If he had not fancied that he saw one of his London acquaintances in the

distance, he might have followed Bessie, but he could not be seen, for

fear that the reason for his being there should come out, and it become

known that a McPherson was allowed to go to America as a steerage

passenger; so he sat a moment and watched the little figure with the

waterproof hood over its head making its way to where a rough-looking

woman was standing, with an immense cotton umbrella over her sun-bonnet

and evidently waiting for some one. And so Bessie vanished from Neil's

sight, and he saw her no more.

"Back to the hotel," he said to the cabman, who obeyed willingly, while

Neil, always on the alert, closed the windows lest he should he seen and

recognized.

But the air was close and hot, and when he thought himself out of danger

he drew the window down and looked out just in time to meet the eyes of

Grey Jerrold who was driving in an opposite direction. There was an

exclamation from Grey, a call for both cabmen to stop, and before Neil

could collect his senses the two carriages were drawn up side by side

and he was shaking hands with Grey through the window.

"So glad I happened to meet you," Grey said. "I wanted to say good-by,

for I am off for America."

"America!" Neil repeated, and his lower jaw dropped suddenly, as if he

had been seized with paralysis.

"Yes," Grey rejoined. "I sail in the Germanic with my Aunt Lucy. She

came down to Liverpool yesterday with some friends. I shall find her at

the wharf. I have just arrived in the train from Chester. I was only in

London for a day, but I called at your house to see you, and learned

that you were out of town, so I left a little note for you. Neil"--and

Grey spoke very low, as we do when we speak of the dead--"I have been in

Prussia, Austria, and Russia since I left Italy, but I know I ought to

have written and told you how sorry I was for--for what happened in

Rome. If it had not been for my aunt, I believe I should have gone back

and helped you. I--"

Here Grey stopped, for since his interview with Jack Trevellian he had

never mentioned Bessie's name to any one, and he could not do so now

even to Neil, who, having no idea of the mistake under which Grey was

laboring, and supposing he, of course, was referring to Daisy, replied

with an indifference which made Grey's flesh creep:

"Yes, thanks; they told me how kind you were, and I ought to have

written you, but I had so much to see to. I trust I may never go through

the like again. Those landlords are perfect swindlers, the whole of

them, and ought to be indicted."

He spoke excitedly, and Grey gazed at him in blank astonishment. Was he

perfectly heartless that he could speak thus of an event, the mere

remembrance of which made Grey's heart throb with anguish? Had he really

no abiding love for Bessie, that he could speak thus of the trouble and

expense her death had caused him? Grey could not tell, but he was never

as near hating Neil McPherson, as he was that moment, and he felt a

greater desire to thrash him than he had done at Melrose when the

star-spangled banner was insulted.

He could not pursue the subject further, and he changed the conversation

by speaking of Jack Trevellian, from whom he had not heard since he left

him in Vienna, weeks before.

"I have written to him," he said, "but have received no answer. I have

also written to Miss Meredith, with a like result, and conclude I have

no friends this side the water, so I am going home."

"You can count on me for a friend always," Neil said, with a sudden gush

of warmth, as he extended his hand, adding hurriedly: "And now I must

say good-by, as I have an engagement. _Au revoir_ and _bon voyage_."

"Good-by," Grey answered, a little coldly, and the carriages moved on,

greatly to the relief of Neil, who had been in a tremor of fear lest

Bessie should be inquired for and he be obliged to tell where she was.

During his interview with Grey his conscience and his pride had been

waging a fierce battle the latter bidding him say nothing of Bessie,

who possibly might not be seen during the voyage, as she had promised to

keep strictly out of the sight of the saloon passengers, and, unless

necessary, not to tell any one except her aunt that she had crossed as

steerage. Thus the disgrace might never be known. But his conscience

bade him tell Grey the truth, and ask him to find Bessie on shipboard,

and do what he could to lighten the dreariness of her situation. Why he

did not do this Neil could not tell, and when the opportunity was passed

he cursed himself for a miserable coward, and actually put his head from

the window to bid the cabman turn back and overtake the carriage they

had met.

"Ten chances to one if I find him now. I'll write and confess the whole

thing," he finally decided, and so went back to the hotel, where he

passed a miserable three hours, until it was time to dress for the

dinner at the house where his mother was visiting.

It was quite a large dinner-party, consisting mostly of matrons and

elderly men, so that Neil's presence was hailed with delight, and he was

the center of attraction for at least four young ladies, among whom

Blanche was conspicuous. But Neil had no heart for anything, and seemed

so silent and absent-minded that his mother whispered to him in an

aside:

"What ails you, Neil? Surely you are not fretting after that girl?"

She knew Bessie was to sail that afternoon, and that Neil was to see her

off, but she was not prepared for the white face which he turned to her,

or the bitter tones in which he said:

"Yes, I am fretting for that girl, as you call her. And I would give

half my life to be with her this minute. But she is gone. She is lost to

me forever, and I wish I were dead."

To this outburst Lady Jane made no reply, but, as she looked into her

son's face, there flashed upon her a doubt as to the result of her

opposition to Bessie, and the question as to whether it would not be

better to withdraw it and let him have his way. The girl was well

enough, or would be if she had money, and this she would unquestionably

get from the old-maid aunt. She would wait and see, and meantime she

would give Neil a grain of comfort, so she said to him:

"I had no idea you loved her so much. Perhaps that aunt may make her

rich, and then she would not be so bad a match. You _must_ marry money."

Yes, Neil must marry money if possible, but he must marry Bessie, too;

and as he looked upon the broken engagement as something which could

easily be taken up again, he felt greatly consoled by his mother's

words, and for the remainder of the evening was as gay and agreeable as

Lady Jane could wish. But still there was always in his mind the picture

of a forlorn little girl, wrapped in a blue waterproof, with the hood

over her head, disappearing from his sight through the rain, and he was

constantly wondering what she was doing, and if Grey Jerrold would find

her.

CHAPTER VII.

ON THE SHIP.

Never in her life had Bessie felt so utterly desolate and friendless as

when she said good-by to Neil and threaded her way through the crowd of

drays, and cabs, and express-wagons to where Mrs. Goodnough was waiting

for her. All her former life, with the dear old home, lay behind her,

while before her was the broad ocean and the uncertainty as to what she

should find in far-off America. Added to this there was a clinging in

her heart to Neil, whom she had loved too long to forget at once, and

although she felt it was far better to be free, she was conscious of a

sense of loss, and loneliness, and inexpressible homesickness when she

at last took her seat in the tug which was to take her and her

fellow-companions to the steamer moored in the river.

Oh, how damp and close it was on the boat, especially in the dark corner

where Bessie crouched as if to hide herself from view! She had promised

Neil to avoid observation as much as possible, and, keeping her hood

over her head, she tied over it a dark blue vail, which hid her face

from sight, and hid, too, the tears, which fell like rain, as she sat

with clasped hands leaning her aching head against Mrs. Goodnough, who,

though a rough, uncultivated woman, had a kind, motherly heart, and

pitied the young girl, who, she knew, was so sadly out of place.

There were not many cabin passengers on the ship, and these were too

much absorbed in finding their state-rooms and settling their luggage to

pay any attention to, or even to think of, the few German and English

emigrants, who went to their own quarters on the middle deck. And so no

one noticed the girl, who clung so timidly to the Welsh woman, and who

shook with cold and nervousness as she sat down upon the berth allotted

to her and glanced furtively around at the people and the appointments

of the place. Everything was scrupulously clean, but of the plainest

kind, and "steerage" seemed written everywhere. There was nothing

aristocratic in Bessie's nature, and, if necessary, she would have

broken stone upon the highway, and still Neil himself could not have

rebelled more hotly against her surroundings than she did for a few

moments, feeling as if she could not endure it, and that if she staid

there she must throw herself into the sea.

"Oh, I cannot bear it--I cannot. Why did I come?" she said, as she felt

the trembling of the vessel and knew they were in motion. "Oh, can't I

go back? Won't they stop and let me off?" she cried convulsively,

clutching the arm of Mrs. Goodnough, who tried to comfort her.

"There! there, darling! Don't take it so hard," she said, tenderly

caressing the fair head lying in her lap. "They'll not stop now till we

are off Queenstown, when there will be a chance to go back if you like,

but I don't think you will. America is better than Wales. You will be

happy there."

Bessie did not think she should ever be happy again, but with her usual

sweet unselfishness, and thoughtfulness for others, she tried to dry her

tears, so as not to distress her companion, and when the latter

suggested that she go out and look at the docks of Liverpool and the

shores as they passed, she pulled up her hood and tied on her vail, and

with her back to anyone who might see her from the upper deck, where the

first-class passengers were congregated, she stood gazing at the land

she was leaving, until a chilly sensation in her bones and the violent

pain in her head sent her to her berth, which she did not leave again

for three days and more.

She knew when they stopped at Queenstown, and was glad for a little

respite from the rolling motion, which nearly drove her wild and made

her so deadly sick. But she did not see the tug when it came out laden

with Irish emigrants, of whom there was a large number. Of these the

young girls and single women were sent to the rear of the ship, where

Bessie lay, half unconscious of what was passing around her, until she

heard the sound of suppressed weeping, so close to her that it seemed

almost in her ear.

Opening her eyes, she saw a young girl sitting on the floor, with her

head upon the berth next to her own, sobbing convulsively and whispering

to herself:

"Oh, me father, me father; me heart is breaking for you. What'll ye do

without yer Jennie, when the nights are dark and long. Oh, me poor old

father, I wish I had niver come. We might have starved together."

"Poor girl," Bessie said, pityingly, as she stretched out her hand and

touched the bowed head, "I am so sorry for you. Is your father old, and

why did you leave him?"

At the sound of the sweet voice, so full of sympathy, the girl started

quickly, and turning to Bessie, looked at her wonderingly; then, as if

by some subtle intuition she recognized the difference there was between

herself and the stranger whose beautiful face fascinated her so

strongly, she said:

"Oh, lady--an' sure you be a lady, even if you are here with the likes

of me--I had to lave me father, we was so poor and the taxes is so high,

and the rint so big intirely, and the landlord a-threatenin' of us to

set us in the road any foine mornin'; and so I'm goin' to Ameriky to

take a place; me cousin left to be married, and if I does well--an' sure

I'll try me best--I gets two pounds a month, and ivery penny I'll save

to bring the old father over. But you cannot be going out to work, and

have you left your father?"

"My father is dead, and mother, too," Bessie answered, with a sob. "I

have left them both in their graves. I _am_ going out to work, but I

have no place waiting for me like you, and I do not know of a friend in

the world who can help me."

"An' faith, then, you can just count on me, Jennie Mahoney," the

impulsive Irish girl exclaimed, stretching out her hand to Bessie. "You

spoke kind like to me when me heart was fit to break, and it's meself

will stand by you and take care of ye, too, as if ye was the greatest

lady in the land, as ye might be, for I knows very well that the likes

of ye has nought to do with the likes of me; an' if them spalpeens dares

to come round a speerin' at ye, it's meself will shovel out their eyes

with me nails. I know 'em. They are on every ship, and they are on this.

I heard one of 'em say when I come aboard, 'By Jove, Hank, that's a neat

Biddy, I think I'll cultivate her.' Cultivate me, indade! I'll Hank him.

Let him come anigh you or me, the bla'guard!"

Bessie had no definite idea what the girl meant by spalpeens and

bla'guards, whose eyes she was to shovel out, but she remembered what

Neil had said about her attracting the notice of the upper deck

passengers, and resolved more fully than ever to keep herself from sight

as much as possible. She had a friend in Jennie, to whom she put

numberless questions as to where she was going, and so forth. But Jennie

could not remember the name of the lady or place. Her cousin, who had

married lately, and lived in New York, was to tell her everything on her

arrival.

"It is a good place," she said, "and if it's companion or the like of

that ye are wishin' to be, I'll spake a good word to the lady, who, me

cousin says, is mighty quare, but very good and kind when she takes a

fancy."

Bessie smiled as she thought of an offer of help coming from this poor

girl, but she did not resent the offer. On the contrary, she felt

comforted because of it, and because of Jennie, whose faithfulness and

devotion knew no stint or cessation during the next twenty-four hours,

when it seemed to Bessie that she must die, both from the terrible

sea-sickness and the close atmosphere of the cabin, where so many were

congregated.

The fourth day out Mrs. Goodnough said Bessie must be taken into the

fresh air, as nothing else would avail to help her, and a stool was

placed for her on the deck, and then Jennie took her in her strong arms,

and carrying her out put her down as gently as if she had been a baby.

"An', faith ye must be covered," she said, as, faint and sick, Bessie

leaned back against the door, thus fully disclosing to view her white,

beautiful face, which made such a striking picture among the steerage

passengers, and began to attract attention from the upper deck.

It had already been rumored through the ship that there was a young lady

in the steerage, and as it takes but little to interest a ship's

company, much curiosity was felt concerning her, and when it was known

that she had come out from the cabin, quite a little group gathered in

the part of the boat nearest to her, and stood looking down at her.

"Och, me honeys," Jennie said, frowning savagely at them, "I'll spile

yer fun for you, an' it's not her blessed face ye shall stare at, though

the sight of it might do ye good," and rushing to her berth she brought

out Mrs. Goodnough's big sun-bonnet, which she tied on Bessie's head,

thus effectually hiding her features from sight. "There!" Jennie

continued, as she contemplated the disfiguring head-gear with great

satisfaction, "them spalpeens can't see ye now, and if they heave you

down anything it's meself will heave it back, for what business have

they to be takin' things from the table without the captain's lave, and

throwin' 'em to us as if we was a lot of pigs. It's just stalin', and

nothin' else."

The fresh air and change did Bessie good, and, protected by the

sun-bonnet and Jennie, she sat outside until sunset, and was then

carried to her berth. That night the wind changed, causing the ship to

roll in a most unsatisfactory manner; and Bessie, who was exceedingly

sensitive to every motion, was not able to go outside again, but lay on

her bed, whiter a great deal than the pillow under her head, and with a

look of suffering on her face which touched the kind-hearted Jennie to

the quick.

"An' sure she'll be throwin' up ivery blessed thing she'll ate for the

next year," she said. "If I could only right side up her stomach. I

wonder if an orange would do it;" and counting her little stock of

money--six shillings in all--she took a few pennies, and going to the

stewardess, bade her buy two of the finest and swatest oranges in the

butler's pantry."

"Here, honey! Here's what will turn that nasty, creepin' sickness, an'

make ye feet like the top of the mornin'," she said to Bessie, as she

sat down beside her and held a piece of the juicy fruit to her lips.

And Bessie was trying to take it when a voice outside said to Mrs.

Goodnough:

"I heard there was some one very sick, and have come to see if I can do

anything for her."

The next moment a middle-aged lady, with grayish hair and a sweet, sad

face, came in, and going up to Jennie, said:

"Is this the sick girl?"

For a moment Bessie's face was scarlet, and there was a frightened look

in her blue eyes as she regarded her visitor, who continued, very

gently:

"I am sorry to find you suffering so much. My nephew Grey has been sick

all the voyage, or I should have been down here before. What can I do

for you?"

"Her nephew Grey!" Bessie repeated the words to herself, us she stared

in bewilderment at the face bending over her, recognizing in it, or

fancying that she did, a resemblance to the face which had looked so

pityingly at her by her dead father's bedside, and which, whether waking

or sleeping, haunted her continually. Was this woman Grey's Aunt Lucy,

of whom she had heard so much? and was he there on the ship with her,

and would he know by and by that she was there and come to see her? Then

she remembered Neil, and her promise to let no one know who she was,

lest he should be disgraced. So when Miss Grey sat down beside her, and

taking the hot hands in hers, said to her, "Please tell me what I can do

for you, and pardon me if I ask your name," she sobbed piteously:

"No, no--oh, no! I promised never to let it be known that I was here,

_I_ am not ashamed, but he is, and I can tell only this--I am very poor

and am going to America to earn my living. I had no money for a

first-class ticket, and so I came in here. They are very kind to me,

Jennie and Mrs. Goodnough. I am going out with her. Are you an

American?"

"Yes; I am Miss Grey, from Allington, I will help you if I can," was

the reply, and then Bessie's tears fell faster, as she cried:

"Thank you, no. You must not talk to me. You must not come again. Please

go away, or I shall break my promise to Neil."

The name dropped from her lips unwittingly, and Miss Grey repeated it to

herself, trying to remember why it seemed so familiar to her, and as she

thought and looked wonderingly at the tear-stained face, the impulsive

Jennie broke in:

"An' plaze yer ladyship, if you'll go away now and lave Miss Bessie to

be aisy for a little, I'm sure she'll see you again."

"Bessie! Neil!" Miss Grey repeated aloud, and then she thought of Grey's

friend, Neil McPherson, and remembered there was a cousin Bessie of whom

she, too, had heard. Could this be she? Impossible; and yet so strong an

impression had been made upon her that as she passed out and met Mrs.

Goodnough, who, she knew, had the young lady in charge, she said to her:

"I hope you will let me know if I can do anything for Miss McPherson."

"Did she tell you her name?" Mrs. Goodnough asked, in surprise, for

Bessie had confided to her the fact that, as far as possible, she wished

to be strictly incognito on the ship.

Miss Lucy was sure now, and with her thoughts in a tumult of perplexity

and wonder, she hurried away to the state-room of her nephew.

CHAPTER VIII.

GREY AND HIS AUNT.

Grey had been very sick the entire voyage. Since the day when he heard

that Bessie was dead he had lost all interest in everything, and though

he went wherever his aunt wished to go, it was only to please her, and

not because he cared in the least for anything he saw. From Flossie he

had never heard, for her letter did not reach him, and he had no thought

that Bessie was alive, and everywhere he went he saw always the dear

face, white and still, as he knew it must have looked when it lay in the

coffin. Sometimes the pain in his heart was so hard to bear that he was

half tempted to tell his aunt of his sorrow and crave her sympathy. But

this he had not done, and Bessie's name had never passed his lips since

he heard she was dead.

At last, alarmed by the pallor of his face, and the tired, listless

manner, so unlike himself, Lucy suggested that they go home, and to this

Grey readily assented. But first he must see Bessie's grave, and at

London he left his aunt in charge of some friends who were going home in

the same ship and would see her to Liverpool. He was going to Wales on

business, he said, and as she knew he had been there two or three times

before, Lucy asked no questions, and had no suspicion of the nature of

the business which took him first to Carnarvon, where a last fruitless

search was made for Elizabeth Rogers or some of her kin, and then to

Stoneleigh, which he reached on an early morning train, the same which

took Bessie to Liverpool! Thus near do the wheels of fate oftentimes

come to each other.

In her hurry to secure a compartment, Bessie did not see the young man

alighting from a carriage only the fourth from the one she was entering,

and as both Anthony and Dorothy, who were at the station with her, went

across the bridge to do some errands before returning home, no one

observed Grey as he hurried along the road to Stoneleigh, and entering

the grounds, stood at last by the new grave in the corner close to the

fence, where he believed Bessie was lying.

Bearing his head to the falling rain, which seemed to cool his burning

brow, he said aloud:

"Darling Bessie, can you see me now? Do you know that I am here,

standing by your grave, and do you know how much I love you? Surely it

is no wrong to Neil for me to whisper to your dead ears the story of my

love. Oh, Bessie, I have come to say good-by, and my heart is breaking

as I say it. If you could only answer me--could give me some token that

you know, it would be some comfort to me when I am far away, for I am

going home, Bessie, to the home over the sea, where I once hoped I

might take you as my wife, before I knew of Neil's prior claim, but so

long as life lasts I shall remember the dear little girl who was so much

to me; and here I pledge my word that no other love shall ever come

between us. I have loved you; I have lost you; but thank God, I have not

lost your memory. Good-by, darling; good-by."

He stooped and kissed the rain-wet sod above the grave, then walked

swiftly away in the direction of Bangor, and took the first through

train to Liverpool. On arriving at the hotel he learned that his aunt

had already gone to the wharf with her friends, and taking a cab, he,

too, was driven there, meeting with Neil, who confounded and disgusted

him with his apparent indifferences and heartlessness.

Absorbed in his own sad refection, Grey had no thought for any of his

fellow passengers, whether steerage or cabin, and disguised by her hood

and vail, Bessie might have brushed against him without recognition.

So he had no idea how near she was to him, and as the motion of the ship

soon began to affect him, he went to his state-room, which he scarcely

left again for several days. Once, when the doctor was visiting him, his

aunt, who was present, asked if there were many sick among the steerage

passengers, and if they were comfortable?

There was but one who was very sick, the doctor replied, and her case

puzzled him, she seemed so superior to her class, and so reticent with

regard to herself.

"I will go and see her," Lucy said, and that afternoon she made her

visit to Bessie, with the result we have seen.

Puzzled and curious, she went next to her nephew, whom she found dressed

and in his sea-chair, which had been brought into his state-room. He was

better, and was going on deck as soon as the steward could come and help

him. Sitting down beside him, Lucy began rather abruptly:

"I have heard you talk a great deal of Neil McPherson, whose father is

brother to Miss Betsey McPherson, of Allington, and I have heard you

speak of a Bessie McPherson. Do you know where she is?"

Grey's face was white as marble, while a spasm of pain passed over his

features as he said: "Oh, Aunt Lucy, you do not know how you hurt me

Why did you speak of her?"

"Because I have a suspicion that she is on the ship," Lucy replied; but

Grey shook his head mournfully as he said to her:

"That is impossible; Bessie is dead. She died in Rome last spring. She

was sick with the fever all the time we were there, and I was with her

every day, but did not tell you, as I knew you would be so anxious for

me. And when she died I could not talk of her to any one. Poor little

Bessie! She was so young, and sweet, and pure. You would have loved her

so much."

"Yes," Lucy said, taking one of Grey's hands, and holding it

caressingly, for she guessed what was in his heart. "Tell me about her

if you can. You say she is dead, and you are sure?"

"Yes, sure," he answered. "I did not see her die, it is true, but I know

she is dead, and I have stood by her grave at Stoneleigh. When I left

you in London I went to her grave, and I believe I left all my life and

soul there with her. I never thought I could talk to any one of her, but

it seems to me now it would be a relief to tell you about her. Shall I?"

"Yes, tell me," Lucy said, and closing his eyes, and leaning back

wearily in his chair, Grey told her everything he knew with regard to

Bessie McPherson, who had died in Rome, and whose grave he had stood

beside in the yard at Stoneleigh; told her, too, of Bessie's engagement

to Neil, of which he had heard from Jack Trevellian, and of Neil's

apparent heartlessness and indifference when he met him in the streets

of Liverpool.

"Poor little Bessie," he said in conclusion. "You don't know what a

weary life she led, or how bravely she bore it; but she is dead, and

perhaps it is better so than if she were the wife of Neil."

"Poor boy," Lucy said, very gently, when he had finished his story, "you

loved Bessie very much."

"Yes, I loved her so much that just to have her mine for one brief month

I believe I would give twenty years of my life," Grey replied, and every

word was a sob, for he was moved as he had never before been moved, even

when he first heard that Bessie was dead.

All thoughts of going on deck were given up for that day, and when the

steward came to help him up the stairs, he helped him instead to his

berth, where he lay with his eyes closed, though Lucy, who sat beside

him, knew he was not asleep, for occasionally a tear gathered on his

long lashes and dropped upon his cheek.

Late in the afternoon Lucy made her way again to the steerage quarters,

for thoughts of the sick girl had haunted her continually, though she

did not now believe her to be the Bessie whom Grey had loved and lost.

But who was she, and who was the Neil of whom she had inadvertently

spoken? and why was she so like the Bessie, Grey had described?

"Blue eyed, golden-haired, with a face like an angel," she repeated to

herself, as she descended the stairs to the lower deck and walked to the

door, around which several women were gathered with anxious concern upon

their faces.

CHAPTER IX.

BESSIE IS PROMOTED.

"She is took very bad, mum," one of the women said to Lucy, as she stood

aside to let her pass into the close, hot cabin, where Bessie was

talking wildly and incessantly of her father and mother, and of Grey,

while Mrs. Goodnough and Jennie tried in vain to quiet her.

"What is it? How long has she been this way?" Lucy asked, and the

voluble Jennie replied:

"An' sure, mum, just afther ye left it sthruck to her head, and she wint

out of herself intirely, and goes on awful about her father and mother,

who died in Rome with the faver and is buried in some stonehape or the

likes of it, and of Grey Jerry, who, she says, is on the ship and won't

come to her. An' sure, would ye be so kind as to try yerself what ye can

do?"

"Talking of Grey!" Lucy repeated, ten times more perplexed than she had

been before. "How does she know my nephew, and who is she?" Then,

turning to Mrs. Goodnough, she continued: "There is some mystery here

which I must solve, I fancied this morning that she might be Bessie

McPherson, of Stoneleigh Park, Bangor, but my nephew tells me that she

died in Rome--and if so, who is this young girl?"

"Oh, madam," Mrs. Goodnough began, "there can be no harm in telling you

now, though she didn't want anybody to know; not for herself--she ain't

a bit ashamed, but some of her high friends is, and made her promise to

keep to herself who she was; but you are bound to know, and she _is_

Miss Bessie McPherson, of Stoneleigh, and she is not dead at all, and

never has been. She had the fever in Rome, but she got well, and it was

her mother who died there; this is the truth, and may God forgive me if

I have done harm by my tattling."

"You have done no harm," Lucy replied, "but on the contrary a great good

to Miss McPherson, whom I shall at once have removed to my state-room.

Fortunately I am alone, and can share it with her as well as not."

What Lucy Grey willed to do she went about at once, and in less than an

hour she had interviewed the captain, the purser, and the doctor, and,

while the passengers were at dinner, Bessie was lifted carefully in

Jennie's strong arms and taken to Miss Grey's state-room, where she was

laid upon the lounge under the window, as the place where she would have

more room and better air. The change seemed to revive her at once, and

when, after her dinner, Miss Grey returned to her state room, she found

Bessie sleeping quietly, with the faithful Jennie keeping watch beside

her. The next morning she was still better, and Jennie, who had insisted

upon sitting beside her during the night, was delighted to find her

fever gone and her reason restored.

Very wonderingly Bessie looked around her when she first awoke from a

sleep which had lasted several hours, and then, as her eyes fell upon

Jennie, she asked:

"What is it, Jennie? What has happened? This is not the steerage! Where

am I?"

"And indade ye are in heaven, an' that's the angel who brought you

here," Jennie replied, nodding toward Miss Grey, who came at once to

Bessie's couch.

Bending over her, and kissing her gently, she said:

"I am glad you are better."

"Yes," Bessie answered, falteringly; "but what is it? How came I here?"

In as few words as possible Lucy explained to her that she had

discovered her identity, and could not allow her to remain where she

was.

"It was not right for me to have this large room all to myself, and

leave you in that cramped, crowded place," she said, and Bessie answered

her:

"Yes, it was kind in you, but I am sorry you found me out, I promised no

one should know me. Neil will be so angry and disgraced."

"Drat that Neil, whoever he is!" Jennie exclaimed, energetically.

"Disgraced, indade, I only wish I had him by the scruff of his neck, if

he thinks anything can disgrace you, or make you less a lady. Them

smells, and they are awful sometimes, when half the folks is sick, can't

do it."

At this speech Bessie laughed aloud, the first real laugh since her

mother died, but it did her good; and when Jennie had washed her face

and brushed her hair and given her her breakfast she declared herself

able to get up. But this Lucy would not allow.

"You must be quiet to-day, and to-morrow you can go on deck," she said;

and then, as Jennie had gone out, she sat down by Bessie's side, and

taking one of her hands, continued: "Do you think you are strong enough

to see an old friend by and by?"

Bessie knew she meant Grey, and the hot blood surged into her face as

she answered, eagerly:

"Yes, oh, yes. He will bring Stoneleigh back to me; he was so kind when

father died, and in Rome, and everywhere. Can I see him now?"

"Not just yet," Miss Grey said, smiling at the young girl's eagerness,

which showed itself in every feature. "I doubt if Grey is yet up. He has

been sick all the voyage, and is very weak, and I must prepare him

first. He thinks you are dead."

"Dead!" Bessie repeated. "How can he think so? I do not understand."

As briefly as possible Miss Grey explained all she knew of the mistake

which the messenger boy must have made when he told Grey, in Florence,

that Bessie had died the very day he left Rome.

"Oh, yes, I see," Bessie rejoined. "It was the American girl on the

same floor with me. Flossie told me of her, and I heard them taking her

away that night. Oh, it was so sad; and Mr. Jerrold thought it was I!

Was he sorry, Miss Grey?"

She asked the question timidly, and into her eyes there came a look of

great gladness when her friend replied:

"Yes, very, very sorry."

"Will you tell him I am not dead? It was poor mamma who died. Tell him I

am here," Bessie continued; and Miss Grey looked curiously at the girl,

who, being, as she supposed, engaged to Neil, could be so glad that Grey

was sorry, and so eager to see him.

"Yes, I will tell him and bring him to you after a little; but you must

be quiet, and not excite yourself too much. I must have you well when we

reach New York, and we have only three days more," Miss Grey replied,

and then, with a kiss, she went away to Grey's state-room at the other

end of the ship.

But he was not there, and upon inquiry she learned that he had gone up

on deck, where she found him in his chair, sitting by himself, and

gazing out upon the sea, with that sad, troubled look on his face, which

had of late become habitual, and of which she now knew the reason.

"Grey," she said, drawing an unoccupied chair close to him, and speaking

very low, "you are better this morning. Do you think you can bear some

very good news?"

"Yes," he answered her. "What is it? Are we nearer New York than we

supposed?"

"No; it has nothing to do with New York, or the ship, but somebody in

it. Grey"--and Lucy spoke hurriedly now--"did it never occur to you that

possibly you were mistaken with regard to Bessie's death--that it might

be some one else who died in Rome and was buried at Stoneleigh--her

mother, perhaps?"

"What!" and Grey drew a long, gasping breath, as he stared wonderingly

at her. "Go on," he added: "tell me what you mean."

"I mean," his aunt replied, "that Bessie is not dead. I have seen her. I

have spoken with her. She is on the ship. She is in my state-room,

waiting for you. She is the sick girl I told you about."

Grey made an effort to spring from his chair, but had not the power to

do so. The shock had been too great, and he sank back half fainting,

whispering as he did so:

"Tell me everything--now--at once. It will not harm me; joy seldom

kills. Tell me the whole."

So she told him all she knew, and the particulars of her finding Bessie

among the steerage passengers, and having her removed to her room.

"Yes, I see--I understand how the mistake occurred." Grey said. "But why

did not Neil tell me he had been to see her off?"

"He was probably ashamed to let you know that she was in the steerage.

He hoped you would not find her," Miss Grey replied; and Grey exclaimed:

"The coward! If it were not wrong, I should have him;" while a fierce

pang shot through his heart that Bessie was bound to Neil, and that,

though living, she was no nearer to him than if she were dead and in

that grave by which he had so lately stood.

Still it would be something to see her again, to hear her voice, to look

into her eyes, and have her all to himself for the remainder of the

voyage, which he now wished had just commenced.

"Thank God she lives, even though she does not live for me," he said to

himself; and then, at his aunt's suggestion, he tried to control his

nerves and bring himself into a quieter, calmer condition before going

down to see her.

It was nearly an hour before he felt himself strong enough to do it, and

when at last he reached the narrow passage, and knew there was but a

step between him and Bessie, he trembled so that his aunt was obliged to

support him as he steadied himself against the door of the state-room.

Glancing in for an instant, Miss Grey put her finger upon her lip,

saying to him:

"She is asleep; sit quietly down till she wakens."

There was a buzzing in Grey's ears and a blur before his eyes, so that

he did not at once see distinctly the face which lay upon the pillow

resting on one hand, with the bright hair clinging about the neck and

brow. Bessie had fallen asleep while waiting for him, and there was a

smile upon her lips and a flush upon her cheek, which made her more

like the Bessie he knew at Stoneleigh than like the white-faced girl he

had left in Rome, and whom he had never thought to see again.

"It is Bessie and she is alive," he said, under his breath, and bending

over her he softly kissed her forehead saying as he did so, "My darling!

just for the moment _mine_, if Neil's by and by."

For an instant Bessie moved uneasily, then slept again, while Grey

watched her with a great hunger in his heart and a longing to take her

in his arms, and, in spite of a hundred Neils, tell her of his love. How

beautiful she was in that calm sleep, and Grey noted every point of

beauty, from the sheen of her golden hair to the dimpled hand which was

just within his reach.

"Poor little hand," he said, laying his own carefully upon it; "how much

it has done for others. Oh, if I could only call it mine, it should

never know toil again."

He might have raised it to his lips if just then the eyes had not

unclosed, as with a start Bessie awoke and looked wonderingly at him for

an instant; then, instead of withdrawing her hand from his, she held the

other towards him, and raising herself up, cried out:

"Oh, Mr. Jerrold, I am so glad! Nothing is half so dreary now that I

know you are on the ship, and you will tell Neil it was not my fault

that you found me. He may be very angry."

At the mention of Neil a feeling of constraint crept over Grey, and he

quietly released his hands from Bessie's lest he should say to her words

he ought not to say to one who was plighted to another. And Bessie

noticed the change in him, and her lip quivered in a grieved kind of

way, as she said:

"You thought me dead, and you were sorry just a little?"

"Oh, Bessie," and with a mighty effort Grey managed to control himself,

"you will never know how sorry, or how glad I am to find you still

alive; but you must not talk to me now. You must rest, so as to go on

deck and get some strength and some color back to your cheeks. I

promised auntie not to stay long. I will come again by and by."

Drawing the covering around her as deftly as a woman could have done,

he went out and left her alone to wonder at his manner. Bessie had never

forgotten the words spoken to her in Rome, and which she had said he

must never repeat.

Over and over again, at intervals, had sounded in her ears, "I love you

with my whole heart and soul, and whether you live or die you will be

the sweetest memory of my life." She had not died--she had lived; she

had seen him again and found him changed. Perhaps it was better so, she

reasoned, and yet she was conscious of a feeling of disappointment or

loss, though it was such joy to know he was near her, and that, by and

by he would come to her again. And he came after lunch, and the steward

carried her on deck and wrapped her in Miss Grey's warm rug, and Grey

himself sat down beside her and talked to her of America, and she told

him that she was not going to be a burden to her aunt, or even a guest

very long, but to work and earn money with which to pay her debts. And

Grey let her do most of the talking, and even promised, if he did not

succeed in Allington, to see if he could find something for her to do in

in Boston.

"I am very sure that I could find you a situation there if I tried," he

said, with a merry look in his eyes which was lost on Bessie, whose

thick vail was over her face, and who was gazing off upon the waves

bearing her so fast toward the strange land to which she was going.

The next day she was able to walk the deck for some hours with Grey as

her attendant; and when, at last, land was in sight, she seemed almost

as well and bright as ever as she stood looking eagerly upon either

shore, and declaring America beautiful as a picture. It had been

arranged that she should stop for a few hours at the hotel with Miss

Lucy and Grey, and then go on with them to Allington. But their plans

were changed when they reached the wharf, for there they were met by a

messenger who had been sent from Mr. Burton Jerrold with the

intelligence that Grey's mother was very ill, and that Lucy must come at

once with Grey without stopping at her own home.

"I am sorry, for I wished to take you to your aunt myself," Lucy said

to Bessie, adding after a moment, "but I will give you a letter of

introduction, if you like."

"No, thank you," Bessie replied; "I would rather go to her alone, so

that if she is kind I shall know it is to me, and not to you, or because

she thinks it will please you."

"No danger of that," Grey said, laughingly; "she is a great stickler for

the naked truth, as she expresses it, and all the Aunt Lucys in the

world could not make her say she liked you if she did not. She is a

singular specimen, but she is sure to like you, and if she does not, go

to my Aunt Hannah; she would welcome you as a Godsend. She is the auntie

who lives in the pasture-land. I shall soon come to Allington and see

you," he added, as he bade her good-by, for he and his aunt were to take

the express, which did not stop at Allington, and she was to take the

accommodation, which did.

He had made all the arrangements for her, and seen that her baggage was

checked and her ticket bought; but still she felt very desolate and

helpless when he left her and she was alone with Jennie, who staid by

her to the last, promising to let her know if she heard of any situation

either as governess or companion.

Mrs. Goodnough had gone at once with her daughter who had met her at the

wharf, but Jennie's cousin, who lived out of the city, had sent her

husband to the ship, and, as he was porter in one of the large

warehouses, and did not go home till night, Jennie had leisure to attend

to Bessie, whom she saw to the train, and to whom she said at parting:

"Keep yer vail down, honey, for there's spalpeens an' bla'guards

everywhere, and they might be for spakin to ye. Good-by; God bless ye."

CHAPTER X.

BESSIE MEETS HER AUNT.

The accommodation train from New York to Boston was late that day. There

was a detention at Hartford and another at Springfield, so that the

clock on Miss Betsey McPherson's mantel struck seven when she heard the

whistle of the locomotive as the cars stopped at the Allington station.

As Miss Betsey was when we last saw her so she was now--tall, and

angular, and severe, and looking, as she sat in her hard, straight-back

chair, like the very embodiment of the _naked truth_, from the fit of

her dress to the scanty handful of hair, twisted in a knot at the back

of her head.

She had heard of Daisy's death from her brother only a few days before,

and had felt a pang of regret that she had treated her quite so harshly

on the occasion of her visit to her.

"I might, at least, have been civil to her, though it did make me so mad

to see her smirking up into my face, with all those diamonds on her, and

to know that she was even trying to fool young Allen Browne."

And then her thoughts went after Bessie, for whom her brother had asked

help, saying she was left entirely alone in the world, and was, for

aught he knew, a very nice girl.

"It is impossible for me to care for her," he wrote, "and as my wife

paid all the expenses of her sickness in Rome and for bringing the body

home, she will do no more. So it rests with you to care for Bessie, I

should think you would like some young person with you in your old age."

"In my old age!" Miss Betsey repeated to herself, as she sat thinking of

John's letter, "Yes, I suppose it has come to that, for I am in my

sixties, and the boys call me the old woman when I order them out of the

cherry tree, and still I feel almost as young as I did forty years ago

when Charlie died. Oh, Charlie, my life would have been so different

had you lived;" and in the eyes usually so stern and uncompromising

there were great tears, as the lonely woman's thoughts went back to the

long ago, and the awful tragedy which had darkened all her life.

And then it was that, in the midst of her softened mood, a little

girlish figure, dressed in black, came up the steps and knocked timidly

at the open door. Bessie had left her luggage at the station, and walked

to the house which was pointed out to her as Miss McPherson's by a boy

who volunteered to show her the way, and who said to her:

"She's a queer old cove, and if you don't mind your p's and q's she will

take your head off. She's game, she is."

This was not very reassuring, and Bessie's heart beat rapidly as she

went up the steps to the door. She saw the square, straight figure in

the chair, and was prepared for the quick, sharp "Come in!" which

answered her knock.

Adjusting her spectacles to the right focus, Miss Betsey looked up at

her visitor in that scrutinizing, inquisitive manner usual with her, and

which made Bessie's knees shake under her as she advanced into the room.

"Who are you?" the look seemed to say, and without waiting to have it

put into words Bessie went straight to the woman, and stretching out her

hands said, imploringly:

"Oh, Aunt Betsey, do you remember a little girl who came to you on the

Terrace at Aberystwyth years ago? Little Bessie McPherson, to whom you

sent a ring? Here it is," and she pointed to it upon her finger, "and I

am she--Bessie, and mother is dead--and I--I am all alone, and I have

come to America--to you--not to have you keep me--not to live upon you,

but to earn my living--to work for money with which to pay my debts. Two

hundred and fifty pounds to Lady Jane for mother's sickness and burial,

and five pounds to Anthony. That is the sum--two hundred and fifty-five

pounds. Will you let me stay to-night? Can you find me something to do?"

Bessie had told her whole story, and as she told it her face was a

study, with its look of eagerness and fear and the bright color which

came and went so rapidly, but as she finished speaking left it white as

ashes. Miss Betsey's face was a study, too, as she regarded the girl

fixedly until she stopped talking; then, motioning her to a chair, she

said:

"Sit down, child, before you faint away; you are pale as a cloth. Take

off your bonnet and have some tea. I suppose you are hungry."

She rang the bell for Susan to bring hot tea and toast, which she made

Bessie eat, pressing it upon her until she could take no more.

"Now, then," she said, when the tray had been removed, "one can always

talk better on a full stomach. So tell me what you want, and what you

expect me to do. But sit over there, where I can see you better; and

don't get excited. I shall not eat you; at least, not to-night."

She wanted Bessie in a good light, where she could see her face, from

which she never took her eyes, as the girl repeated in substance what

she had said at first, making some additions to her story, and speaking

of the ship in which she had come, but not of Miss Lucy or Grey.

"Where did you get the money? It costs something to cross the ocean,"

Miss Betsey asked, a little sharply, and Bessie replied:

"It did not cost me much, for I came out as a steerage passenger. I had

just enough for that and my ticket here."

"You came in the steerage?" and in her surprise Miss Betsey arose from

her chair and walked once or twice across the floor, while Bessie looked

at her wistfully, wondering if she, too, were ashamed like Neil.

But shame had no part in Miss Betsey's feelings, which were stirred by a

far different emotion. Resuming her seat after a moment, she said:

"And you have come here to work--to earn money? What can you do?"

"I thought I might teach French, perhaps; and German, I am a pretty good

scholar in both," Bessie replied, and her aunt rejoined:

"French and German! Fiddlesticks! There are more fools teaching those

languages now than there are idiots to learn them. Why, my washerwoman's

daughter is teaching French at twenty-five cents a lesson, though she

can no more speak it than a jackdaw. French, indeed! You must try

something else, or you will never earn that two hundred and fifty-five

pounds."

This was not very encouraging, and Bessie felt the color dyeing her

face, and her heart sinking, as she said:

"I might sew. I am handy with my needle, I have made all my own dresses,

and Dorothy's, too."

"Yes, you might sew, and twist your spine all out of shape, and get the

liver complaint," Miss Betsey interposed; and then, poor Bessie, fearing

that everything was slipping from her, said, with a choking sob:

"I might be a housemaid to some one. Surely there are such situations to

be had, and I would try so hard to please, and even work for less than

other girls of more experience. Oh, Aunt Betsey, you must know of some

place for me! You will help me to find one! You do not know how greatly

I desire it, or how poor I am. These are the only boots I have," and she

put out a much worn boot, which had been blacked until the leather was

nearly cracked apart. "And this my only decent dress, except a dark

calico. But I do not care so much for that. It is not clothes I want. It

is to pay that money to Lady Jane."

The tears were falling like rain from Bessie's eyes, and starting again

from her chair Miss McPherson went to an open window and shut it as if

she were cold; then returning to her seat, she said, abruptly:

"I thought you were engaged to Neil--he wrote me to that effect."

Bessie's face was scarlet as she answered:

"I was engaged to him then; I am not now."

"Did he break it, or you?" was the next question.

"I broke it," was the low response.

"Why?" came next from Miss McPherson, and Bessie replied:

"He did not wish me to come as steerage, and bade me choose between that

and him; and as I must come, and had no money for a first-class ticket,

I gave him back the ring, and he was free."

"Are you sorry?"

This was spoken sharply, and Miss McPherson's little round, black eyes

rested curiously upon Bessie, who answered promptly:

"No, oh, no. I am very glad. It is better so. We were not suited to each

other."

"I should think not!" and again the strange woman arose, and going to

the window, opened it, as if in sudden heat.

Then, returning to her niece, she continued:

"Were you in earnest when you said you would take a position as

housemaid?"

"Yes," was the reply; and Miss McPherson went on:

"Do you think you could fill it?"

"I know I could, I have been housemaid at home all my life. We never

kept any female servant but Dorothy."

There was a moment's silence, while Miss McPherson seemed to be

thinking, and then she said:

"Will you take that place with me?"

"With you?" Bessie repeated, a little bewildered; and her aunt replied:

"Yes, with me. Why not? Better serve me than a stranger. My second girl,

Sarah, was married a few weeks ago!--more fool she!--and I have no one

as yet in her place. If you will like it, and fill it as well as she

did, I will give you what I gave her, two dollars and a half a week, and

more if you earn it. What do you say?"

"I will take the place," Bessie answered, unhesitatingly, feeling that,

singular as it might seem to serve her aunt, she would rather do that

than go to a stranger. "I will take the place, and do the best I can,

and if I fail in some things at first, you will tell me what to do. How

long will it take to earn two hundred and fifty-five pounds at two

dollars and a half a week?"

Miss Betsey must have felt cold again, for she rushed to the open window

and shut it with a bang, while for an instant she wavered in her

determination. Then, thinking to herself, "I may as well see what stuff

she really is made of," she returned to Bessie, who, if she had not been

quite so anxious and nervous, would have felt amused at her eccentric

behavior.

Without telling how long it would take to earn two hundred and

fifty-five pounds at two dollars and a half a week, Miss Betsey said:

"Then it is a bargain, and you are my housemaid really, and willing to

do a housemaid's duties, and take a house maid's place. Do you

understand all that means?"

"I think so," Bessie answered, wondering if she should have to share the

cook's bed.

As if divining her thoughts, her aunt rejoined:

"One exception I shall make in your favor. You will occupy the little

room next my own, at the head of the stairs. You can go up there at once

if you like, and I will see that your trunks are brought from the

station."

"Oh, thank you," Bessie said, and in her eyes there was a look of

gratitude which nearly upset Miss McPherson's resolution again, and did

make her open the window as she passed it on her way up stairs with

Bessie.

Just as the room had been fitted up years ago, when she was expecting

the child Bessie, just so it was now when the girl Bessie entered it.

The same single bed with its muslin hangings, the same little bureau,

with its pretty toilet-set, now somewhat faded and _passee_ in style,

but showing what it had been, and in a corner the big doll with all its

paraphernalia around it.

"Oh, auntie," Bessie cried, as she stepped across the threshold, "what a

lovely little room! and it almost looks as if it had been intended for

me when I was younger."

"It was meant for you years ago, when I wrote to your father and asked

him to give you to me. Fool that I was, I thought he would let you come;

but he did not, and so the room has waited."

"I never knew you sent for me," Bessie said, "but father could not have

spared me; and oh, auntie, I cannot tell you how it makes me feel to

know you have kept me in your mind all these years. Let me kiss you;

please," and throwing her arms around her aunt's neck. Bessie sobbed

hysterically for a few moments, while the Stern face bending over her

relaxed in its severity, and Miss Betsey's voice was very kind and

soothing, as she said:

"There, there, child; don't get up a headache. I am glad you like the

room; glad you are here. You had better go to bed, and not come down

again."

She did not kiss the girl, but she put her hand on her head and smoothed

the curly hair, and Bessie felt that it was a benediction. When she was

alone she sank upon her knees by the bedside, and burying her face in

her hands, prayed earnestly that she might know what was right to do,

and be a comfort and help to the woman whose peculiarities she began in

part to understand. She was so glad to be there, so glad for the

shelter, of a home, that the fact of being a housemaid did not trouble

her at all, though she did wonder what Neil would say, and if he would

not think it quite as bad as steerage, and wondered, too, if Grey would

ever come to see her, and if he would recognize her in her new position.

"It will make no difference with Grey Jerrold what you are," something

said to her, and comforted, with this assurance she fell asleep, in her

new home.

CHAPTER XI.

MISS McPHERSON'S HOUSEMAID.

Bessie meant to be up with the sun, but she was so tired and the room so

quiet, that she slept soundly until awakened by the long clock in the

lower hall striking seven.

"This is a bad beginning," she thought, as she made her hasty toilet.

She found her trunks outside her door, and selecting from them her new

calico dress, which she had bought just before leaving home, she put it

on, together with one of the pretty white aprons which Neil had so

detested and Grey had so admired.

"I ought to have a housemaid's cap," she thought, is she looked at

herself in the glass and tried to smooth and straighten her hair, which

would curl around her forehead in spite of all she could do.

A clean collar, with cuffs at her wrists, completed her costume, and it

was a very neat, attractive little housemaid which entered the room

where Miss McPherson was leisurely finishing her plain breakfast of

toast, and tea, and eggs.

"Oh, auntie," Bessie began advancing to her side, "I am so sorry I

overslept. I was very tired, and the bed was so nice. It shall not

happen again. What can I do for you? Let me make you a fresh slice of

toast."

"No, thanks. I am through. You can clear the table if you like," Miss

Betsey replied, shoving back her chair and eyeing her niece curiously as

she gathered up the dishes and carried them to the kitchen, where she

took her own breakfast with the cook, who instructed her in her duties

as well as she could.

"She is mighty queer and mighty particular, but if you get the soft side

of her you are all right," she said to Bessie, who moved about the house

almost as handily as if she had lived there all her life.

Never had the china been washed more carefully or quickly, or the

furniture better dusted, or the table better arranged for dinner, and

had Bessie been a trained servant from the queen's household she could

not have waited upon her aunt more deftly or respectfully than she did.

But the strain upon her nerves began to tell upon her, and after her

dishes were washed, and she was assured by the cook that there was

nothing more for her to do until tea-time, she went to her room for a

little rest, just as a carriage dashed up to the door, and the bell rang

fiercely. Scarcely, however, had Bessie reached the hall on her way to

answer the ring, when her aunt, who, it seemed to her, was everywhere

present, darted out from some quarter, and seizing her by the shoulder

said, quickly:

"Go back to your room. I'll let her in myself."

Was she angry, and if so, at what? Bessie wondered, as she returned to

her room, and sitting down by the bed laid her tired head upon the

pillow, while a few tears rolled down her cheeks as she recalled her

aunt's sharp tones. Was this to be all the commendation she was to

receive for the pains she had taken to please? It was hard, and there

began to steal over her a feeling of utter hopelessness and

homesickness, when suddenly a sound came up to her from the parlor

below, which made her start and listen as to something familiar. Surely

she had heard that loud, uncultivated voice before, and after a moment

it came to her--the tea party in the dear old garden at home when Mrs.

Rossiter-Browne was the guest, and had so disgusted her with her

vulgarity. And this was Mrs. Browne, who had come in state to call, and

who, after declaring the weather hot enough to kill cattle, and saying

that Gusty was in Saratogy, and had had twelve new dresses made to take

with her, spoke next of Allen and Lord Hardy, who were in Idaho, or

Omaho, or some other _ho_, Mrs. Browne could not remember which. At the

mention of Lord Hardy's name all Bessie's old life seemed to come back

to her, and she lived again through the dreary days at the crowded

hotels, and ate her dinner of dry bread and shriveled grapes in the back

room of the fourth floor, and saw her mother radiant with smiles

bandying jests with the young Irish lord, while her father looked on

with a sorry expression on his face, the very memory of which brought a

rain of tears to Bessie's eyes. Allen had just written to his mother a

description of his travels, and she was giving Miss McPherson her

version of it. Another lord had joined them, she said, a regular English

swell, and they attracted so much attention, and the people were so

curious to see them, that they were actually obliged to travel in a

_cognito_, though what under the sun that was she was sure she didn't

know. She thought she had been in most everything there was goin, but

she'd never seen a _cognito_, which must be some Western contrivance or

other. At this ludicrous mistake, so characteristic of Mrs.

Rossiter-Browne, Bessie forgot her tears and laughed hysterically until

she heard her mother's name, when she instinctively grew quiet and rigid

as a piece of marble, for what Mrs. Browne said was this:

"And so the poor little critter is dead! Well, I must say she was about

the prettiest woman I ever saw, but I guess she wasn't just what I

s'posed she was when I took such a shine to her. She was a born flirt,

and mebbe couldn't help it, but she might have let Allen alone--a mere

boy. Why, he was that bewitched after her that he fairly lost flesh, and

told me to my face that he should never see another woman he liked as he

did her, and he'd never got over it neither if Lord Hardy hadn't taken

him in hand and told him something--I've no idea what, for Allen would

never tell me, only it did the business, and there was no more

whimperin' for that woman."

"Oh, mother! poor mother!" Bessie moaned, as she covered her face with

her hands, feeling that her shame was greater than she could bear.

Going to the door she closed it, and so did not hear Mrs. Browne when

she said next:

"She had a lovely daughter, though, with a face like an angel. I'd swear

she was all right. Do you ever hear from her?"

For a moment Miss Betsey hesitated, for it was not a part of her plan to

let Mrs. Browne or any one see Bessie just yet; but her love for the

_naked truth_ prevailed, and she replied:

"Yes, she is here. She came yesterday in the Germanic. I will call her."

"Crying? What's that for?" she said to Bessie as she entered the room,

and feeling almost as guilty as if she had been caught in some wrong

act, Bessie sobbed: "The door was open at first, and I knew it was Mrs.

Rossiter-Browne, whom I have seen at Stoneleigh. I heard what she said

of mamma, and oh, auntie, I am her daughter, and she is dead, and she

_was_ good at the last!"

In her sympathy for Bessie, Miss McPherson was even ready to do battle

for Daisy, and she replied:

"Mrs. Browne is a fool, and Allen is a bigger one, and Lord Hardy

biggest of all. Don't cry. She wants to see you. Wash your face, and

take off your apron and come down."

Five minutes later Bessie was shaking hands with Mrs. Browne, who told

her "she did not look very stubbed, that was a fact--that she guessed

seasickness had not agreed with her, and she'd better keep herself

swaddled up in flannel for a spell till she got used to the climate,

which was not like England."

"You come in the Germanic, your aunt tells me," she continued, as Bessie

took a seat beside her. "Then you must have seen Miss Lucy Grey and her

nephew, for they were on that ship, and I hear were met by somebody sent

from Boston to tell 'em to come right on, for Miss Jerrold was very

sick."

Bessie felt rather than saw the questioning eyes which her aunt flashed

upon her, and her face was scarlet as she answered:

"Yes, I saw Miss Grey. She was very kind to me when I was sick. She did

go directly to Boston."

"What is the matter with Mrs. Jerrold?" Miss Betsey asked, and Mrs.

Browne replied:

"The land only knows. Heart complaint, the last report, I believe. I saw

Hannah at the depot this morning; she'd been sent for, too. Geraldine

always wants her when she's sick; but the minit she is better, the old

maid sister is in the way, and not good enough for my lady's fine

friends. I know Geraldine Jerrold pretty well, and if I's Hannah I

wouldn't run to every beck and call, when nothing under the sun ails her

but hypo. She has had everything, I do believe--malary, cancers, spinal

cords, nervous prostration, and now it's her heart. Humbug! More like

hysterics. Burton Jerrold has got his hands full, and I pity him. Why,

he looks like an old, broken-down man, and his hair is as white as

snow."

Here Mrs. Browne, who had the conversation all to herself, stopped to

take breath. She was not an ill-natured woman, or one who often talked

of her neighbors, and after a moment, as if ashamed of her tirade, she

said:

"I've went it pretty glib against poor Miss Jerrold, hain't I? I dare

say she is sick and nervous, and I have not charity enough for her."

Then, rising from her chair preparatory to leaving, she said to Bessie:

"I am glad you have come, and I hope we shall see you often, after Gusty

comes home. I s'pose I shall lose her in October. 'Tain't no secret now,

and so I may as well tell you that she is to be married to Lord Hardy,

from Dublin. You've seen him, I b'lieve?"

"Yes, when I was a little girl," Bessie answered, with a pang of pain as

she remembered the days when Lord Hardy was their constant companion.

"I never really b'lieved he wanted Gusty," Mrs. Browne continued, "till

he said so in plain words; and there's folks now mean enough to say it's

her money he's after, and I don't myself suppose he'd thought of her if

she hadn't had money; but I think he likes her, and I know she likes

him, and it's something to be Lady Hardy."

As she said this, Mrs. Browne drew herself up rather loftily, as if some

of her daughter's honor had fallen upon her; and with a stately bow and

good-afternoon, went out to where her handsome carriage and high-booted

driver were waiting for her.

"There goes as nice a woman as ever lived made over into a fool by money

and a little nincompoop of a lord," was Miss Betsey's comment, as she

watched the carriage moving away across the common. Then turning

suddenly to Bessie, she added: "Why didn't you tell me Miss Lucy was on

the ship with Grey?"

Bessie hesitated a moment, and then answered frankly:

"Perhaps I ought to have done so, but I thought I would rather, if you

liked me at all and were kind to me, that it should be for myself and

not because I had met Miss Grey, who offered to give me a note to you.

Did I do wrong?"

"No; perfectly right," Miss Betsey said: "and now tell me all about it.

You said she was kind when you were sick. How did she find you in the

steerage?"

In as few words as possible Bessie repeated the story of her

acquaintance with Miss Lucy, dwelling at length upon her kindness, but

saying little of Grey; indeed, a casual stranger listening to the

recital would hardly have known that he was mentioned at all. But Miss

Betsey was far-seeing; she knew the signs, for she had had her day and

experience, and from the very fact that Bessie did not say more of Grey,

she drew her own conclusions. But to be quite sure, she said:

"You had seen Grey, before you met him on the ship, had you not?"

"Yes," Bessie answered. "He once spent a day at Stoneleigh with Neil,

and he came again when father died, and was so kind to me. I was alone,

for mother, you know, was on the ocean, and he did everything a man

could do. Then, when I was sick in Rome, he was there too, and gave up

his room to mother, and took every care from her. Oh, auntie, he is the

noblest man I ever knew. He told Neil once that he tried to make

somebody happy every day, either by a pleasant word, or look, or act of

kindness; and only think, if he lives to be old, how many, many people

will have been happier because he has lived."

In the excitement, Bessie forgot everything but her enthusiasm for and

her interest in Grey Jerrold; and her aunt, who was watching her

closely, guessed the truth pretty accurately. But she made no remark

except to say that from the garret window one could see Grey's Park,

where Miss Lucy lived, and which Grey would probably one day inherit.

Nor was she at all surprised when later in the afternoon she knew by

certain sounds that Bessie was at the garret window looking at the park.

The next day was a hard and busy one, for there was sweeping to be done,

and the silver to be cleaned, and the dining-room windows to be wiped;

and Bessie went through it all patiently and uncomplainingly, serving

her aunt at breakfast and dinner, taking her own meals with the cook,

and never by a sign showing that she was other than the hired maid she

had chosen to be. But when the last thing was done which belonged to her

to do, the fatigue and the heat overcame her, and, sitting down in the

shaded porch, by the kitchen door, she leaned her aching head against

the back of her chair and fell asleep. And there Miss Betsey, who had

scarcely lost sight of her during the day, found her, and for a few

moments stood looking at her intently, noticing every curve, and line,

and feature, and feeling a lump in her throat as she saw about the sweet

mouth that patient, sorry expression which had come there years ago when

Bessie was a child, and had deepened with every succeeding year.

"Poor little girl, you have had a hard time, I know," she said; and at

the sound of her voice Bessie awoke and with a bright smile and blush,

started up, saying:

"Excuse me; I was very tired and warm, and must have fallen asleep. My

work is done, and now, if you have any sewing, please let me have it."

"Aren't you tired? You look pale," Miss Betsey asked so kindly that

Bessie's lip quivered as she replied:

"Yes, a little; but I do not mind that. I should like to do something

for you."

"Then go out into the garden in the fresh air and stay there till you

are rested," Miss Betsey answered, abruptly, and, turning on her heel,

she walked away to her own room, where she held communion with herself,

wondering how much longer she could or ought to hold out, "I have tried

her pretty well, and she has not flinched a hair; but I guess I will

wait a day or two, till I have heard from Sarah," she thought, but this

resolution she did not carry out for two reasons, one of which was found

in the letter which she received that afternoon, and the other in the

fact that at tea-time Bessie fainted dead away as she stood by her

auntie's chair.

She had borne so much and suffered so much during the last few months

that nature refused to bear any longer, and it was more than a headache

which brought the faintness upon her. Taking her in her arms, Miss

Betsey carried her to her room, and placing her upon the bed, sat down

beside her.

"Why are you crying?" she asked, as she saw the great tears roll down

Bessie's cheeks faster than she could wipe them away.

"Because," Bessie answered, with a choking sob, "I have tried so hard to

do right, and have wanted work so much, and just as I have found it, I

am afraid I am going to be sick, for I feel so strange and cold, as if

all the life had gone from me, and I cannot work any more, and you will

have to send me away, and I have nowhere to go, for Stoneleigh is very

far away, and I have no money to get there. Oh, auntie, if I could die!

Life has been so dreary to me!"

Here Bessie broke down entirely, and sobbed for a few moments

convulsively, while Miss McPherson was scarcely less agitated.

Kneeling down by the low bed and laying her old face by the side of the

young one upon the pillow, she, too, cried for a few moments like a

child. Then, lifting up her head and brushing away her tears with an

impatient movement, as if she were ashamed of them, she said:

"I cannot hold out any longer, and I must tell you that what I have been

doing was never intended to last; I was only trying you, to see if you

were true, and now that I know you are, do you think I will not take you

to my heart as my child, my very own? I believe I have always loved you,

Bessie, since the day your eyes looked at me on the sands of

Aberystwyth, and I have wanted you so much, and tried so many times to

get you, and right here where I am kneeling now, I have often knelt by

this little bed prepared for you years ago, and prayed God to keep you

innocent and pure, and send you to me some day. And he has done all

this. He has kept you pure and good, and send you to me just when I

want you most, I am a queer, crabbed old woman, but I believe I can make

you happy, and by and by you may learn to love me a little. Few have

ever done that; none in fact, since my mother died, but one, and he--oh,

Bessie, I would give my life to have him back, and more than my life to

know that it was well with him. Charlie, oh, Charlie, my love, my love!"

Bessie's tears were all dried now, and her arms were around the neck of

this strange woman, weeping for her lost love as women never weep save

when the memory of that love brings far more pain than joy.

"Dear auntie," Bessie said, "I do not quite under stand what you mean,

but if I can comfort you I will, and work for you, too, I do not in the

least mind that, and I must do something to pay--"

"Hush child!" Miss Betsey rejoined, almost impatiently, as she drew

herself from Bessie's embrace and rose to her feet. "Never again trouble

your head about your debts. I sent the two hundred and fifty pounds to

my brother's wife yesterday, and told her what I was doing to you, and

what I meant to do if you passed the ordeal unscathed, and any time you

choose you can write to Anthony and send him twenty pounds, or more, if

you like. What is mine is yours, so long as my opinion of you remains

unchanged. I did not like your mother; I am free to tell you that. I was

angry with your father for marrying her, and angrier still when I heard

of the life she led--heard of her at Monte Carlo, of which I never think

without a shudder."

Miss McPherson had seated herself in a chair by this time, and over her

white face there came a rapt far-off look, and her hands were locked

together as she continued:

"Bessie, I may as well tell you now why I hate that place, and hate all

who frequent it. Charlie seems very near me to-night; my boy lover, with

the soft brown eyes and hair, and the sweet voice which always spoke so

tenderly to me, even when I was in my fitful moods. That was more than

forty years ago when he walked with me along the rose-scented lanes and

told me of his love, and talked of the happy future when I would be his

wife. Alas, he little dreamed what the future had in store, or of the

dreary, lonely life I should lead, while he--oh, Charlie, my love, my

love!"

She paused a moment, while she seemed trying to repress some powerful

emotion, and then resumed her story:

"When he was twenty-one, and I was twenty, we went abroad in company

with some relatives of mine, and found ourselves at last at Monte Carlo.

Your grandfather was with us, and together we went into the gambling

hall where men and women sell their souls for money, and there my

brother played, and I--shame that I must tell it--I, too, tried my luck,

while Charlie looked on reproachfully, and tried to get me away, but I

only laughed at him, and bade him stay to keep me company. Then I called

him a coward, and badgered him until one night he put down a five-franc

piece and won, and then he put down another, and another--doubling and

trebling sometimes, and always winning, as it is said Satan, who rules

that den, lets the novices do. The next day Charlie played with a

recklessness which half alarmed me, and made me remonstrate with him.

But to no purpose.

"'You called me a coward,' he said, laughingly; 'and besides that, I

rather like it, the gold comes so easily. I have scarcely lost a pound.'

"Soon, however, the tide turned, and he began to lose; not small, but

large sums. But, as if that made him more determined than ever, he

played on and on, always the first to enter and the last to leave, while

I watched him with a dread foreboding at my heart which I could not

define. Oh, how rashly he played and what heavy sums he staked! His

fortune was not large, nor was mine then what it is now; but we had

planned together to buy a lovely place we knew of on the Isle of Wight,

and had furnished it in fancy many times.

"'I am bound to get back what I have lost, or we cannot have Rose Lawn,'

he would say, with a smile; and once, when I begged him to desist, and

told him I did not care for Rose Lawn he answered me:

"'But I do, and you must not complain. You made me play, you know.'

"After that I was silent and watched him sadly, as the infatuation

increased. At last he said to me one night:

"'Betty,' that was the name he gave me, 'this evening will see the end.

Something tells me I shall get back all I have lost, and I am resolved

to stake everything I have. But whether I lose or win, it is my last

chance. Don't look so reproachfully at me. Remember, you taught me to

play, but you did not know how strong was the desire in me to do it. A

love for the gaming-table is the besetting sin of my family, and I had

sworn to conquer it in myself, but you were too strong for me; so,

whatever happens, do not blame me too much. And now give me a kiss as a

guaranty of success.'

"How handsome he was in the moonlight, for we were in the beautiful

grounds around the Casino--were standing in a sheltered spot close to a

bed of great white lilies, whose perfume even then made me faint, I

cannot smell them now without a throb of pain, they are so associated

with that awful night when I bade Charlie good-by, and went back to the

hotel. I did not go with him, nor did he wish it, I disconcerted him, he

said. And so I sat by my window and watched the full moon rising higher

and higher, and listened to the moan and dash of the sea against the

shore below, and saw the people going and coming, until at last it was

twelve o'clock, the hour for closing, and I saw the crowds come out, men

and women, young and old, those who had lost and those who had won, and

leaning from the casement I tried to single out Charlie, but could not.

I felt almost sure that if he had been successful he would stop at my

door and tell me so. But he did not come.

"As I sat and waited, I cannot tell you the horror and dread which took

possession of me. I knew that the moon was still shining--that patches

of silvery light were falling upon the sea, and the shrubs and flowers

outside, but to me all was black as midnight, and I actually groped my

way to my bed, on which I threw myself at last, shivering with cold, for

the October air was blowing up chill from the water. For a few moments I

slept, and then started suddenly as I fancied I heard Charlie call my

name.

"Oh-h, Betty," was what he said, and in his voice there was a note of

agony and fear, which made me shiver in every limb, as I tottered to the

window and looked out.

"Oh, what a glorious night it was, rich and sweet with tropical bloom

and beauty, and the full moon in the sky now moving down to the west,

for it was past two o'clock.

"Every thing was still, and after listening a moment I went back to bed,

and slept heavily until morning, when my brother came to my door and

spoke to me in a voice I did not at first recognize, it was so strange

and unnatural.

"What is it?' I asked, as I opened the door and looked at his white

face.

"'Sister,' he said, stepping into the room. 'Can you bear some dreadful

news?'

"'Yes,' I answered with a sensation as if I were turning into stone.

'Charlie is dead! He has killed himself!'

"How I knew it I cannot tell, but know it I did. Charlie was dead. He

had lost everything and gone from the scene of his ruin to the very spot

where he had kissed and said good-by to me, and there had put a bullet

through his brain--close by the clump of lilies which were wet with his

blood when they found him lying on his back with his fair young face

upturned to the moonlit sky, and a smile on his lips as if the death

struggle had been a painless one.

"I knew then that at the last, when his soul was parting from his body,

he had called my name, and I had heard him just as I often hear him now

when I am all alone, and the night, like that one, is full of moonlight

and beauty.

"We took him to England and laid him in his grave, where I buried my

heart, my life, and hope, and since then I have grown into the strange,

unlovable woman you find me. But do you wonder that I shrink with horror

from the gaming-table and those who frequent it, or that I could not

respect your mother when I heard of her so often at Monte Carlo, where

Charlie died and where your grandfather ruined himself for he, too, was

possessed with a mania for play?"

"Oh, auntie, how sorry I am for you," Bessie said, throwing her arms

around Miss McPherson's neck and kissing her through her tears. "I mean

to love you so much," she continued, "and do so much for you, if you

will let me I do not mind being your housemaid at all, only just now I

feel so tired and sick, as if I could never work any more;" and, wholly

exhausted, she sank back upon her pillow, where she lay for a few

moments so white and still that her aunt felt a horrible pang of fear

lest the prize she so much coveted might be slipping from her almost

before she possessed it.

But after a little Bessie rallied, and, smiling upon her aunt, said to

her:

"You cannot guess how happy I am to be here with you, but I do not think

I quite understand what you meant by trying me."

"I meant," Miss McPherson replied, "to see if you were in earnest when

you said you were willing to do anything to earn money, I knew the

McPherson pride, and thought you might have some of it. But I know

better now. I have tried you and proved you, and do not want you as

housemaid any longer. Nor shall I need your services, for a new girl

comes to-morrow--Sarah's cousin. She is in New York, and will be here on

the morning train. A regular greenhorn I imagine; but if she is honest

and willing, I can soon train her in my ways. And now I will leave you,

for you must sleep to-night, so as to be well to-morrow;" and with a

fond good-night, Miss McPherson left the room.

CHAPTER XII.

BESSIE'S SUCCESSOR.

With the morrow the new housemaid came, but Miss McPherson was too

anxious about her niece to observe more than that the girl was fresh,

and bright, and clean, with a wonderful brogue and a clear, ringing

voice. Miss Betsey had called the village doctor, who, after carefully

examining his patient, said she was suffering either from nervous

prostration or malaria, he could not tell which, until he had seen her

again; then, prescribing quinine for the latter, and perfect rest for

the former, he left just as the new girl appeared and with her

volubility and energy seemed to fill the house. As quickly as possible

Miss Betsey got her into the kitchen, and then went to her niece's room.

"I must have been asleep," Bessie said, "for I dreamed that I heard

Jennie's voice, and I was so glad that it woke me, and I thought I heard

it again. She was the Irish girl who was so kind to me on the ship. You

remember I told you of her."

"Yes," Miss Betsey replied, "I think you liked her very much."

"Oh, yes, very, very much, and I would give a great deal to see her

again, I believe I should get well at once, there is something so strong

and hearty about her."

To this Miss McPherson made no reply, but all the rest of the morning

she seemed very restless and excited, and was constantly hushing the new

girl, whom she once bade the cook _gag_, if she could not quiet her in

any other way.

"I have a sick niece up stairs, and you will disturb her," she said to

the girl, who replied:

"An' sure thin, mum, I'll _whisper_."

But her whisper seemed to penetrate everywhere, and Miss McPherson was

glad when at last the toast and tea and jelly intended for Bessie's

dinner were ready upon the tray which she bade the girl take up stairs

to the young lady whose room was at the end of the hall.

"An' indade I'd take off me shoes and go in me stockin' feet to be

quiet: an' it's niver a word I'll spake," the girl said, as she started

on her errand, while her mistress listened at the foot of the stairs.

Miss McPherson was prepared for a demonstration if some sort, but did

not quite expect what followed, for the moment the girl stepped into the

room, Bessie sprang up with the loud glad cry: "Oh, Jennie, Jennie,

where did you come from? I am so glad!"

There was an answering cry of surprise and joy, and then the tray, with

everything upon it, went crashing to the floor, while Jennie exclaimed:

"An', be jabers, the plather an' the tay is all one smash together, in

me fright at seem' you here before me, when it's meself was goin' to ask

her to take you. May the saints be praised, if it's not the happiest day

since I left Ireland," and bending over Bessie the impulsive Irish girl

kissed her again and again, talking, and laughing, and crying, until

Bessie said to her:

"There, Jennie, please; I am very tired, and your sudden coming has

taken my strength away."

She did look very white and faint, and Jennie saw it, and tried to be

calm, though she kept whispering to herself as she gathered up the

_debris_ on the floor, and with a most rueful expression took it down

stairs, saying to her mistress:

"An' faith it's a bad beginnin' I've made, mum, but sure an' I'll pay

you every farthing with me first wages, and now, if you plase, I'll do

up my fut, for it's blistered, that it is, with the bilin' tay."

The foot was cared for, and another tray of toast and tea prepared.

This, Miss Betsey took herself to Bessie, explaining that Jennie was the

cousin who had come to take her former housemaid's place.

"But I had no idea," she said, "that she was such a behemoth. I am

afraid she will not answer my purpose at all."

But Bessie pleaded for the girl, whose kindness of heart she knew, and

who, she felt sure, could be molded and softened by careful and

judicious training, and that afternoon, when Jennie came up to her she

told her that her aunt did not like a noise, and that she must be very

quiet and gentle if she wished to please.

Jennie listened to her, open-eyed, and when she was through responded:

"Is it quiet she wants? I told her I would whasper, an' faith I wull;

for I'm bound to stay with you, and get me tin shillings a week."

The case seemed hopeless, and Jennie might have lost her place but for

the serious illness which came upon Bessie, taking away all her

vitality, and making her weak and helpless as a child. It was then that

Jennie showed her real value, and by her watchful tenderness and

untiring devotion, more than made amends for all her awkwardness.

Day after day, and night after night, she staid in the sick room,

ministering to Bessie as no one else could have done, lifting her

tenderly in her strong arms, and sometimes walking with her up and down

the large chamber into which she had been carried when the physician

said her sickness might be of weeks' duration, for she was suffering

from all the fatigue and worry of the last two years, when the strain

upon her nerves had been so great.

All through the remaining weeks of summer, and the September days which

followed, Bessie lay in her bed, scarcely noticing any thing which was

passing around her, and saying to her aunt when she bent over her,

asking how she felt:

"Tired, so tired, and it is nice to rest."

And so the days went by, and everybody in Allington became interested in

the young girl whom few had seen, but of whom a great deal was told by

Mrs. Rossiter-Browne, whose carriage often stood at Miss McPherson's

door, bringing sometimes the lady herself, and sometimes Augusta, who

had returned from Saratoga, and was busy with the preparations for her

wedding, which was to take place in October.

Lord Hardy, who had come from the West, and established himself at the

Ridge House, called several times and left his card, which Miss

McPherson promptly burned.

She did not like Lord Hardy. He was just a fortune-hunter, she said, and

cared no more for Augusta Browne than he did for her, except that

Augusta was the younger of the two, and she could not forget how he had

looked, smirking and mincing by the side of Archie's wife at

Aberystwyth; poor, weak Daisy, who, but for him, might not have gone so

far astray as she did.

For Bessie's sake Miss McPherson was almost ready to forgive poor Daisy,

as she always called her now when thinking of her. For Bessie's sake she

felt that she could do a great deal that was contrary to her nature, but

she could not feel kindly disposed toward Neil, for immediately after

the receipt of her letter to his mother, containing two hundred and

fifty pounds, and the announcement that she intended to take Bessie as

her own child, Neil had written her a long, penitent letter, blaming

himself as a coward, and telling of his remorse and regret for the past,

and saying that, unless he was forbidden to do so, he should come to

America in September, and renew his offer to Bessie.

This letter Miss McPherson read with sundry expressions of disgust, and

then, taking from its peg her sun-hat, almost as large as a small

umbrella, she started for the telegraph office, and several hours later

Neil McPherson, in London, was reading the following laconic dispatch

from Allington:

"Stay at home and mind your own business!

"Betsey McPherson"

"Perhaps I did wrong to send it, for maybe the girl likes him after

all," the spinster thought, as she walked back to her house.

But it was too late now, and for the next two or three days she was too

anxious to think of anything except Bessie, who was much worse, and

seemed so weak and unconscious of everything, that the physician looked

very grave, and the clergyman came at Miss McPherson's request, and said

the prayers for the sick, but Bessie did not hear them, for she lay like

one in a deep sleep, scarcely moving or seeming to breathe.

Before leaving the room the clergyman went softly to the bedside to look

at the sick girl, wondering much at the likeness in her face to some one

he had seen before, and wondering too why it should remind him of Hannah

Jerrold, and the night when he went in the wintery storm to hear her

father's confession.

"Poor Hannah!" he said to himself, as he left the house, and walking

slowly across the common to the church-yard, sat down upon a bench near

to a head-stone, which bore this inscription: "Sacred to the memory of

Martha, beloved wife of the Rev. Charles Sanford, who died January 1st,

18--. Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."

Since we last saw him, years ago, the Rev. Charles Sanford had grown an

old man, though he was scarcely sixty-three, an age when many men are in

their prime. There was a stoop in his shoulders as if the burden of life

were heavy, and his hair was as white as snow, while upon his face was a

look which only daily discipline, patiently borne, can ever write upon

the human visage And patiently had he borne it, until he almost forgot

that he was bearing it, and then one day it was removed and by the

lightness and freedom he felt, he knew how heavy it had been.

"Poor Martha!" he said to himself, as he glanced at his shining

coat-sleeves, and the spot on the knee of his pants, which was almost

threadbare, and at his boots, which certainly had not been blacked that

day. "Poor Martha! What would she say if she could see these clothes,

which, though they may not look well, are very comfortable." Then, as

his eye rested upon the word _beloved_, he continued: "Is that a lie, I

wonder, which that marble is telling to the world? If so, it is Martha's

fault, for she wrote her own epitaph, just as she ordered all the

details of her funeral, and what preceded it. It was a strange fancy of

hers to ask that Hannah should lay her out Poor Martha! _Devoted_ would

have been better than _beloved_, though God knows I tried to do my best

by her," and with a sigh, both for what had been and what might have

been, the rector arose and started for his home, meeting at the gate of

Grey's Park with Grey himself, who was in Allington for the first time

since his return from Europe.

Lucy had come up a few days before, and had been at once to see Bessie,

of whose illness she had written to Grey, and that had brought him as

soon as he could leave his mother.

"Grey, my boy, how are you?" the rector said, offering his hand, which

Grey took, saying as he did so:

"How is she this morning?"

Mr. Sanford did not know that Grey had ever seen or heard of Bessie

McPherson, but something told him that he meant her, and he replied:

"Very weak and sick. Poor girl! she is too young to die."

"Mr. Sanford," and Grey spoke with great vehemence, "you do not think

Bessie will die? She must not die!" and in his voice and manner there

was something which betrayed his secret to the older man, who said to

him:

"I hope not, Grey, God knows. Pray for her, my boy; pray earnestly.

Prayer can move a mountain, or at least make a way through it. Pray for

the girl you call Bessie."

To one accustomed as Grey was to take everything, however small, to

God, prayer was an easy thing, and every thought was a prayer as he

walked rapidly toward Miss McPherson's house.

"She is sleeping now," Miss Betsey said to him. "We trust she will be

better when she wakens. It is rest she needs more than anything else.

She has had a hard life so far. You have seen a great deal of her, I

believe?"

"I cannot say I have seen a great deal of her, though I feel as though I

had known her always. Yes, she has had a hard life. You do not think she

will die?" was Grey's reply; and in his face and voice Miss Betsey

detected what the rector had discovered.

"No," she said; "I do not believe she will die. Sit down and wait till

she is awake."

So Grey sat down, and waited three hours, during which time the train,

which would have taken him back to Boston, went rushing by, and Bessie

still slept as quietly as an infant. It was Jennie who came at last and

told him that she was awake and better, though too weak to see any one.

"Thank God!" Grey exclaimed, and slipping a bill into the girl's hand,

he continued: "Take good care of her, Jennie, and when she is able tell

her I came to see her."

"An' sure I'll tell her ivery blessed word, and that you left your

love."

"I did not say that," Grey answered her, laughingly, as he bade her

good-by and walked away.

For a week or more Bessie scarcely spoke or moved, it was such happiness

to rest, with every wish anticipated either by her aunt or Jennie, whose

voice was a _whasper_ most of the time, and who was learning to be more

quiet and subdued. At last, however, Bessie began to talk, and said to

Jennie one day:

"I believe I am getting better, and I am afraid I am not as glad as I

ought to be--the world holds so little for me, and so few who care for

me beside auntie and you."

"An', faith," Jennie began, "it's not for ye to be sayin' the likes of

that. Nobody to care for you, indade, with the gentry comin' every day

to inquire for you, the praste a readin' his prayers in this very room,

and the foine gintleman who was on the ship a sittin' down stairs three

mortal hours waitin' to know if you waked up dead or alive, and thankin'

God when it was alive I told him you was."

"Who, Jennie? What gentleman?" Bessie asked.

"Mr. Grey, to be sure," Jennie replied; "and he left his compliments for

ye, and thanked God when I told him you was better. Oh, but he's very

fine, and Grey's Park is like them places in the old country where the

grandees live."

Whether it was that Bessie was thoroughly rested, or that the fact that

Grey had not forgotten her was in itself a restorative, her recovery was

very rapid, though she still looked like some fragile flower which a

breath might blow away, and Miss McPherson watched her with a tender

solicitude, astonishing in one as cold and impassive as she had always

seemed to be.

CHAPTER XIII.

BESSIE GOES TO GREY'S PARK.

It was a lovely day in early October when Bessie made her first visit to

Grey's Park, of which she had heard such glowing descriptions from

Jennie, who took her there in an invalid chair sent for the purpose by

Miss Lucy.

The grass in the park was fresh and green from recent rains, and the

late autumn flowers gave a brightness to the place scarcely equaled in

summer.

"Oh, how lovely it is! pretty almost as the Kensington Gardens," Bessie

exclaimed, as she entered the gate and looked around her. "I think I

should like to live here," she continued; and then there came to her a

thought of Grey, who would probably one day be master of the place, and

she blushed guiltily, as if she had said some immodest thing.

Miss Lucy met her at the door, and, taking her to her room, made her lie

down till they were joined, by Miss McPherson, who came to lunch, which

was served in the breakfast-room, and was just the kind to tempt an

invalid.

Bessie enjoyed it immensely, and felt herself growing stronger and

better in the brightness and freshness of this beautiful home which was

one day to be Grey's.

On the wall, beside Blind Robin's, there was a picture of Grey, taken in

Europe when he was fourteen, and just before the great sorrow came upon

him and robbed his face of a little of the assurance and boyish

eagerness which the artist had depicted upon the canvas. But it was like

him still--like him, as he was now, in his young manhood, when to do

good to others, to make somebody happy every day, was the rule of his

life. And Bessie's eyes were often fixed upon it, as, after lunch was

over they still sat in the breakfast-room, because of the sunshine which

came in so brightly at the windows. And while they sat there the elder

women talked of Grey and what he would probably do, now that his travels

in Europe were ended.

"He ought to marry and settle down. Is there any hope of his doing so?"

Miss Betsey said, and Lucy replied:

"I think so, yes, I am quite sure of it, if everything goes well, as I

think it will."

Bessie was sitting with her back partly turned to the ladies, who did

not see the crimson spots which covered her face for a moment and then

left it deathly pale, as she heard that Grey Jerrold was to be married.

For an instant everything around her turned black, and when she came to

herself she felt that she could not breathe in that room with Grey's

picture on the wall, and his eyes looking at her as they had looked that

day, in Rome, when he had said to her words she would almost give half

her life to hear again. Bessie was no dissembler. She could not sit

there in her pain and make no sign, and, turning to her aunt, she said:

"Please, auntie, let Jennie take me into the air, I am sick and faint;

I--"

She could not say anything more lest she should break down entirely;

and, glancing significantly at each other, the two ladies called Jennie,

and bade her take her young mistress into the garden.

"Go to the rose-arbor. It is warmer there," Miss Lucy said; but only

Jennie heard, for Bessie was too conscious of the blow which had fallen

so suddenly upon her, to heed what was passing around her.

Grey was going to be married; _her Gray_, whom she now knew that she

loved as she had never loved Neil McPherson even in the first days of

her engagement, when he was all the world to her. Her Grey, who

certainly had loved her once, or he would never have said to her what he

did. Her Grey, who had been so kind to her on the ship and looked the

love he did not speak. Why had he changed so soon? Was it some love of

his boyhood before he saw her, and had it again sprung into being, now

that he had returned to its object? And oh, how dreary the world looked

to the young girl with the certainty that Grey was lost to her forever.

She did not notice the fanciful summer-house into which Jennie wheeled

her; did not notice anything, or think of anything except her desolation

and a desire to be alone, that she might cry just as she had never cried

before.

"Please, Jennie, go away," she said; "I would rather be alone."

So Jennie left her, and, covering her face with her hands, Bessie

sobbed, piteously:

"Oh, Father in heaven, is there never to be any joy for me? Must I

always be so desolate and lonely, and is it wicked to wish that I were

dead?"

For several minutes poor Bessie wept on, and then with a great effort

she dried her tears, and, leaning her head back in her chair, began to

live over again every incident of her life as connected with Grey

Jerrold. And while she sat there thus, the Boston train stopped at the

Allington station, and she heard the roar and the ring as it started on

its way. Twenty minutes later she heard behind her the sound of a

footstep, apparently hurrying toward her, and thought, if she thought at

all, that it was Jennie coming for her. But surely Jennie's tread was

never so rapid and eager as this, nor were Jennie's hands as soft and

warm as the hands which encircled her face, nor Jennie's voice like this

which said to her:

"Bessie, darling Bessie!"

Grey had come to Allington from Springfield, where he had been on

business for his father, and both Lucy and Miss McPherson knew that he

was coming, and had chosen that day for Bessie's visit to the park, and

had purposely talked before her of his probable marriage, in order to

test the nature of Bessie's feelings for him.

"We cannot be mistaken," Miss McPherson said to Lucy, after Bessie had

left them; "but let me manage the young man."

And when, at last, Grey came, and, after greeting the ladies, asked

after Bessie, Miss McPherson replied that she was better and had just

left them for the garden; and then, as Grey made no move to go in search

of her, she suddenly turned upon him with the exclamation:

"Grey Jerrold, you are a fool!"

"Ye-es?" he answered, interrogatively, as he regarded her with

astonishment.

"I repeat it--you are either a fool or blind, or both!" she continued.

"But I am neither, and I know you love my niece, and she loves you, and

I know too that you think she is engaged to Neil McPherson, but she is

not."

"What!" Grey exclaimed, starting to his feet. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that Bessie's engagement was broken before she left

England, and that she--"

"She--what?" Grey cried, almost pleadingly; and Miss McPherson rejoined:

"She is in the garden. You will find her in the rose-arbor."

Grey waited for no more, but went rapidly in the direction of the

summer-house where Bessie sat with her back to him, and did not see him

until his hands were upon her face and his voice said to her:

"Bessie, darling Bessie!"

Then she started suddenly, and when Grey came round in front of her, and

taking her hands in his kissed her lips, she kissed him unhesitatingly,

and then burst into a paroxysm of tears.

"What is it, Bessie? Why are you crying so?" Grey said, as he still held

her hands and kept kissing her forehead and lips.

"They said you were going to be married," Bessie sobbed, as Grey knelt

beside her, and laying her head upon his shoulder, tried to brush her

tears away.

"Who said I was to be married?" he asked, in some surprise, and Bessie

answered him:

"Your Aunt Lucy said she thought so, and I--oh, Grey, what must you

think of me?" and lifting her head from his shoulder, Bessie covered her

face with her hands, crying for very shame that she had betrayed what

she ought to have kept to herself.

"What must I think of you?" Grey replied. "Why, this--that you are the

dearest, sweetest little girl in all the world, and that I am the

happiest man. I do not know what Aunt Lucy meant by saying I was going

to be married; but I am, and very soon, too--just as soon as you are

able to be present at the ceremony. Will that be at Christmas-time, do

you think?"

He was taking everything for granted, and Bessie knew that he was, and

knew what he meant, but she would scarcely have been a woman if she had

not wished him to put his meaning in words which could not be mistaken,

so she said to him amid her tears--glad, happy tears they were now:

"Whom are you to marry?"

"Whom?" he repeated. "Whom but you, Bessie McPherson, whom I believe I

have loved ever since that Christmas I spent at Stoneleigh two years

ago. Do you remember the knot of plaid ribbon you wore that night and

which I won at play? I have it still, as one of my choicest treasures,

and the curl of hair which Flossie cut from your head, in Rome, when we

thought you would die, I divided that tress with Jack Trevellian the

night we talked together of you, with breaking hearts, because we

believed you were dead. He told me then of his love for you, and I

confessed mine to him, though we both supposed that, had you lived, Neil

would have claimed you as his. Oh, Bessie, those were dreary months to

me, when I thought you dead, and may you never know the anguish I

endured when I stood by that grave in Stoneleigh and believed you lying

there. But God has been very good to me, far better than I deserve. He

has given you to me at last and nothing shall separate us again."

While Grey talked, he was caressing Bessie's face and hair, and stooping

occasionally to kiss her, while she sat dumb and motionless, so full was

she of the great joy which had come so suddenly upon her, and which, as

yet, she could not realize.

"We will be married at Christmas," Grey said; "the anniversary of the

time when I first saw you, little dreaming then, that you would one day

be my wife. Shall it not be so?"

What Bessie might have said or how long the interview might have lasted,

we have no means of knowing, for a shrill cry in the distance of "None

of that, misther! for I'm comin' meself to take the hide of ye,"

startled them from their state of bliss, and looking up they saw Jennie

bearing swiftly down upon them, with both arms extended ready for fight.

Jennie, who knew nothing of Grey's arrival, had visited with the

servants, until she concluded it was time to return to her young

mistress. As she came within sight of the summer-house what was her

horror to see a tall young man with his arms around Bessie, and, as it

seemed to her, trying to take her from the chair.

"Thaves and murther!" she cried, "if there isn't a spalpeen thryin' to

run away with Miss Bessie, body and bones;" and at her utmost speed she

dashed on to the fray.

But at sight of Grey she stopped short, and with wide-open eyes and

mouth, surveyed him a moment in astonishment; then a broad smile

illumined her face as she exclaimed:

"An' faith that's right. Kiss her again as many times as ye likes. It's

not meself will interfere, though if you'd been a bla'guard, as I

thought you was, I'd of had yer heart's blood," and turning on her heel

Jennie walked rapidly away, leaving the lovers a very little upset and

disconcerted.

It was Grey who wheeled Bessie back to the house, and taking her in his

arms carried her to his Aunt Lucy, to whom he said, as he put her down

upon the couch:

"This is my little wife, or, rather, she is to _be_ my wife on Christmas

Eve, and Christmas Day we are to spend here with you, who will make the

old house brighter than ever it was before." Then, going up to Miss

McPherson, he continued: "Kiss me, Aunt Betsey because I am to be your

nephew, and because I am no longer a fool."

The kiss he asked for was given, and thus the engagement was sealed,

and when next day Grey returned to Boston, he said to his Aunt Hannah,

who was still with his mother:

"Bessie is to be my wife, and I must tell her our secret, and at your

house, too, for, after she has seen you, I feel sure that she will

forgive everything."

CHAPTER XIV.

TELLING BESSIE.

At last Mrs. Geraldine was better, and signified her willingness to let

her sister-in-law return to her own home, from which she had been absent

so long. She had received, with a good deal of equanimity, the news of

her son's engagement with Bessie, whom she remembered as a lovely child,

wholly unlike her mother.