh, you have a good conscience," replied Edna bitterly; "you have no
remorseful thoughts to goad you into wakefulness. If one could only have
one's life over again, Bessie? I want you to help me while you are here,
to think what I had better do. I cannot go on like this. Is there
anything that I can do? Any work? If it were not for mamma, I would go
to some hospital and learn nursing; it is too dreadful living like this
just to amuse one's self, and try to forget. I must do something,
something for the good of myself, if not for my fellow-creatures."
Bessie listened to her with some surprise. Edna's manner was excited;
she looked feverish; her voice had a hard ring in it.
"Tell me what I must do," she said, fixing her large eyes on Bessie.
"Dear, you must get well first," replied Bessie tenderly. "You are far
from strong; your mother is right, Edna."
Edna shook her head impatiently.
"It is nothing--a cold; what does it signify? How can one feel well with
all these worrying thoughts? It is work that I want, Bessie--work that
will take me out of myself and make me forget."
"Are you sure that God wishes you to forget?" asked Bessie softly. "Oh,
my dear," stroking her hand, "you can never say again that I do not know
what trouble is, that I cannot feel for you; but I have learned that we
must not run away from our trouble; girls so often talk like that," she
went on, "about going into a hospital, but they do not know what they
want. Nursing is too sacred a work to be done from such a motive. What
good would such a work, undertaken in a selfish, self-seeking spirit, do
them? Edna, when God wounds He heals, but it must be in His own time,
and in the proper place; and even troubles caused by our own
recklessness must come under this head."
"But, Bessie----"
"Wait a minute, dear; I seem to see it so clearly. You have work, only
you are throwing it aside and asking for more. 'Thou earnest not to thy
place by accident; it is the very place God meant for thee.' Don't you
remember those lines? Surely, surely, an only daughter's place must be
with her mother; to make her happy must be no light duty. You are her
one thought from morning to night; it breaks her heart to see you
unhappy. Edna, if your mother died, and you had not tried to make her
happy!"
"Do you mean--oh, I see what you mean, but I am too selfish to find it
out for myself. I am only thinking of my own good, not of her at all. I
have never been good to her; she gives all, and I just take it."
"Make her your work," whispered Bessie, "and bye and bye comfort will
come to you, as it would not in any hospital, in any self-chosen duty;
for where God puts us, He must find us, or we shall have to give an
account of why we have erred and strayed," finished Bessie reverently.