_ CHAPTER XVIII. "FAREWELL, NIGHT!"
The journey seemed endless to Bessie, but she restrained her painful restlessness for Tom's sake. Tom was very kind after his own fashion; he got her some tea at Paddington, and was very attentive to her comfort, and every now and then he gave utterance to a few remarks, bidding her keep up her heart like a brave little woman.
"'While there is life there is hope,' you know, Bessie," he said. "I think my father takes too dark a view of the case; but then, you see, Hatty is his own child. I don't believe she is as bad as all that; depend upon it, she will take a good turn yet."
"Don't let us talk about it, Tom," pleaded Bessie, with a sick, wretched feeling that Tom's boyish testimony was not very reliable. How she wished he would be silent; but in a few minutes he was back again on the same subject, with another homely axiom for Bessie's comfort.
But the longest day must have an end, and at last they reached Cliffe. No one met them at the station, but Tom assured her that he never expected to be met; he put Bessie into a fly, and again there was need for patience, as the horse toiled slowly up the steep road. It was long past nine when they reached the house, and by that time Bessie's overwrought feelings bordered on nervous irritability.
The door opened as the fly stopped, and by the hall lamp she saw her mother's face, looking paler and sadder, but her voice was as quiet and gentle as ever.
"Is that you, Bessie? My dear child, how tired you must be!"
"Oh, mother, mother!" and now Bessie literally fell on her mother's neck and wept.
Mrs. Lambert seemed to understand all about it; she made her sit down on the couch, and took off her hat, and smoothed her hair with caressing fingers.
"You have had a long day, and have been keeping up as well as you could; don't be afraid of giving way a little, now you are with your own mother," she said tenderly.
"Oh, mother, you are such a comfort; but I must not trouble you like this, and I am keeping you from Hatty."
"Hattie is asleep," replied her mother quietly. "Christine is with her; you must come into the dining-room with me, and have something to eat and drink before you go upstairs;" but Bessie detained her "Wait a moment, mother, darling; Tom is there, and I want to speak to you alone. What does father really think of Hatty?"
"He thinks her very ill," was the sorrowful answer; "it seems a sudden failure. She was much as usual until the warm weather came, and then one evening she complained of palpitation and faintness, and the next day she seemed very weak, and so it has gone on. Your father says he was always afraid there was latent mischief, but I think he hardly expected it would be like this. There was a consultation this morning, but they say there is no rallying power, and another attack may carry her off."
"Oh, mother, if I had only stayed at home!"
"Don't say that, Bessie; you must not even think of it; no care on your part could have prevented this. Hatty seemed as well as usual for a week or two after you left, and none of us suspected anything. You are very good not to reproach us for not sending for you before, but Hatty prevented us; she would not have your pleasure spoiled, and it was only last night that your father looked so grave, and said Tom had better fetch you."
"But is there no hope--no hope at all, mother?"
"I dare not ask the question," and here Mrs. Lambert's eyes filled with tears. "Your father looks so harassed. Dr. Morton said she might go on like this for a long time, getting weaker and weaker, or it might be sudden. Dear little Hatty is so good and patient, and gives us no trouble. Now you must not talk any more, and you must be a good child and take your supper; we all need to keep up our strength. I will leave Tom to take care of you while I go up to Hatty."
Bessie did as she was told, and Ella and Katie waited on her, and then she went up to her own room, and stayed there until Christine came to fetch her.
"Hattie is awake now, Bessie, and she is asking for you, and mother has gone downstairs to speak to father."
"Thank you, Chrissy dear. I will go to her at once;" and Bessie went hurriedly across the passage.
Hattie lay on her little bed with her eyes closed. As she opened them a sudden sweet smile came over her face, and she held out her arms to Bessie. "My own Betty, is it really you?"
"Yes, it is really I," returned Bessie, trying to speak brightly; but now her heart sunk as she looked at her sister. There was no need to tell her Hatty was very ill; the life was flickering in the feeble body, the mysterious wasting disease had made rapid strides, even in these few days. "Oh, Hatty darling, to find you like this! Why--why did you not let them send for me? You wanted me; I am sure you wanted me."
"Why, of course I wanted you," returned Hatty, in a weak, happy voice, "and that is just why I would not let them send. You know how unhappy I have always been because of my horrid selfishness, and I did want to be good for once, and I said to myself when Mrs. Sefton's letter came, 'Bessie shall not know how poorly I feel, nor what strange suffocating feelings I have sometimes. I won't try to get my own way this time; she shall be happy a little longer.'"
"Oh, Hatty! as though I cared for any happiness without you!"
"You must not say that, Bessie dear," replied Hatty, stroking her sister's hand; "and yet it seems nice to hear you say so. Do you recollect what I used to say--that it would take very little to kill me, because I was so weak? Well, I think it is coming true."
"Don't talk so, Hatty; I can't bear it. I feel as if I want to lie there in your stead."
But Hatty shook her head.
"No, darling, no; that would not do at all. You are so strong and full of life, and people could not spare you. It does not matter for a weakly little creature like myself. I have never been strong enough to enjoy anything. I have just been 'Little Miss Much-Afraid,' full of troublesome fears and fancies; but they seem gone somehow."
"I am so glad, my Hatty; but ought you to talk?"
"Yes, when I feel like this. Oh, I am so comfortable, and it is so nice to have you with me again. What talks we will have! Yes, I don't feel like dying yet. Oh, there's mother, and she is going to send you away."
"Yes, for to-night, love. Bessie is tired, and it is not good for you to talk so much. Bessie shall be head nurse to-morrow, if she likes, but father says she is to go to bed now."
"Very well, mother," replied Hatty meekly. "Bid me good-night, Bessie. I don't mean to be selfish ever again." And as Bessie kissed her without speaking and moved away, she said to herself, "It was Bessie that always helped me to be good; but bye and bye I shall be quite good. Oh, how nice that will be!"
Bessie's life was changed, indeed, from this day. No more thoughtless, merry hours, no more rides and drives and pleasant musical evenings. Her days were passed in a sick-room, and from hour to hour she seemed only to live on Hatty's looks and words. Bessie had for many years been her mother's right hand, and now she shared her watch beside the sick-bed. Her bright, healthy color began to fade from fatigue and anxiety, and it needed her father's stringent orders to induce her to take needful rest and exercise. For the first time in her life Bessie found it difficult to submit, and she had to fight more than one battle with herself before she yielded. More than once her mother remonstrated with her tenderly but firmly.
"Bessie dear," she said once, "this may be a long illness, and it is your duty to husband your strength most carefully. You are looking pale from confinement to the house and want of exercise. You know your father insists that Christine should relieve you for two hours in the afternoon."
"Yes, mother; and of course father is thinking of me; but what does it matter if I look a little pale? I cannot bear to lose an hour of Hatty's company when--when--" but Bessie could not finish her sentence.
"My dear, the feeling is natural; but don't you think Chrissy likes to have her to herself sometimes? We all love Hatty; you must remember that."
"Oh, mother, how selfish I am, after all! I see what you mean. I want to monopolize Hatty, and I grudge her to every one else--even to you and Chrissy. I never knew I could be so horrid; but I see even trouble has its temptations."
"Indeed it has, Bessie; but I will not have you say such hard things about yourself. You are our dear child, and our greatest comfort, and I do not know what your father and I would do without you. Don't fret any more, darling; go out with Katie, and get a little turn in the woods, and come back fresh for the evening work."
Mrs. Lambert's words were not thrown away. Bessie's sweet, reasonable nature was easily guided; her passionate love for Hatty had blinded her to her own selfishness, but now her eyes were open. The mother's heart was often touched by the cheerful alacrity with which Bessie would yield her place to Christine. Even Hatty's plaintive, "Oh, must you go, Bessie?" seemed to make no impression; but how long those two hours seemed!
Bessie did not forget her friends in her trouble; she sent frequent notes to Edna, and heard often from her in return. Now and then a kind message came from Richard, and every week a hamper filled with farm produce and fruit and flowers were sent from The Grange. Hatty used to revel in those flowers; she liked to arrange them herself, and would sit pillowed up on her bed or couch, and fill the vases with slow, tremulous fingers.
"Doesn't the room look lovely?" she would say, in a tone of intense satisfaction. When her weakness permitted she loved to talk to Bessie about her friends at The Grange, and was never weary of listening to Bessie's descriptions.
"What a nice man Mr. Richard must be, Betty!" she would say. "I should like to see him." And she often harped on this theme, and questioned Bessie closely on this subject; but often their talk went deeper than this.
One evening, about five weeks after Bessie's return, she was alone with Hatty; she had been reading to her, and now Hatty asked her to put down the book.
"Yes, it is very nice, but I feel inclined to talk. Come and lie on the bed, Bessie, and let us have one of our old cosy talks. Put your head down on the pillow beside me. Yes, that is how I mean; isn't that comfortable? I always did like you to put your arm round me. How strong and firm your hand feels! Look at the difference." And Hatty laid her wasted, transparent fingers on Bessie's pink palm.
"Poor little Hatty?"
"No, I am not poor a bit now. You must not call me that. I don't think I have ever been so happy in my life. Every one is so kind to me--even Tom--he never finds fault with me now."
"We are all so sorry for you."
"Yes, but you must not be too sorry. Somehow I am glad of this illness, because it makes you all think better of me. You will not remember now how cross, and jealous, and selfish I used to be. You will only say, 'Poor little thing, she always wanted to be good, even when she was most naughty and troublesome.'"
"Don't, Hatty; I can't bear to hear you!"
"Yes, let me say it, please; it seems to do me good. How often you have helped me over my difficulties. 'If I could only tell Bessie,' that was what I used to say. I am glad you went away and gave me something to bear. I used to be glad every night when I prayed; it was something to do for you, and something to bear for His sake." And Hatty dropped her voice reverently, for she was speaking of the Lord Jesus.
"Yes, darling, I see what you mean."
"I am glad that it has not been too easy, and that I have really tried for once not to be selfish. I don't want to get well, Bessie. I should have all the old, miserable feelings over again. I have been 'Little Miss Much-Afraid' all my life, and the fears have been a part of me. Do you recollect what Bunyan said about Much-Afraid? 'She went through the river singing;' that was because she had left all her fears and troubles on the bank."
"And you are not afraid to die, Hatty?"
"No, not really afraid. Sometimes in the night, when I lie awake with that strange oppression, I think how strange it will be without you all, and to have only the angels to talk to me. But I suppose I shall get used to it. I always say that psalm over to myself, and then the queer feeling leaves me. Don't you know? 'He shall give His angels charge over thee. They shall bear thee up in their hands.' That verse gives one such a restful feeling; just as though one were a little child again."
"Dear Hatty, you will be in that city where 'the inhabitants shall not say, I am sick, and they that dwell therein shall be forgiven their iniquity.' You will be where Jesus is.
'Peace, perfect peace with loved ones far away!
In Jesus' keeping we are safe--and they.'
It does me good to hear you; but you must not talk any more, your voice is so weak. Let me repeat one of your favorite hymns, and then perhaps you will get drowsy." And then Hatty consented to be silent.
After all, the end came very suddenly, just when it was least expected. Hatty had seemed better that day; there was a strange flicker of life and energy; she had talked much to her mother and Bessie, and had sent a loving, playful message to Tom, who was away from home.
It had been her father's custom to take the early part of the night-watch, and then to summon one of the others to relieve him. He had persisted in this, in spite of long, laborious days. Hatty was very dear to her father's heart, and he loved those quiet hours beside her. Bessie had retired to bed early, as it was her turn to be roused, but long before the usual hour her mother was beside her.
"Come, my child, come; do not wait to dress, Hatty is going home fast."
One startled, non-comprehending look, and then the truth rushed on Bessie, and she threw on her dressing-gown and hurried to the sick-room.
"Going home fast!" nay, she had gone; the last sigh was breathed as Bessie crossed the threshold "Thank God, she has not suffered!" murmured her father. Bessie heard him as she flung herself down beside Hatty.
There had been no pain, no struggle; a sudden change, a few short sighs, and Hatty had crossed the river. How peaceful and happy she looked in her last sleep--the sweet, deep sleep that knows no awaking! An innocent smile seemed to linger on her face. Never more would Hatty mourn over her faults and shortcomings; never more would morbid fears torment and harass her weary mind; never more would she plead for forgiveness, nor falter underneath her life's burden, for, as Maguire says, "To those doubting ones earth was a night season of gloom and darkness, and in the borderland they saw the dawn of day; and when the summons comes they are glad to bid farewell to the night that is past, and to welcome with joy and singing the eternal day, whose rising shall know no sunset."
Many and many a time during that mourning week did Bessie, spent and weary with weeping, recall those words that her darling had uttered, "I don't want to get well, Bessie; I should have all the old miserable feelings over again." And even in her desolation Bessie would not have called her back.
"My Hatty has gone," she wrote to Edna, in those first days of her loss. "I shall never see her sweet face again until we meet in Paradise. I shall never hear her loving voice; but for her own sake I cannot wish her back. Her life was not a happy one; no one could make it happy, it was shadowed by physical depression. She had much to bear, and it was not always easy to understand her; it was difficult for her to give expression to the nameless fears, and the strange, morbid feelings that made life so difficult. She loved us all so much, but even her love made her wretched, for a careless word or a thoughtless speech rankled in her mind for days, and it was not easy to extract the sting; she was too sensitive, too highly organized for daily life; she made herself miserable about trifles. I know she could not help it, poor darling, and father says so too. Oh, how I miss her. But God only knows that, and I dare say He will comfort me in His own good time. Mother is ill; she is never strong, and the nursing and grief have broken her down, so we must all think of her. Pray for us all, dear Edna, for these are sorrowful days. I do not forget you, but I seem to look at you through the mist of years; still, I am always your loving friend,
"BESSIE."
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