Our Bessie Part 26

Bessie had other little surprises that pleased her greatly; every week or two a hamper came from Oatlands--new-laid eggs and cream, a chicken or two, and often a brace of partridges or a pheasant. Bessie, who was housekeeper, used to rejoice over the contents of these hampers; she knew the game would tempt her mother's sickly appet.i.te. Many of Dr.

Lambert's patients remembered that he had an invalid wife, and fruit and flowers and all sorts of delicacies found their way to the doctor's house, for the Lamberts were much respected in Cliffe, and even the poor people would step up with a couple of new-laid eggs from a speckled hen, or a pot of blackberry-jam, or a bottle of elderberry wine for Mrs.

Lambert.

"The world is very full of nice people," observed Bessie one day, when, near Christmas, she looked at the larder shelves fairly laden with good things. One kind friend had sent them a barrel of oysters. Aunt Charlotte's contribution had been a stock of apples that would last them half through the winter.

The hamper from Oatlands had been unusually rich, for a turkey, and a great fat goose dangled from the ceiling, and Edna had added a rich cake and a packet of bonbons and chocolate for Ella and Katie. But the letter that accompanied it had made Bessie somewhat anxious. Edna had a cold, a severe cold, for she could not shake it off, and her mother had decided to take her to Brighton for a month or two. The doctor had recommended Hastings or Bournemouth as being warmer, but Edna had a fancy for Brighton, so her mother had taken a suite of rooms in the Glenyan Mansions--a big drawing-room overlooking King's Road and the sea, and a small dining-room leading out of it.

"And we have four bedrooms," wrote Edna, "for Richard proposes to run down for a night or two now and then, and mamma suggests an invitation to you. Do you think you could come, Bessie--that your mother could spare you? We are going on the third of January, and want you to join us a few days afterward. Do try, there's a dear! My cold has made me so weak and miserable, and the cough will not let me sleep properly at night, so of course my life is not very pleasant. It will be such a comfort to have you, for I never can talk to mamma; she frets herself into a fuss over everything, and that makes me, oh, so impatient, I should like to jump into the sea! But you are such a patient, reasonable little creature, Daisy dear, and I am so fond of you.

Bye the bye, Richard has sent you a message. He was very particular in repeating it more than once. Let me see; oh, this is it: 'Do you not think that you owe some duty to your friends, especially when they need you?' That he was sure you could do me good, and that he hoped you would make every effort to come, if only for my sake. Was that not kind and brotherly of him? But then Richard is very much improved, too."

Bessie hardly knew what she was to say in reply. Her mother was better, certainly; but she could not propose to leave her. She was much surprised when her father asked her that evening if no letter had accompanied the hamper, and on her replying in the affirmative, he coolly asked to see it.

"Well," he said interrogatively, as he handed back the letter, "what answer do you propose to give, Bessie?"

"I do not know; at least, I have not thought about it," she answered.

Her father looked at her steadily.

"You have never been to Brighton?"

"Never, father."

"So much the better; it will be all new to you. Sit down and write to Miss Edna at once, and tell her that you will be glad to spend a week or two with her and her mother. Let me see, what time did she say? The first week in January, that will fit in well. I am going up to town on the seventh, and we can travel together. That will do famously, will it not, mother?"

"Do you think you can spare me, mother?" asked Bessie anxiously.

And Mrs. Lambert answered without hesitation: "I certainly can and will spare you, Bessie, and I am very grateful to Mrs. Sefton for her invitation. My dear," as the girl still hesitated, "your father and I have long wished you to have a little holiday, so your mind may be quite at rest." And after this Bessie was satisfied.

But it was with very different feelings that Bessie left her home in the mild-tempered sunshine of that January day, to those when, seven months ago, she paid her first visit to The Grange. Things had been well with her then; no trouble since her brother's death had checkered her bright, sunshiny existence. She had gone in holiday mood to seek fresh interests and new enjoyments; but now how utterly changed were her feelings! She could no longer look out upon the world through the rose-colored spectacles that youth generally wears. For the second time in her life she had been brought face to face with death, and the great reality had sobered her. A deep sense of responsibility, of the inner meaning of life, seemed to cast a weight of gravity over her. A bond of sympathy seemed to unite her with all those who were in sorrow; so many were unhappy, so many had lost their nearest and dearest. Oh, how she longed to comfort them all!

Bessie was not one to speak of her feelings; the best of her life was out of sight. Only once she said to Christine, as they were walking home from church in the starlight:

"People are very proud when their relatives achieve any worldly honor or attain to any rank, yet no one seems to feel an added dignity when any dear one has finished his or her earthly conflict most gloriously, and has won a heavenly crown. Why is it, Chrissy? Somehow it seems such an honor to me to feel I have a sister as well as a brother in heaven; it makes one more careful not to do anything unworthy of them."

Bessie's gray eyes had a softer look in them than they had of old; her voice had grown more gentle. Mrs. Sefton, who was at the station, hardly recognized the girl as she came quickly toward her; the black dress and c.r.a.pe bonnet made her look older, but when she smiled it was the same Bessie.

"My dear, are you very tired?" she asked, looking at her kindly. "It is such a cold evening that I dare not let Edna come with me, for her cough is still troublesome. I had some difficulty with her, but at last I got my way. Edna is not nearly so self-willed as she used to be." But here Mrs. Sefton sighed.

"Do you think Edna is really better?" asked Bessie, when the carriage door was closed, and they drove away from the station.

"I do not know," returned Mrs. Sefton, in a troubled voice. "Dr. Milton a.s.sures me that there is nothing radically wrong with her health, only want of tone and a severe cold; but I cannot feel comfortable about her.

She is losing appet.i.te and flesh, and her spirits are so variable. She is not happy, Bessie, and she cannot always hide her feelings from her mother. Richard says that we can do nothing; but how are we to go on like this?"

Bessie hardly knew what to answer; she was full of sympathy for the anxious mother; she knew Edna was her one thought in life, and that no happiness was possible to her if her child suffered. They were in the King's Road now, and the brightly lighted shop-windows almost dazzled Bessie. On the opposite side she could see a dark line that was evidently the sea; a dull, heavy surging of waves broke on her ear; now and then the splash of the white surf was clearly visible.

"Edna is young," she said vaguely; but, after all, there was scant consolation in this truism, for the young suffer very keenly; a sense of impatience, of injustice, aggravates their pain. The old accept their sorrows more meekly; their reason comes to their aid. "Man is born to trouble," they say, and the philosophy enables them to endure at least with some show of dignity.

"Yes, she is young; perhaps she may be consoled," replied Mrs. Sefton, with another sigh; and then the carriage stopped. "Our rooms are on the first floor," observed Mrs. Sefton, as they stood in the large, brilliantly lighted hall, and she conducted Bessie up the staircase and down a narrow corridor, and then into a long, well-furnished drawing-room, where they found Edna.

She was sitting on a low chair, looking at the fire, but she sprang up and welcomed Bessie warmly.

"My dear little Daisy, how delighted I am to see you!" she said, with something of her old animation. "Mamma, is it not delicious to have her again? Sit down there; you look tired and cold, and I mean to wait on you. Mamma, the tea is all ready, and I am going to pour it out. Take off your warm jacket, Bessie; oh, and your bonnet too; and then you will look more like yourself."

Bessie did as she was bidden, but her eyes followed Edna's graceful figure. How delicate she looked--far, far too pretty! She was almost dazzling to-night. The ruby velveteen set off her fair hair and white skin; her face was flushed, and her eyes were too bright; and as she moved about Bessie heard her cough once or twice--a hard, dry cough. But there seemed nothing wrong with Edna's spirits to-night. She was evidently overjoyed to have her friend with her again; she talked and laughed after her old fashion.

"You will be sure to like this place, Bessie," she said. "The shops are delightful, and it is so amusing to see the people; and the sea is magnificent. I have my ponies here, so we can have plenty of drives; and there are some people that we know at the Bedford. We don't intend to mope, mamma and I; we are going to the grand bazaar at the Pavilion, and there are some first-rate concerts. But you shall be as quiet as you like," with a sudden change of tone, as Bessie looked grave; "your only duty will be to talk to me. Now I will show you your room, and you shall unpack and get ready for dinner."

Bessie was not sorry to be left alone in her comfortable room. When she had finished her unpacking, she put on her best cashmere dress, with its soft white frilling, and fastened a few white flowers at her throat.

Then she sat down before the fire, and had a quiet quarter of an hour before Edna came in search of her and carried her off.

All the evening Edna was as merry as possible. She played several of her favorite pieces, and even sung a little; only as the evening drew to its close she began to have a white, exhausted look; but she followed Bessie into her room, and sat down on the rug, with the evident intention of having a talk.

"Edna, you must not stay; you look far too tired," remonstrated Bessie; "and we shall have plenty of time for talk to-morrow."

"But I like fireside talks best," replied Edna willfully; "and I am not inclined to sleep yet. I do hate the night!" with sudden petulance. "It is so stupid to lie awake and watch the fire go out, and count sheep jumping through a gap in the hedge; anything to cheat one's self into oblivion. Do you sleep well, Bessie?"

"Yes, always; trouble never keeps me awake. I always think of Hatty when I lie down, and wonder what she is doing, and what the angels are teaching her, but I fall asleep in the middle of a thought, and it is morning before I wake."

"Oh, you have a good conscience," replied Edna bitterly; "you have no remorseful thoughts to goad you into wakefulness. If one could only have one's life over again, Bessie? I want you to help me while you are here, to think what I had better do. I cannot go on like this. Is there anything that I can do? Any work? If it were not for mamma, I would go to some hospital and learn nursing; it is too dreadful living like this just to amuse one's self, and try to forget. I must do something, something for the good of myself, if not for my fellow-creatures."

Bessie listened to her with some surprise. Edna's manner was excited; she looked feverish; her voice had a hard ring in it.

"Tell me what I must do," she said, fixing her large eyes on Bessie.

"Dear, you must get well first," replied Bessie tenderly. "You are far from strong; your mother is right, Edna."

Edna shook her head impatiently.

"It is nothing--a cold; what does it signify? How can one feel well with all these worrying thoughts? It is work that I want, Bessie--work that will take me out of myself and make me forget."

"Are you sure that G.o.d wishes you to forget?" asked Bessie softly. "Oh, my dear," stroking her hand, "you can never say again that I do not know what trouble is, that I cannot feel for you; but I have learned that we must not run away from our trouble; girls so often talk like that," she went on, "about going into a hospital, but they do not know what they want. Nursing is too sacred a work to be done from such a motive. What good would such a work, undertaken in a selfish, self-seeking spirit, do them? Edna, when G.o.d wounds He heals, but it must be in His own time, and in the proper place; and even troubles caused by our own recklessness must come under this head."

"But, Bessie----"

"Wait a minute, dear; I seem to see it so clearly. You have work, only you are throwing it aside and asking for more. 'Thou earnest not to thy place by accident; it is the very place G.o.d meant for thee.' Don't you remember those lines? Surely, surely, an only daughter's place must be with her mother; to make her happy must be no light duty. You are her one thought from morning to night; it breaks her heart to see you unhappy. Edna, if your mother died, and you had not tried to make her happy!"

"Do you mean--oh, I see what you mean, but I am too selfish to find it out for myself. I am only thinking of my own good, not of her at all. I have never been good to her; she gives all, and I just take it."

"Make her your work," whispered Bessie, "and bye and bye comfort will come to you, as it would not in any hospital, in any self-chosen duty; for where G.o.d puts us, He must find us, or we shall have to give an account of why we have erred and strayed," finished Bessie reverently.

CHAPTER XXI.

ON THE PARADE.