Chapter X At Sidcombe
Miss Gifford and the two girls, Gertrude and Lena, had been now for some days in their comfortable lodgings at Sidcombe, and Lena was fast becoming very fond of her new companion. Although they had seen a great deal of Gertrude during their stay at Astbury, both she and Milly had looked upon her as being nearly grown up, and though liking her very much, for she was always kind and good to them, they looked upon her in quite a different light to that in which they looked on Bessie, not considering her, as they did the latter, as a companion and playfellow. There seemed to Lena more difference between her twelve and Gertrude’s fifteen years, than there was between Milly and Bessie, though the actual difference in age was much the same. Gertrude was very different from her sister, Bessie being much gentler and quieter in disposition. But now, in the quiet and daily companionship of their life, the two girls were fast becoming firm friends.
The life at Sidcombe was very pleasant, and Lena was enjoying it much. There was nothing here to recall the secret trouble that had been haunting her at home, and no word was ever said to call forth the struggle between right and wrong, between deceit and truth, that had been of daily occurrence when with her mother-and sisters. She was only too glad to think that her secret was to remain one for ever, and that the whole thing was an affair of the past, never to trouble her any more.
Both Miss Gifford and Gertrude were very kind to Lena, and the days passed in a simple but happy manner. Their mornings were spent on the sands, and there was nothing Lena enjoyed more, when the morning bath in the sea was over, than to lie under shelter of some rock, and listen to Gertrude as she read aloud, for Miss Gifford said something in the way of lessons must be done, so had fixed upon this plan, of reading out for a certain number of hours each morning from an interesting and improving book, certainly the pleasantest of all ways of gaining knowledge.
The afternoons and evenings were devoted to long rambles, either along the sands, or through the pretty lanes and fields of the country round. At first both girls were eager to wander about and explore the neighbourhood, but very soon they grew either too lazy, or the weather became too hot, or for some reason Lena began to tire of long walks, and she would ask Miss Gifford and Gertrude to spend their evenings on the water, being rowed about in the cool evening air, chatting to one another, or listening to the many tales that their boatman, who was an old sailor, delighted to tell them of the many places he had visited.
One afternoon Miss Gifford said she had letters to write, so the two girls started off together for a walk.
“Where shall we go?” asked Lena.
“Suppose we go to the wood. We have only been once since we came.”
“Right past that little white cottage where we saw that pretty little girl who sold us flowers?”
“Yes, and perhaps we shall see her again. Now don’t be lazy, Lena; it will be a lovely walk.”
“Can we buy some more flowers? David says that she and her mother are very poor.”
“I will run and ask Miss Gifford,” said Gertrude, turning back and re-entering the house she soon came out again, saying, “Yes, we may; and Miss Gifford says she will come and meet us when she has finished her letters.”
They started off again, this time without returning, talking of the little girl, whose sweet looks and gentle manner had interested them all, and of whom their boatman David had often spoken to them, her father, who had been a sailor like himself, having been drowned a few years before, leaving his widow and children very poor, and in a certain degree to David’s care.
Their way lay along a shady lane, bordered with ferns and wild flowers, tempting both girls to stop to pick and admire them more than once. Before they reached the end of the lane, Lena said, “O Gertrude, let us wait here for Miss Gifford; it’s so hot, and I am so tired;” and she seated herself on the bank as she spoke.
“You lazy girl!” laughed Gertrude; then seeing that she looked really tired, added, “You take a rest, dear, while I pick some flowers and ferns, and then I will bring them to you and we will arrange them together.”
Gertrude had joined Lena, with both hands full of floral treasures, and they were busy arranging them into a pretty nosegay, when the sound of footsteps caused them to look up. They so seldom met any one in these quiet lanes, that both the girls stopped their work to see who was coming. In a few moments their curiosity was gratified by seeing their old friend the boatman coming towards them from the direction of the White Cottage.
“Halloa, David!” called out Lena, “have you been for a walk?”
“Yes, Missie,” answered the old man as he touched his hat.
“We are going to the wood, and to call and buy some flowers from that little girl, Mary Roberts,” said Gertrude.
“I would not go that way to-day, Miss,” he answered gravely.
“Oh yes, but we want to—we mean to,” said Lena.
“What is the matter, David?” asked Gertrude, seeing he looked troubled.
“I’ve just came from the cottage, Miss, from seeing little Mary. She’s down with the fever.”
Both girls exclaimed in tones of pity, “Poor Mary!” and Gertrude added, “Is there nothing we can do for her, David? Is she very ill?”
“Yes, Miss, she’s terrible bad, and her mother is in a sad way about her.”
“Oh, do take her this,” pressing into his hand the money Miss Gifford had given them to pay for the flowers. “And we will go back and ask Miss Gifford to help her. Come, Lena.”
Both the girls were eager to hurry back to ask for assistance, but David would not let them go until they promised they would not go near the cottage, as he feared the fever might be infectious.
When they gave the desired promise, he thanked them, and said he would return with the money they had given him, for small though the coin was, it would be a help to the poor hard-working mother.
“Is she very ill, David?” asked Lena in an awed tone; “will she die?”
“She is in God’s hands, Missie; the best and safest of all,” he answered reverently, adding, “She’s very young, and it’s wonderful what a deal of illness young things can bear.”
“How old is she?” asked Gertrude kindly.
“Twelve years, that’s all.”
“Just your age, Lena.” Then with a friendly good-bye to the old man, the two girls hurried off to meet Miss Gifford, and tell her of the sad trouble that had overtaken Mrs. Roberts and her child.
They had gone but a very little way when they met Miss Gifford hurrying towards them. When she went to post her letters, she had heard a rumour of there being fever at Mrs. Roberts’ cottage, and she had hurried after the two girls, hoping to overtake them before they reached the cottage, for she dreaded their running into any danger of infection. Her first question was as to whether they had been, and it was with deep thankfulness she heard how they had loitered on the way, and that they had met David, who had stopped their going on.
“We may send them something, may we not?” they both asked eagerly as they walked home.
Very soon a basket was despatched under David’s care, filled with things that Miss Gifford thought would be good for the sick child. There was no boating that evening, both the girls declaring it would not be fair upon their “own man,” as they called David, to employ any one else, when he had gone on an errand of kindness and mercy to his old friend’s widow and child.
Miss Gifford was naturally very anxious about the health of her two pupils, and she remembered, with a feeling of uneasiness, how much Lena had complained the last few days of being tired; and as she looked white that evening after the great heat of the day, she hurried her off early to bed, much against Lena’s inclination. But Miss Gifford was firm, and she had to obey.
The next day came news that little Mary was still very very ill, and there was but small hope of her recovery. And the two girls spoke and thought much of the poor little sufferer, who but a few days ago had brought them flowers, apparently as well and with as fair a prospect of living as either of themselves, now lying tossing restlessly about in the clutches of that cruel fever, in the small close cottage that was her home.
“She is not going to die, is she, Gertrude?” asked Lena. “She is so young—only twelve.”
It was not Gertrude, but Miss Gifford, that answered this remark with, “Age has nothing to do with it, Lena dear. It is not only the aged that God calls away. We ought all, even children, try to live good lives, so that when our summons comes we may be ready and glad to go.”
“But we can’t; at least children can’t always be good,” said Lena.
“No, dear; but we can all try, and if we do fall, we can repent, and ask God’s forgiveness, which He never withholds, and then we need not fear.”
“But David says little Mary is such a good girl, so truthful and honest, and always been so kind to her mother and everybody; he says she is a real little Christian,” said Gertrude.
“Yes, so I was very glad to hear,” answered Miss Gifford.
“It would be a dreadful thing,” said Gertrude, thoughtfully, “to die when you were doing a wrong thing.”
“Little Mary is not going to die,” said Lena almost passionately, bursting into a flood of tears as she spoke.
Miss Gifford looked surprised but said nothing except, “We hope not, dear Lena.” Then drawing the weeping child to her side, she soothed her with gentle words, until she had recovered, and regained her composure once more.
Nothing more was said on the subject of little Mary that morning. Gertrude opened her book and read out until it was time to return to the house, while Lena leant with her head against Miss Gifford’s shoulder, apparently listening intently, but in reality thinking and wondering over many things.
After dinner Miss Gifford announced that it was too hot for a walk; and as Lena complained of having a headache, she was to lie down until it was cool enough for them to go out, adding, as she left the room, “Poor child, I had no idea she would have felt for others so very strongly.”
As Lena lay on the bed in the darkened room, sleep was very far from her. Although her eyes were shut, her thoughts were very busy. Gertrude’s words came back to her over and over again, “To die doing wrong.” Her head ached dreadfully, which was not to be wondered at after her passionate fit of crying; and as Lena was not often troubled with a headache, she began to grow nervous and frightened. Could it be that she was going to get the fever also, like Mary Roberts? If she had it at twelve years of age, why should not she? Yes, she was sure she was going to be ill too; and her mother would soon be in as sad a state about her, as David said Mrs. Roberts was about her little girl. Poor Lena! she began to cry softly out of sheer fright. Suddenly jumping up, she went to the table, and taking up a small hand-glass that lay there, she took it with her to the window, and lifting the blind, looked at herself. Such a miserable, flushed, tear-stained face she saw. Yes, it must be the fever that made her cheeks so red. Laying down the glass, she flung herself on the bed. Oh, if she had only told Papa and Mama that it was she who had destroyed Milly’s hat, and not little Lucy, as she had allowed them all to believe, how much happier she would be now! How weak and wicked she had been and still was! Oh, if Mama was only here, she would go and tell her all; but it was too late now, Mama was far away, and couldn’t hear or see her child’s sorrow, and alas! it was her own doing, and by her own wish, they were not together. Then there crept into her heart the sweet loving words that had been so familiar to her all her life, but now seemed to come back to her with a stronger power and deeper meaning than they had ever had to her before. “I will arise and go to my Father,” were the words that were ever before her as she lay sobbing bitterly. Yes, she too would do that. Springing up, she knelt down and prayed earnestly and truly for strength to do what was right—to tell the truth, and remove the blame from poor innocent little Lucy. Lena prayed as she had never prayed before in her young life, and being calmed and comforted, she was standing meditating how she was to carry out her good resolutions, when the door opened softly, and Gertrude looked in.
“I came to see if you were asleep; how is your headache, dear?” she asked.
Here was a way opened to her—an answer, as it seemed, to her prayer. She would tell Gertrude all, and be guided by her as to the best way of acting. Without answering her question, she sprang forward, and throwing her arms round her friend’s neck, sobbed out, “O Gertrude, I must tell you—I spoilt the hat; I am so wicked and so miserable. Do you think Papa will ever forgive me?”
“Spoilt what, Lena? Whatever is the matter, dear?” asked Gertrude in amazement, and a little bit frightened at the excited state Lena was in. She had heard about the hat being destroyed, and thought, as they all did, that Lucy had done it; but as it was now some time since it had happened, she had forgotten all about it. So when Lena sobbed out again, “I spoilt the hat,” she began to think it was some hat she had destroyed belonging to herself.
“What hat, dear, do you mean?”
“Milly’s; I did it, not Lucy.”
“O Lena!” she exclaimed in a shocked voice.
“Don’t speak like that, Gerty, please. I can’t bear you to be angry with me; I didn’t mean to do it really.”
“I am not angry, Lena dear; but I don’t understand about it. Come and sit down and tell me what you mean.” Going to the window, she drew up the blind and drew a chair up for Lena as well as herself; but Lena would sit nowhere but on the floor. Crouching down at Gertrude’s feet, and hiding her face on her lap, she told her tale in broken words. Gertrude listened, without saying one word until she had ended; then stooping down and putting her arms round her she said, “Poor Lena, how unhappy you must have been all this time!”
“Not since I have been here; but before it was dreadful. Do you think they will ever forgive me?”
“Of course they will, Lena; how can you doubt it?”
“But Papa said he couldn’t bear us to do a dishonourable, wicked thing; and Gerty, he spoke so sternly, that I was afraid to tell him. And then I thought Mama and Milly knew, and had forgiven me without telling him,” repeated Lena again.
“Poor Lena!” was all Gertrude said again, as she stroked back the child’s hair from her flushed face, for by this time Lena had found her way from the floor to Gertrude’s lap. A long silence fell upon them. Lena lay very still, resting her head against her kind companion’s shoulder, feeling, oh, so thankful! that the wretched secret was no longer locked up in her own heart. At last she said, “How can I tell them?”
“You must write to them, dear, to-night; don’t put off, for it only makes it more difficult.”
“I am sure I don’t know what I shall say. I shall never be able to write it.”
“Yes, you will, dear. I will help you. What made you tell me to-day, Lena?”
“O Gerty!” she exclaimed, sitting up and looking very grave, “I have got such a headache, and I am so hot and my cheeks so red, I am sure I am going to have the fever like little Mary Roberts.”
“O Lena, what nonsense!”
“It is not, Gertrude. I never had such a bad headache before, and I am so hot, and I thought about what you said about dying when you were doing wrong, so I felt I must tell; and, Gerty”—here she lowered her voice—“I asked God to help me, and then you came in.”
“Darling,” was the only answer. Then a knock came to the door and the servant’s voice was heard saying, “Tea is ready.”
Gertrude helped Lena to get ready, and together they went downstairs.
Miss Gifford called out in surprise as they entered the room, “My poor little Lena, I am afraid your sleep has not done you any good. Are you feeling ill?”
“Yes, Miss Gifford, my head aches, and I am so hot I could not sleep.”
“You shall sit in the arm-chair by the window; it is so pleasant now with the cool sea-breeze coming in, and Gerty shall give you a cup of tea.”
Lena sat very quietly, accepting all Miss Gifford’s kindness in silence; but when Gerty took her a cup of tea she whispered, “Must I tell Miss Gifford?”
“I will tell her, dear, and how sorry you are.”
“Perhaps she won’t be so kind to me then; she will think me so wicked.”
“She was never unkind when Bessie and I were naughty: I am sure she won’t be to you.” Then raising her voice she said, “Lena wants to write a letter home to-night, please, Miss Gifford.”
“No, dear, that must wait till to-morrow; little girls with headaches must keep quiet,” was the answer.
With this Lena had to be content. In truth she was not sorry to have nothing more to do that evening but rest quietly, feeling thankful that she had taken that difficult first step in the right direction.