Our Bessie Part 22

"Oh, how selfish I am!" she exclaimed at last, starting up. "I have only made you miserable; and, after all, no one can do me any good. Don't look at me so reproachfully, Bessie; you are very dear and good to me, but you cannot put yourself in my place."

"You are wrong," returned Bessie quickly. "Though I have never been through your experiences, I can still sympathize with you. If I were in your position, Edna, I would not speak as you are doing now, as though there were no hope for you, as though everything were only black and miserable. The Lord Jesus is always able and willing to help all who penitently and trustfully look to Him for pardon. There are no depths of human suffering deep enough to hide us from His tender sympathy and forgiving love."

"Oh, but I am not religious, Bessie. I am not good, like you."

"Please don't talk so, Edna; it only pains me to hear you. Let me tell you how I think I should try to feel in your place. I would try to bear my trouble bravely, knowing that it had come through my own fault. If we do wrong, we must surely take our punishment. Oh, I know it is easy to talk, but all the same this is how I would strive to carry my burden."

"Ah, but such a burden would crush any girl."

"You must not let it crush you, Edna. You must not let it lead you to despair. However heavy the burden, and however much we deserve the suffering which our follies and mistakes and sins bring, there is one all-sufficient way of deliverance. Jesus, by His death on the cross, has made it possible for us to be freely forgiven; and if we come to Him in faith and prayer, the Holy Spirit will lead us into the full experience of salvation and peace. Your will is very strong; why do you not will this one thing--to become worthy of the love of a true man like Mr.

Sinclair? I do not say that things will be the same between you; I know too little about the world to guess how a man acts under such circ.u.mstances; but if you care for him really--if indeed he stands so high in your estimation as a good man whom you have misunderstood and wronged, then, even if you lead your lives apart, you may still try to live n.o.bly that he may think of you with respect. You may still let the influence of this trial guide you to a higher and better life. Would not this make things more bearable?"

Bessie's words, spoken with intense earnestness, seemed to stir Edna's mind, rousing it from its bitter apathy of hopeless remorse and grief; a faint light came into her eyes.

"Do you think I could grow better--that Neville would ever hear of me?

Oh, I should like to try. I do so hate myself, Bessie. I seem to grow more selfish and horrid every year. I thought Neville would help me to be good, but without him----" And here the tears came again.

"Without him it will be doubly hard. Yes, I know that, Edna dear; but you must lean on a stronger arm than his--an arm that will never fail you. Cast all your burden upon the loving sympathy and tender heart of the Lord Jesus, and He will lead and comfort you. Now you are utterly exhausted, and the storm is quite lulled; do go back to your room; you will be able to sleep, and it is nearly three o'clock."

"And I have kept you awake all this time," remorsefully. "Well, I will go; the pain is a little easier to bear now. I will think over your words; they seem to have a sort of comfort in them. Yes, I deserve to be unhappy for making Neville so wretched. Good-bye, dear Bessie; you are a real friend to me, for you tell me nothing but the truth."

Bessie kissed her affectionately, and then Edna left the room; but Bessie found it difficult to resume her interrupted dreams; the splash of the raindrops against her windows had a depressing sound, the darkness was dense and oppressive, a vague sadness seemed to brood over everything, and it was long before she could quiet herself enough to sleep. Strangely enough, her last waking thoughts were of Hatty, not of Edna, and she was dreaming about her when the maid came to wake her in the morning.

Edna did not come down to breakfast; the storm had disturbed her, Mrs.

Sefton said. "I think it must have kept you awake, too," she observed, with a glance at Bessie's tired face.

Bessie smiled and said a word or two about the wild night, but she did not speak of Edna's visit to her room. Afterward she went up to prepare for her ride, but during the next hour Richard noticed she was not in her usual spirits, and questioned her kindly as to the cause of her depression. Bessie made some trifling excuse; she had slept badly, and her head ached; but in reality she could find no reason for her vague discomfort.

The morning was fresh and lovely, and bore no signs of last night's storm. Whitefoot was in frisky spirits, but she found herself looking at everything with melancholy eyes, as though she were looking her last at the pleasant prospect. In vain she strove to shake off the uncanny feeling, and to answer Richard's remarks in her usual sprightly fas.h.i.+on.

The very effort to speak brought the tears to her eyes, and she had the vexed feeling that Richard saw them and thought something was amiss, for he told her very kindly to be sure and rest herself that afternoon.

Edna was in the front garden when they returned; she was standing at the gate evidently watching for them. Bessie thought she looked very pale.

As Richard lifted her down Edna opened the gate.

"You have had a longer ride than usual, have you not, Richard? Bessie looks very tired. Will you take off your habit, or will you go into the drawing-room? Your brother has just arrived, Bessie."

"My brother? Do you mean Tom? Oh, what does he want with me? Hatty must be worse." And here Bessie's numb, unaccountable feelings quickened into life. "Oh, Edna, speak--what is it?" And then Bessie grew pale with apprehension.

"Hatty is not very well," replied Edna gently; "but Mr. Tom will tell you himself."

"Yes, go to him," whispered Richard; "your brother will be your best informant; don't wait to ask Edna."

And Bessie needed no further bidding. Oh, she knew now what that vague presentiment meant! That was her last ride--her last everything, she told herself, as she hurried into the house. Of course, Hatty was ill, very ill--dying perhaps--she always knew she would die. Tom's boyish face looked unusually grave as he caught sight of Bessie. She walked up to him and grasped his arm.

"What is it, Tom?" she said almost clinging to him.

Poor Tom was hardly equal to the occasion. He was young, and hated scenes, and Mrs. Sefton was looking at them both, and he felt uncommonly choky himself; but Edna, who had followed Bessie, said promptly:

"Don't be afraid of telling Bessie, Mr. Lambert; she knows that Hatty is not so well. You have come to fetch her--have you not?--because Hatty had another bad fainting fit, and your father thinks her very ill."

"That is about it," blurted out Tom. "Can you get ready and come back with me, Bessie? Hatty asked for you last night for the first time, and then father said I had better come and fetch you; so I took the last train to London, and slept at Uncle George's, and came on this morning."

"And Hatty is very ill?" asked Bessie, with a sort of desperate calmness that appeared very ominous to Tom, for he answered nervously:

"Well, she is pretty bad. Father says it is a sudden failure. It is her heart; and he says he always expected it. He never did think well of Hatty, only he would not tell us so--what was the use? he said. But now these fainting attacks have made him anxious, for he says one can never tell what may happen; and then he said you must be fetched at once."

"I suppose we can start by the next train, Tom?"

"Yes, by the 3:15; there is none before that. We must catch the 6:05 from Paddington, so you will have time to look about you."

"Let me help you," exclaimed Edna eagerly. "Mamma, will you send Brandon to us?" And she followed Bessie.

Richard came into the room that moment, and took possession of Tom, carrying him off to the garden and stable-yard, and trying to make the time pa.s.s in a less irksome manner. Richard could show his sympathy for Bessie in no other way than this, and he felt sorry for Tom, who was feeling awkward among so many strangers, and was trying to repress his feelings, after the fas.h.i.+on of young men.

"I am afraid your sister is very much cut up about this," observed Richard presently.

"Oh, yes, she will take it uncommonly badly; she and Hatty are such chums."

"Yes, but I trust that your sister is not dangerously ill?"

"Well, she does not seem so to me," replied Tom vaguely. "She is weak, of course; any one would be weak after such an attack; but she looks and talks much as usual, only she is too tired to get up."

"And it is her heart, you say?"

"Well, my father says so. You see, she has always been weakly, but there never seemed much amiss to us; and now my father says that he never expects her to make an old woman, and that there is something wrong with her heart, and he is afraid that she may go off in one of these attacks, and that is why he wants Bessie to come home at once."

"Yes, I see; it looks very serious. Oh, there is the luncheon-bell. I have ordered the carriage round directly afterward, so you will be in plenty of time."

When the two young men returned to the house they found Bessie in the dining-room. She took her old place by Richard, and made some pretense of eating. Once, when Richard spoke to her, begging her to remember the long journey before her, she looked up at him with a faint smile; that smile, so gentle and childlike, haunted Richard during the remainder of the day.

Bessie was battling bravely with her feelings all luncheon, and during the short interval that elapsed before the carriage was brought round she managed to say a few words to Mrs. Sefton, thanking her for all her kindness, and just before she left the house she found an opportunity to speak to Edna.

"Edna," she whispered, holding her friend's hand, "you will not forget our talk. I shall be thinking of you even when I am with Hatty." And then for the moment she could say no more.

"Will you come, Miss Lambert?" urged Richard gently. He had followed the girls, and had overheard this little speech; but Bessie did not heed him.

"Will you try to be brave, Edna?" But her voice was almost inaudible.

"Go with Richard, Bessie, darling; he is waiting for you." And then Bessie got into the carriage.

She looked back and waved her hand as they drove away, but this time there was no smile on her face. Edna was standing on the porch, and the afternoon sun was s.h.i.+ning on her face and hair and white dress, and her large wistful eyes were full of sadness. Bessie's lip quivered, her heart ached. How beautiful it all was! The world seemed glorified in suns.h.i.+ne; every one they met seemed happy, and yet Edna was wretched, and Hatty ill--perhaps dying; and a great black cloud seemed to overshadow everything, a sense of terror and confusion, of utter chaos.

"In the midst of life we are in death." Why did those words come to Bessie? Just before the train moved Richard broke the silence.

"You will let us hear how things are, Miss Lambert?"

"Oh, yes, I will write to Edna."

"And you will take care of yourself?"