GUESSING.
GONE! Nellie would have given everything she possessed, in those first
moments, to recall her lover. Her lover no longer—cut off from her by
her own definite act.
She stood where he had left her, unable to shape any distinct thought,
hardly knowing what she was doing.
Then her eyes fell upon the bunch of violets. She took them up off the
table and looked at them a long time. "They were for me," she thought,
"but I do not think I ought to have them now."
She slowly began to put the room straight. "Ada will be home soon," she
said, glancing at the clock.
When all was done, and the table cleared, with the exception of the
violets, she paused; then rang the bell and stood waiting.
"I want some water for these, Simmons," she said.
Simmons went to fetch it, and Nellie placed them in the vase, and then,
leaving them on the sideboard, went upstairs to her room.
She felt stunned. Things had not turned out as she had expected.
Knowing something of Wilmot's character, she had prepared herself for
a struggle; but that he should leave her in anger was almost more than
she could endure. She sat down on the ottoman at the foot of her bed,
the misery of having hurt him crushing her young heart.
Oh that she could have gone to bed, she thought, there to weep out her
sorrow unseen!
This was impossible; the whole house would be dismayed. No, she must
bear it. After all, she had passed through the worst of this decision
of hers months ago. When she made that solemn promise to her dying
step-mother, had she not felt the shadow of it creeping over her? When
her father had claimed her entire devotion, had she not known what it
must cost?
"Nellie, not dressed for dinner! The first bell has rung," said Ada,
coming in hastily, and throwing her things on the bed.
"Why, Nellie, are you not well, dear?" she added, looking at her sister.
"Only a sort of headache," answered Nellie, putting her hand to her
forehead as if she were dazed.
"I'm so sorry," answered Ada, hurrying on with her preparations;
"perhaps it will be better for some dinner?"
"Perhaps it will," she answered.
"I say, Nellie, who brought or sent those lovely violets? I never saw
such a bunch."
"Mr. Elliot."
"Wilmot! Who for?"
"He did not say; he left them there."
"For you, of course. I believe, Nellie, he's getting fond of you."
"Oh, hush, Ada, dear."
"Well, I know you don't like those jokes, but one must sometimes, eh,
Nellie?"
She looked archly up in the troubled face.
"You're a dear old sister," she added, kissing her, "and I'm a tease."
"Please don't say anything like that downstairs, Ada."
"I won't, you may be sure."
She ran off, and Nellie followed, as the second bell sounded.
The violets, to say nothing of this homecoming of Walter's, were a
diversion from Nellie's headache, and her pale, sorrowful face passed
unnoticed.
Dr. Arundel was truly delighted with the news which that morning's post
had brought, and looked cheered at the thought of having his dear son
so much sooner than had been anticipated. Thus the dinner passed in
cheerful talk, and Nellie joined with the rest in surmising how soon
he would come, and in all the questions which after all could have no
answer.
When Ada returned from afternoon school, she ran upstairs to Nellie,
and found her in the drawing room reading aloud to Tom and the little
girls.
"Is your head too bad to come to Hampstead?" she asked eagerly. "Papa
is waiting outside. He has a patient near there, and he says the
carriage shall drive us there, and fetch him on its way back."
With this lucid explanation she paused, out of breath.
Nellie looked a little bewildered.
"Come, make haste; you can have five minutes. Put on your hat, and
let's be off. I do long to know what Christina says to our news."
Nellie looked doubtfully towards Tom.
"Yes, go, Nellie," he answered. "I shall be all right."
"Might we have the little tea-things, and have Tom all to ourselves,
Nellie?" asked Isabel, imploringly.
"Yes," said Ada, "you can. I shall give you leave. Go along, 'Mrs.
Ready-to-Halt,' and be 'ready to go.'"
The children laughed; and as Nellie went away, Ada put a small table
close by Tom, and told the little girls to have tea early.
She fished mysteriously into her pocket, and drew forth her purse, and
looking quizzically into it, pretended it was empty.
"No go," she said, throwing it up in the air; "I declare there isn't a
farden' in it."
Tom laughed. "Perhaps not," he said.
Ada opened it again, and after some more fun produced sixpence. "It's
my very last," she said, pretending to cry; "but I'll give it to my
starving relatives."
"Oh, Ada, we don't want it!" exclaimed Dolly, looking sober. "What do
you mean?"
"I mean," said Ada, smiling, "that you should get sixpennyworth of
buns—halfpenny buns—and enjoy yourselves."
"Oh, jolly!" said Isabel. "You are kind, Ada."
"Sometimes," said Ada, rather grimly, thinking how little self-denial a
sixpence was, compared to giving up one's wishes in some other things.
Tom looked interested, and began whispering about laying out the
sixpence.
"Are we bound to get halfpenny buns?" asked Netta.
"Anything in the world you like," answered Ada, "with this
reservation—that sixpence will buy it."
"Oh, that's all right then! We thought we would have three pennyworth
of buns and three pennyworth of parliaments; they go so far, you know,
Ada."
Nellie joined them at this moment, and Ada told the little girls not to
lose their way in going to the confectioner's; Nellie also instructed
Simmons to have an oversight of the drawing room party.
They found their father and Arthur in the carriage waiting for them,
and were soon on their way to Christina's.
"Shall you come with us?" asked Ada of her brother.
"Oh, yes. I long to hear all about Walter's plans."
Dr. Arundel left them in the middle of Hampstead, and they then drove
up over the heath to Sunnyside.
The young people quickly jumped out, and were admitted before the
carriage had time to turn.
Arthur and Ada hastened in, while Nellie followed. Christina had seen
the carriage stop, and came out into the hall to meet them.
Ada threw her arms round her, and exclaimed, "Oh, I'm so glad,
Christina."
Christina smiled, and disengaging herself, came up to Nellie, and
kissed her lovingly.
Nellie glanced in the beautiful face with its calm brightness, a face
like no other, she thought. "Dear Christina," was all she ventured to
say.
They all went into the drawing room, where they found Christina's aunt,
who was looking smiling and happy.
"Delightful, isn't it?" said Arthur to her.
"Indeed it is; so unexpected too," she answered.
"We must talk to you, Miss Arbuthnot," said Arthur, "and let the two
friends go and tell their secrets in private."
"Oh!" answered Ada grudgingly. "I wish they'd tell their secrets here;
at least tell us all the news."
"So we will," said Christina, taking Nellie's hand, "but we must have a
tiny talk first, Ada."
She drew Nellie from the room, and did not speak again till they were
shut in her bedroom, where a fire was burning.
Christina seated herself on a sofa by it, and put her arm round
Nellie's waist.
"You are not glad about it, darling?" she said inquiringly.
"Oh, Christina!" exclaimed Nellie, "I am. I could hardly be more glad."
Christina looked surprised, and went on, "Then why does my Nellie look
so triste?"
"I'll tell you about that, perhaps. I have had a trouble, but now I
feel nothing but how glad I am about Walter."
"Tell me about your trouble first, Nellie."
"Not to-day, dear; perhaps never; I do not know. To-day I will only
think of you. Have you had a long letter?"
"Not very; he was in too great a hurry to write much."
"Does he say when he is coming?"
"Why yes, Nellie. Did you not know? He hopes to be here for Christmas."
"For Christmas? I had no idea it could be so soon! Oh, Christina!"
"He was to sail a week after this mail started."
Nellie was so overcome by this second piece of news, that she could
only burst into tears again.
Christina kissed her, and did all she could to soothe her, but knew not
what to say.
"You are quite worn-out," she said tenderly, "and no wonder, with so
much to do and think about."
Nellie was worn-out; and when Christina wrapped her up on the sofa, and
sat down by her in the firelight, she felt a strange feeling of rest
and comfort stealing over her. The past months had been full of sorrow
and self-command, and now that she felt it was all over, not even
Walter's coming could rouse her out of a kind of blank restfulness,
which was partly sorrow and partly relief.
"I shall be better to-morrow," she whispered.
"I am going down to see after the others," said Christina, "and you
shall go to sleep."
"Oh, no!"
"I shall expect you to, and I will bring you up a cup of tea when I
have poured out for the rest."
She left her, and went down.
"Nellie looks very tired and poorly," she observed to Ada, when she
rejoined them.
"She is," said Ada. "She told me she had a headache. Wilmot Elliot was
there this, morning, and Walter's letter upset her too."
Christina then explained to them that they only knew half the news, and
great was the surprise of the two, to find Walter could have omitted
such an important part of it in writing to their father.
"Now, I suppose you'll be married in no time," said Arthur.
"I do not know what 'no time' means," answered Christina.
She felt rather glad to escape from their questions, to go up again to
Nellie. She begged her aunt to make them happy, and giving her a loving
kiss, and whispering, "I think Nellie needs me," she was leaving the
room, when Nurse Margaret entered, carrying little Charlie Wood for a
good-night kiss.
Christina set her little tray again on the table, and turned to her new
baby boy. "Well, my little man," she exclaimed, taking him proudly in
her arms, "so you have come to wish Auntie good-night?"
The frail little fellow smiled with delight, and Christina went to a
drawer and gave him a sugarplum, then holding him out towards her aunt,
she said, smiling, "Now a kiss for Charlie, Aunt Mary."
Miss Arbuthnot did not seem surprised. In this little family, love
reigned, and they treated the little children as cherished lambs in the
fold of the Great Shepherd.
"Have you heard of his mother lately?" asked Ada, when Margaret had
carried him off.
"Oh, yes!" said Christina. "I hear regularly every week. She is getting
on so nicely; she is better in health, and has never touched one drop
of spirits or anything since that day. It is worth a lifetime of
self-denial to be allowed to save such a one."
"Will she go home yet?"
"For Christmas," answered Christina. "Oh, if you could see her
husband's letters! He has not seen her yet, but she writes to him."
She took up the tray again, and left the room.
She found by Nellie's peaceful breathing that she had fallen asleep,
and she sat down by her side, glad herself to have a little quiet time
to think.
In a few moments, however, Nellie stirred and gave a long sobbing sigh.
"I can't, I can't!" she murmured.
Christina laid her hand on her arm, and said gently, "You are dreaming,
dear."
Nellie sat up rather frightened, but was soon reassured by Christina's
presence and love, and by the pleasant smell of the fragrant cup by her
side. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea, until at last
Christina said:
"You need not tell me a word; I guess it all, Nellie."
"How do you guess?" asked Nellie, frightened that she had betrayed her
secret.
"I have known it would be so for ever so long. No one could see you
together, at least no one loving you as I do, without knowing how it
was."
Nellie laid her head on the kind shoulder and felt it a comfort to cry.
"Do you think I have been right?" she asked presently. "He seemed to
feel I was almost wicked."
"Dear Nellie," she answered softly, "I do not see what you could have
done else, now."
"I did think it right all along," said Nellie; "but to-day I feel
wretched, half fearing that I have acted unfairly to him; and yet I
have tried so hard that he should understand without all this."
"I am sure you have; I have seen it when I have been with you. He must
have been wilfully blind."
"You see he didn't want to believe I could be in earnest," said Nellie,
very low.
"But he should have been willing to wait, Nellie."
"He was," answered she; "but I would not let him. Oh, Christina, you do
not think I ought to have let him?"
"I do not know exactly, dear. Your father would tell you best."
"I was wondering whether it would be my duty to tell papa; it would
add so to his sorrow; and I could not think of leaving them all now,
Christina; it would be very wrong."
"Yes, now; but in a year or two?"
"I felt I ought not to accept in that sort of fashion; it seemed to me
very hard on him to keep him waiting indefinitely; and I could not bear
for dear papa to have this to think about, when he believes he has got
me as his comfort and help."
"Yes; I see it all," answered Christina sadly; "but I feel perplexed,
Nellie. I wish you would tell Dr. Arundel."
"I will, if you think I ought; anyway I should have done so after a
time; but it can make no difference now," she added; "for he left me in
anger, and I told him I would not. Nothing could have been plainer."
"Oh, my Nellie, my Nellie!"
Nellie raised her head. "Don't pity me, Christina; I shall be glad
soon. Just now you have caught me tired and stupid; but I shall be
better soon. It has been the thought of hurting him which has been the
worst."
That evening Nellie told her father in a few words of the offer she had
received, and of her refusal.
Dr. Arundel heard her story, holding his arm round her, and hardly
glancing at the downcast face.
At last he said, "But, Nellie, my child, I wish you would tell me;
should you have refused him, if things had not been as they are at
home?"
Nellie hesitated; and then said quickly, "But, papa, how could I leave
it all?"
"Not now, I am sure you could not, nor would he wish it so soon; but
I think you should have given him some hope, if—if you return his
affection, Nellie. If people love each other, they should be willing to
wait."
There was a pause, and Nellie bent her head lower. Ought she to have
decided differently? Did her father think her wrong too? This was a sad
blow.
"But it is all over now, dear papa," she said at last. "I tell you
because I thought I ought. I am the only one you have, you know," she
added, looking up from the shelter of his arm, and smiling a wan little
smile; then bursting into tears, she kissed him, saying brokenly, "I
could not, could not, leave you for the world!"
Dr. Arundel sat a long time that night watching the embers of his fire
die out.
What tender thoughts twined round that eldest daughter of his who had
just left him. "Dear little maiden," he said to himself, "I trust all
will come right. I must take an opportunity of having a talk with
Elliot; I cannot have her sacrifice herself. I am sorry it has fallen
out so. He should have come to me first, under the circumstances. Poor
dear Nellie, I hope it will all come right."
[Illustration]