Читать книгу Our Bessie - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 7

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The brief silence was broken by Edna.

“What a nice boy your brother is!” she observed, in rather a patronizing tone.

Bessie looked up in some surprise.

“Tom does not consider himself a boy, I assure you; he is one-and-twenty, and ever since he has gone to Oxford he thinks himself of great consequence. I dare say we spoil him among us, as he is our only brother now. If Frank had lived,” and here Bessie sighed, “he would have been five-and-twenty by this time; but he died four years ago. It was such a blow to poor father and mother; he was so good and clever, and he was studying for a doctor; but he caught a severe chill, and congestion of the lungs came on, and in a few days he was dead. I don’t think mother has ever been quite the same since his death—Frank was so much to her.”

“How very sad!” returned Edna sympathetically, for Bessie’s eyes had grown soft and misty as she touched this chord of sadness; “it must be terrible to lose any one whom one loves.” And then she added, with a smile, “I did not mean to hurt your feelings by calling your brother a boy, but he seemed very young to me. You see, I am engaged, and Mr. Sinclair (that is my fiancé) is nearly thirty, and he is so grave and quiet that any one like your brother seems like a boy beside him.”

“You are engaged?” ejaculated Bessie, in an awestruck tone.

“Yes; it seems a pity, does it not? at least mamma says so; she thinks I am too young and giddy to know my own mind; and yet she is very fond of Neville—Mr. Sinclair, I mean. She will have it that we are not a bit suited to each other, and I dare say she is right, for certainly we do not think alike on a single point.”

Bessie’s eyes opened rather widely at this candid statement. She was a simple little soul, and had not yet learned the creed of emancipation. She held the old-fashioned views that her mother had held before her. Her mother seldom talked on these subjects, and Bessie had inherited this reticence. She listened with a sort of wondering disgust when her girl acquaintances chattered flippantly about their lovers, and boasted openly of their power over them.

“If this sort of thing ever comes to me,” thought Bessie on these occasions, “I shall think it too wonderful and precious to make it the subject of idle conversation. How can any one take upon themselves the responsibility of another human being’s happiness—for that is what it really means—and turn it into a jest? It is far too sacred and beautiful a thing for such treatment. I think mother is right when she says, ‘Girls of the present day have so little reticence.’ ”

She hardly knew what to make of Edna’s speech; it was not exactly flippant, but it seemed so strange to hear so young a creature speak in that cool, matter-of-fact way.

“I don’t see how people are to get on together, if they do not think alike,” she observed, in a perplexed voice; but Edna only laughed.

“I am afraid we don’t get on. Mother says she never saw such a couple; that we are always quarrelling and making up like two children; but I put it to you, Miss Lambert, how are things to be better? I am used to my own way, and Mr. Sinclair is used to his. I like fun and plenty of change, and dread nothing so much as being bored—ennuyée, in fact, and he is all for quiet. Then he is terribly clever, and has every sort of knowledge at his fingers’ end. He is a barrister, and rising in his profession, and I seldom open a book unless it be a novel.”

“I wonder why he chose you,” observed Bessie naïvely, and Edna seemed much amused by her frankness.

“Oh, how deliciously downright you are, Miss Lambert. Well, do you know I have not the faintest notion why Neville asked me to marry him, any more than I know why I listened to him. I tell him sometimes that it was the most ridiculous mistake in the world, and that either he or I, or both of us, must have been bewitched. I am really very sorry for him sometimes; I do make him so unhappy; and sometimes I am sorry for myself. But there, the whole thing is beyond my comprehension. If I could alter myself or alter Neville, things would be more comfortable and less unpleasantly exciting.” And here Edna laughed again, and then stifled another yawn; and this time Bessie declared she would not stop a moment longer. Christine would be asleep.

“Well, perhaps I should only talk nonsense if you remained, and I can see you are easily shocked, so I will allow you to wish me good-night.” But, to Bessie’s surprise, Edna kissed her affectionately.

“You have been a Good Samaritan to me,” she said quietly, “and I am really very grateful.” And Bessie withdrew, touched by the unexpected caress.

“What a strange mixture she is!” she thought, as she softly closed the door. “I think she must have been badly brought up; perhaps her mother has spoiled her. I fancy she is affectionate by nature, but she is worldly, and cares too much for pleasure; anyhow, one cannot help being interested in her.” But here she broke off abruptly as she passed a half-opened door, and a voice from within summoned her.

“Oh, Hatty, you naughty child, are you awake? Do you know it is nearly twelve o’clock?”

“What does that matter?” returned Hatty fretfully, as Bessie groped her way carefully toward the bed. “I could not sleep until you had said good-night to me. I suppose you had forgotten me; you never thought I was lying here waiting for you, while you were talking to Miss Sefton.”

“Now, Hatty, I hope you are not going to be tiresome;” and Bessie’s voice was a little weary; and then she relented, and said gently, “You know I never forget you, Hatty dear.”

“No, of course not,” returned the other eagerly. “I did not mean to be cross. Put your head down beside me on the pillow, Bessie darling, for I know you are just as tired as possible. You don’t mind stopping with me for a few minutes, do you? for I have not spoken to you for three weeks.”

“No, I am not so tired as all that, and I am quite comfortable,” as a thin, soft cheek laid itself against her’s in the darkness. “What has gone wrong, Hatty dear? for I know by your tone you have been making yourself miserable about something. You have wanted me back to scold you into cheerfulness.”

“I have wanted you dreadfully,” sighed Hatty. “Mother and Christine have been very kind, but they don’t help me as you do, and Tom teases me dreadfully. What do you think he said yesterday to mother? I was in the room and heard him myself. He actually said, ‘I wonder my father allows you all to spoil Hatty as you do. You all give in to her, however cross and unreasonable she is, and so her temper gets worse every day.’ ”

“Well, you are very often cross, you know,” returned Bessie truthfully.

“Yes, but I try not to be,” replied Hatty, with a little sob. “Tom would have been cross too if his head and back had ached as mine were aching, but he always feels well and strong. I think it is cruel of him to say such things to mother, when he knows how much I have to suffer.”

“Tom did not mean to be unkind, Hatty; you are always finding fault with the poor boy. It is difficult for a young man, who does not know what an ache means, nor what it is to wake up tired, to realize what real suffering all your little ailments cause you. Tom is really very kind and good-natured, only your sharp little speeches irritate him.”

“I am always irritating some one,” moaned Hatty. “I can’t think how any of you can love me. I often cry myself to sleep, to think how horrid and disagreeable I have been in the day. I make good resolutions then, but the next morning I am as bad as ever, and then I think it is no use trying any more. Last night Tom made me so unhappy that I could not say my prayers.”

“Poor little Hatty!”

“Yes, I know you are sorry for me; you are such a dear that I cannot be as cross with you as I am with Tom; but, Bessie, I wish you would comfort me a little; if you would only tell me that I am not so much to blame.”

“We have talked that over a great many times before. You know what I think, Hatty; you are not to blame for your weakness; that is a trial laid upon you; but you are to blame if that weakness is so impatiently borne that it leads you to sin.”

“I am sure father thinks that I cannot help my irritability; he will never let Tom scold me if he is in the room.”

“That is because father is so kind, and he knows you have such a hard time of it, you poor child, and that makes us all so sorry for you; but, Hatty, you must not let all this love spoil you; we are patient with you because we know your weakness, but we cannot help you if you do not help yourself. Don’t you recollect what dear Mr. Robertson said in his sermon? that ‘harassed nerves must be striven against, as we strive against anything that hinders our daily growth in grace.’ He said people were more tolerant of this form of weakness than of any other, and yet it caused much misery in homes, and he went on to tell us that every irritable word left unspoken, every peevish complaint hushed, was as real a victory as though we had done some great thing. ‘If we must suffer,’ he said, ‘at least let us suffer quietly, and not spend our breath in fruitless complaint. People will avoid a fretful person as though they were plague-tainted; and why? because they trouble the very atmosphere round them, and no one can enjoy peace in their neighborhood.’ ”

“I am sure Mr. Robertson must have meant me, Bessie.”

“No, darling, no; I won’t have you exaggerate or judge yourself too harshly. You are not always cross, or we should not be so fond of you. You make us sad sometimes, when you sit apart, brooding over some imaginary grievance; that is why father calls you Little Miss Much-Afraid.”

“Yes, you all laugh at me, but indeed the darkness is very real. Sometimes I wonder why I have been sent into the world, if I am not to be happy myself, nor to make other people happy. You are like a sunbeam yourself, Bessie, and so you hardly understand what I mean.”

“Oh, yes, I do; but I never see any good in putting questions that we cannot answer; only I am quite sure you have your duty to do, quite as much as I have mine, only you have not found it out.”

“Perhaps I am the thorn in the flesh to discipline you all into patience,” returned Hatty quaintly, for she was not without humor.

“Very well, then, my thorn; fulfil your mission,” returned Bessie, kissing her. “But I cannot keep awake and speak words of wisdom any longer.” And she scrambled over the bed, and with another cheerful “good-night,” vanished; but Hatty’s troubled thoughts were lulled by sisterly sympathy, and she soon slept peacefully. Late as it was before Bessie laid her weary head on the pillow beside her sleeping sister, it was long before her eyes closed and she sunk into utter forgetfulness. Her mind seemed crowded with vague images and disconnected thoughts. Recollections of the hours spent in Sheen Valley, the weird effect of the dusky figures passing and repassing in the dim, uncertain light, the faint streaks of light across the snow, the dull winter sky, the eager welcome of the lonely girl, the long friendly talk ripening into budding intimacy, all passed vividly before her, followed by Hatty’s artless confession.

“Poor little thing!” thought Bessie compassionately, for there was a specially soft place in her heart for Hatty. She had always been her particular charge. All Hatty’s failures, her miserable derelictions of duty, her morbid self-accusations and nervous fancies, bred of a sickly body and over-anxious temperament, were breathed into Bessie’s sympathizing ear. Hatty’s feebleness borrowed strength and courage from Bessie’s vigorous counsels. She felt braced by mere contact with such a strong, healthy organization. She was always less fretful and impatient when Bessie was near; her cheery influence cleared away many a cloud that threatened to obscure Hatty’s horizon.

“Bear ye one another’s burdens,” was a command literally obeyed by Bessie in her unselfish devotion to Hatty, her self-sacrificing efforts to cheer and rouse her; but she never could be made to understand that there was any merit in her conduct.

“I know Hatty is often cross, and ready to take offence,” she would say; “but I think we ought to make allowances for her. I don’t think we realize how much she has to bear—that she never feels well.”

“Oh, that is all very well,” Christine would answer, for she had a quick temper too, and would fire up after one of Hatty’s sarcastic little speeches; “but it is time Hatty learned self-control. I dare say you are often tired after your Sunday class, but no one hears a cross word from you.”

“Oh, I keep it all in,” Bessie returned, laughing. “But I dare say I feel cross all the same. I don’t think any of us can guess what it must be to wake depressed and languid every morning. A louder voice than usual does not make our heads ache, yet I have seen Hatty wince with pain when Tom indulged in one of his laughs.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Christine, only half convinced by this. “Of course it is very trying, but Hatty must be used to it by this time, for she has never been strong from a baby; and yet she is always bemoaning herself, as though it were something fresh.”

“It is not easy to get used to this sort of trouble,” answered Bessie, rather sadly. “And I must say I always feel very sorry for Hatty,” and so the conversation closed.

But in her heart Bessie said: “It is all very well to preach patience, and I for one am always preaching it to Hatty, but it is not so easy to practice it. Mother and Christine are always praising me for being so good tempered; but if one feels strong and well, and has a healthy appetite and good digestion, it is very easy to keep from being cross; but in other ways I am not half so good as Hatty; she is the purest, humblest little soul breathing.”

In spite of late hours, Bessie was downstairs the next morning at her usual time; she always presided at the breakfast-table. Since her eldest son’s death, Mrs. Lambert had lost much of her strength and energy, and though her husband refused to acknowledge her as an invalid, or to treat her as one, yet most of her duties had devolved upon Bessie, whose useful energy supplemented her mother’s failing powers.

Bessie had briefly hinted at her family sorrow; she was not one at any time to dwell upon her feelings, nor to indulge in morbid retrospection, but it was true that the loss of that dearly loved son and brother had clouded the bright home atmosphere. Mrs. Lambert had borne her trouble meekly, and had striven to comfort her husband who had broken down under the sudden blow. She spoke little, even to her daughters, of the grief that was slowly consuming her; but as time went on, and Dr. Lambert recovered his cheerfulness, he noticed that his wife drooped and ailed more than usual; she had grown into slow quiet ways that seemed to point to failing strength.

“Bessie, your mother is not as young as she used to be,” he said abruptly, one morning, “She does not complain, but then she is not one of the complaining sort; she was always a quiet creature; but you girls must put your shoulders to the wheel, and spare her as much as possible.” And from that day Bessie had become her mother’s crutch.

It was a wonderful relief to the harassed mother when she found a confidante to whom she could pour out all her anxieties.

Dr. Lambert was not a rich man; his practice was large, but many of his patients were poor, and he had heavy expenses. The hilly roads and long distances obliged him to keep two horses. He had sent both his sons to Oxford, thinking a good education would be their best inheritance, and this had obliged him to curtail domestic expenses. He was a careful man, too, who looked forward to the future, and thought it his duty to lay aside a yearly sum to make provision for his wife and children.

“I have only one son now, and Hatty will always be a care, poor child,” he said more than once.

So, though there was always a liberal table kept in the doctor’s house, it being Dr. Lambert’s theory that growing girls needed plenty of nourishing food, the young people were taught economy in every other matter. The girls dressed simply and made their own gowns. Carpets and furniture grew the worse for wear, and were not always replaced at once. Tom grumbled sometimes when one of his Oxford friends came to dinner. He and Christine used to bewail the shabby covers in the drawing-room.

“It is such a pretty room if it were only furbished off a bit,” Tom said once. “Why don’t you girls coax the governor to let you do it up?” Tom never used the word governor unless he was in a grumbling mood, for he knew how his father hated it.

“I don’t think father can afford anything this year, Tom,” Bessie returned, in her fearless way. “Why do you ask your grand friends if you think they will look down on us? We don’t pretend to be rich people. They will find the chairs very comfortable if they will condescend to sit on them, and the tables as strong as other people’s tables; and though the carpet is a little faded, there are no holes to trip your friends up.”

“Oh, shut up, Betty!” returned Tom, restored to good humor by her honest sarcasm. “Ferguson will come if I ask him. I think he is a bit taken with old Chrissy.” And so ended the argument.

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