Chapter VIII: Separation

"He who has well considered his duty, will at once carry his conviction into action."—S. SMILES.

"BLUEBELL, we must go home. That is the only solution to our difficulty."

The girls were talking it over a few nights later, when they had retired to their room for the night.

"We can't do that."

"When do you think of returning?"

"Oh, some day. Not yet awhile. Picture Abigail's greeting! When I have found life a failure, I will take refuge in her arms. She would welcome me then. Never, if I was finding it a joy and a success?"

"We cannot go on as we are doing. Bluebell, you are not a child—be serious! Do you like being in debt! Do you enjoy thinking of Mary Scrivens and old Ralph going without their little comforts, even necessaries, because we are spending the money that rightfully belongs to them? I cannot sleep at night for worrying over it. We must go back; there is no way out of it."

Bluebell leant back in an easy chair and clasped her hands behind her neck. Her saucy eyes took a grave look.

"I know we are in rather a fix. We mustn't be so extravagant in future. Money seems to fly in London. Oh dear! I wish we were really rich! Can't you borrow a little from Cousin Ida?"

"I shouldn't think of it. When could we pay it back? The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that it is our duty to go home and stay there quietly. I have spoken to Cousin Ida about it to-day. She was angry at first, but when I had talked to her for a little, she said that perhaps it would be wise. Her idea is that we should go home for a time, and come to her again next spring."

Bluebell looked annoyed.

"You needn't have spoken to her about it. I don't mean to go home. Captain and Mrs. Foster have asked us to go a yachting trip with them. Sir Herbert and Cousin Cyril are both going. And I have promised we shall go."

"I shall not go."

"I shall."

"Then I must go home alone!"

There was dead silence. Each girl had a strong will, but never in their lives had they clashed with each other before.

And before long Bluebell was in tears, and Heather with a strained white face was pacing the room.

Then Bluebell, from passionate protestations, began to coax and entreat.

Heather set her lips in hard lines, and listened without a word.

Duty was before her. She had been brought up from her infancy to consider it an important part of life, and not even the gay pleasures she had so delighted in could turn her steps aside. Her heart felt nearly breaking when she realized that Bluebell would prefer separation to taking up the quiet country life again. She did not look forward to it with pleasure herself. She was still enjoying her society life, and the possibility of going back alone to the two old servants seemed too dreadful to contemplate.

Bluebell was almost as miserable at the thought of separation. And yet the growing love for all that makes a society life pleasant perhaps helped her to bear it with more equanimity.

"Nothing will induce me to go back!" she sobbed. "I hate the idea of it! I should die if I were stifled in that silent house again without a soul to speak to from one year's end to another! I wish an earthquake would swallow the whole place up! Yes, I do! Don't look so shocked! I'll never go back there, never, never, never!"

She crept off to bed, sobbing.

Heather lay awake with tearless eyes, but with a sick pain at heart. All sunshine in her path seemed to have gone. Only dull heavy clouds hung above her. And when Bluebell had at last sobbed herself to sleep, Heather crept up to her, hung over her with a world of love in her grey eyes, and laying her cheek against hers, kissed her passionately.

"Our first quarrel, our first separation! How shall I be able to bear it!"

Bluebell stirred and smiled in her sleep. Then one word came softly between her lips—"Herbert!"

Heather turned away passionately.

"She does not care. She only thinks of him! It would have had to come sooner or later, so I must bear it."

And then, kneeling down by her bed, she took her trouble to One whom she but seldom approached now. As she bent her head, a rush of sorrow for her coldness and carelessness in her daily devotions came over her. And the tears, which up to now had been stayed, gushed freely.

When she crept into bed again, it was with a greater feeling of comfort and peace than she had experienced for some time.

The girls were very quiet the next morning. Cyril rallied them on their gravity. Mrs. Carter looked anxious; the other guests were a little puzzled, for the twins were acknowledged to be the life of every party they joined.

At last, the facts were known, and once known, Heather hastened to put her resolve into action. In two days' time her trunks were packed, and she was bidding good-bye to every one.

Cyril drove her to the station in his dog-cart. Bluebell had taken leave of her sister in private, and was now sobbing her heart out in her room.

Heather was very quiet and dignified; her feelings were too deep for words, but she had the sense of rest when alone with Cyril that she had sadly been needing before all the curious eyes and comments of her friends.

"You won't be able to do without us," said Cyril at last, quietly and meditatively.

Heather's spirit rose at once.

"I lived twenty-two years very happily without any of you," she said.

"Not without Minnehaha! But I was not thinking of her. How will you spend your time! You are like a bird that has been freed, returning to its cage. You will only beat your wings against the bars and stop your singing."

"Never! One would think my home was a prison."

"How long will you immure yourself? I won't repeat some lady's conjectures that I have heard. Your sex is very unmerciful."

"Oh, I can guess them," said Heather, with a hard little laugh. "They say I am disappointed in love, and am going into seclusion to hide my wounded heart. Or some say I am going to recruit my health and beauty, and flash out afresh the beginning of next season, remembering the old adage, 'absence makes the heart grow fonder.' You see I am well aware of what is said behind my back."

"It is a pity you haven't married," said Cyril, in his most fatherly tone. "Now, Minnehaha is doing well for herself. It would be a good way out of your difficulty."

Heather smiled. Then looking up into his face, she said frankly—

"Do you know, that is the one reason why I am glad I am going home. I shall hear nothing of the modern marriage market. I am so tired of it all."

"Have you made up your mind to choose a spinster's lot?"

"It is not one to be despised," she said.

He was silent.

When he had seen her into a comfortable carriage, tossed some picture-papers into her lap, and held out his hand for the final good-bye, he said, "You are a strong-minded young woman. But I admire the principle that is at the root of it! The missus says you will be back under her wings within a month. I give you two. Adieu!"

The train moved off, Heather waved a laughing farewell, but when once alone, great tears filled her eyes.

She leant back in her seat, feeling lonely, forlorn, and miserable. Not even the conviction that she was obeying the dictates of her conscience and had not faltered in the path of duty could comfort her now.

"I am so young," she murmured regretfully, "to leave it all, and to lead the life in front of me. It was fit for our grandmother. It is not fit for us. It is the best time of my life now, and it is wasting it to shut myself up with Abigail and Rachael."

So she mused, and then took herself to task for having such selfish views. She took up the papers, and tried to bury herself in the news of the day. The journey seemed never ending.

At last she reached the country town. No one was there to meet her, but she hardly expected it. Taking a fly, she was driven slowly through the country lanes she knew so well, and reached home about five o'clock. It was a lovely summer evening; the drive up to the house was bordered with bright flower beds, and masses of crimson roses and white clematis fell over the porch.

As she stepped out, a burst of song came from the canaries' cage in the greenhouse. And Heather lifted up her tired head, and with a bright smile came into the cool, dark hall.

Abigail stood like a sentinel inside; Rachael was fluttering about in the background. Heather did not wait for a welcome; she went straight into Abigail's arms, and was not repulsed.

"One of your wanderers has come back," she whispered. And then, putting her arms round the old servant's neck with the simplicity of a child, she kissed her.

Abigail cleared her throat, tried to speak, and then Heather felt a hot tear touch her cheek.

With a little jerk, Abigail released herself from those clinging arms, and found her self-control again by scolding the driver for treading on the beeswaxed floor with his heavy nailed boots. Heather turned to Rachael, who laughed and cried in the same breath.

"Oh, my dear Miss Heather, we thought we had lost you altogether. It has been a long dreary time this past year. But eh!—how did you leave Miss Bluebell? Are we not going to see her down here? And how bonny you're looking, but not the same young lady that went from here! You are so grand—have such an air. Is it dress has done it?"

"I hope I am just the same," Heather said, laughing.

And resolving to preserve a brave front, she ran in and out of the rooms, looking at and praising all she could. The evening sunshine stealing in through the casement windows brightened up the dark corners. And though she found all exactly as she had left it, her heart sank at the bareness, the crude colouring, and the absence of the pretty details to which she had become accustomed in her cousin's house.

"If I had not come home to economize, I would improve and alter many things," was her thought as she stood in the drawing-room and surveyed the brown holland coverings with uneasy disapproval. "I can arrange the furniture a little differently, but what is the good of it when I am all by myself! Oh, how shall I be able to live alone! Bluebell might have come—she might have come!"

It was her inward cry all that evening. Abigail waited upon her in solemn silence at dinner. And afterwards, she wandered out into the garden. But though the soft stillness of the evening air soothed her, she could not feel content in her surroundings, and when later on Abigail brought the big Bible and took her seat with Rachael to take part in evening prayers, Heather had hard work to keep her self-control.

When Abigail, silver candlestick in hand, came up with her to her room, Heather put her hand on her arm wistfully.

"Come in and talk to me, Abigail. Tell me you have forgiven us for running away from you. And tell me all about the farm—and the old people. I—I feel lonely to-night."

Abigail's hard face softened.

"If you have seen the evil of your ways, Miss Heather, and are purposing to follow in your dear grandmother's footsteps, I will be the last one to cast up the past in your face."

"Don't scold me. I cannot stand scolding to-night. I don't know what I am going to do yet. But to-morrow morning, I am going to talk business with you and Rachael. I want the gossip of the neighbourhood, Abigail."

"You went away a sweet and simple maiden," said Abigail, with a sigh, "and you have come back a fashionable town lady. I hardly am liking to touch your hair. Maybe you would rather I did not take up the old ways again?"

Heather laughed, and throwing her dressing-gown round her, handed Abigail her brush.

"I shall love to have you attend me. Now talk, and brush away."

Abigail's next question brought a pink flush to Heather's cheeks.

"And how goes your soul's health, Miss Heather? That is what I am longing to know. Are you as near heaven as you were when you left this?"

"I would rather you told me first what I am longing to know."

Heather's tone was dignity itself.

Abigail gave a heavy sigh, but after a pause began telling her the village news.

And Heather did not give her an opportunity again of any personal questions. She chatted and laughed, and then wished her good night. But seeing the grieved look on the old woman's face as she was taking her departure, she said with one of her flashing smiles that were so rare—

"I am not quite so wicked as you think me, Abigail. You will see how good I mean to be now I am home again."

A little time later, and Heather's face was buried in her pillow, choking sobs escaping her.

"Oh, Bluebell, you cannot love me as I love you! Shall we never be together again? It is like death itself! How shall I be able to bear it?"