Chapter XXIII: Unhappy Lottie

"AND so you've had a thoroughly enjoyable time?" said Dr. Reed.

It was the night of Ann and Violet's return to Barford, a few hours after their arrival, between nine and ten o'clock, and Ann and her father were in the surgery, where the latter had been dispensing some medicine, a task which usually fell to the lot of his assistant. He held his daughter at arms' length as he spoke, and looked at her critically.

"Yes," assented Ann, "I don't know that I ever enjoyed holidays better. It was so nice having the Wyndhams at Teymouth; I like them all so much, father, and so does Granny. Dear old Granny! She joined us in our picnics on the beach, and the Wyndhams took tea with us on several occasions and were so delighted with her cottage. Mr. Wyndham used to take the boys fishing, and sometimes we—that is the girls and I, you know—went with them, and then Mrs. Wyndham would stay with Granny—they became great friends."

The doctor smiled, well pleased. Ann had joined him in the surgery to ascertain if he was nearly ready to return with her to the drawing-room, where she had left Violet entertaining Mrs. Reed with an account of her holiday experiences.

"You are looking blooming, my darling," he remarked, in a tone of satisfaction, as, having surveyed his daughter at his leisure, he drew her towards him and kissed her; "you and Violet have both brought back some Devonshire roses on your cheeks, I am glad to see. By the way, was Violet much upset at parting with her people this morning?"

"She certainly felt saying good-bye to them, father, but she told me afterwards that she was much happier about them all now than she had been when she came to us last January."

"I can understand that, for she has left them in better circumstances. I am very glad you like the Wyndhams, Ann."

"They were so friendly and easy to get on with, and think they're a very affectionate family. I'm afraid the little mother wouldn't approve of the way things are managed in their house," Ann admitted with a smile, "but they all seemed very happy and made me feel quite at home. Mrs. Wyndham is exceedingly good-natured, and she lets the children—the boys especially—do as they like; but, for all that, I don't believe they'd willingly do anything to hurt or annoy her for the world."

"She is too indulgent, I fear," said the doctor, with a grave shake of his head, "it is to be hoped the young folks will not take advantage of that fact—"

"Oh, I don't think they will," Ann interposed eagerly, "they love her too well!"

"And what about Ruth?" asked Dr. Reed, smiling at his daughter's confident tone.

"Oh, father, she is the most unselfish girl I ever met! And, do you know, she draws and paints beautifully, she really does, and she can sketch from nature, too. She has given me a water-colour sketch of Granny's cottage, which I am sure you will consider very well done; I will show it to you to-morrow, I haven't unpacked my box yet. I believe one day Ruth will be a really first-rate artist, she means to be one if she can. Oh, yes, I like Ruth, we got on together capitally; she was a little stiff with me at first, but that soon wore off. I don't think she's in the least reserved really, but she's quieter and more thoughtful than Violet. She told me how for years she had grieved and worried because her father had not done better in his profession and how she had kept on hoping and praying that success might come to him; so you can guess how happy Mr. Wyndham's having obtained this really good appointment has made her."

"I can indeed."

"Mr. Wyndham was so disappointed that you could not join us at Teymouth, father."

"He could not have been more disappointed than I was myself. I wanted your mother to go without me, but she would not hear of doing that. However, Luscombe's making a speedy recovery, so I hope our holiday has only been postponed. Now, I've finished my work here for the night, so we'll join the others, and hear what they have to say."

As the doctor and his daughter entered the drawing-room a few minutes later Violet was speaking in a slightly raised voice, and they caught the words:—

"Ann had the best of it and the last word. Oh, Mrs. Reed, she's a hateful girl!"

"Of whom are you speaking, Violet?" asked Dr. Reed.

"Of Agnes Hosking," answered Violet; and, forthwith, she told him all that had occurred during the encounter with Agnes, at Streatham, on the previous day.

"I consider that she could not possibly have been more insulting to all of us, and I never will forgive her, never!" she declared emphatically, in conclusion.

"Never is a long day, my dear," Dr. Reed observed gravely; "Agnes Hosking has certainly insulted you, but don't say you'll never forgive her, for I hope you will."

"'Pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you: that ye may be the children of your Father which is in Heaven,'" quoted Mrs. Reed, and there was something in her quiet voice which had the effect of cooling Violet's anger and making her regret having spoken so strongly.

"Have you seen anything of Mrs. Medland and Lottie lately, mother?" Ann inquired by-and-by.

"I have seen Mrs. Medland on several occasions since poor Malvina's death," Mrs. Reed replied, "but not Lottie; I fancy the girl purposely keeps out of my way, though I know no reason why she should. Her mother tells me she cannot understand her, for she has scarcely mentioned Malvina's name since the day of the funeral, and the sisters always seemed very greatly attached to each other."

"How did Lottie behave at the time of Malvina's death?" asked Violet. "I suppose she was dreadfully grieved, wasn't she?"

"Her mother says she appeared quite stunned; she never shed a tear."

"You will let me go and see her, won't you, mother?" said Ann eagerly. "I promised Malvina that if she died I would try to be a friend to Lottie, didn't I, Violet?"

Violet assented, whilst Mrs. Reed looked thoughtful, and glanced dubiously at her husband.

"I'm afraid Lottie's not at all a nice sort of girl, not a good girl, in fact," Mrs. Reed said, with marked hesitation in her tone; "I don't want to judge her harshly; but, according to Mrs. Medland's telling, Lottie has been behaving very badly indeed. One would have thought that her sister's death would have sobered her, but apparently it has had a contrary effect, for she spends her evenings gadding about the streets and leaves her poor mother grieving at home. I do not see, Ann, that you can possibly befriend a girl whose conduct is so heartless as that!"

"Only let me go and see her," pleaded Ann earnestly; "father, do ask mother to let me go and see her just once! Perhaps if I went early on Saturday afternoon I should find her at home, and I want to see poor Mrs. Medland, too. Violet would go with me, wouldn't you, Vi?"

"Yes," assented Violet, "of course I would." She did not imagine any good would result from visiting Lottie, but she could not withstand the look of appeal in her friend's grey eyes.

"What do you think, Andrew? Shall they go or not?" said Mrs. Reed undecidedly, addressing her husband.

"Let them go," he responded. "I don't care for them to be in the town on a Saturday afternoon as a rule, but this will be an exceptional occasion; they are not like young children, and I am sure they are to be trusted by themselves."

"Oh, yes," agreed Mrs. Reed, "I, too, am sure of that."

When, on the following Saturday afternoon, Ann, accompanied by Violet, knocked at the Medlands' door it was opened by Mrs. Medland, who invited them at once to come in. They followed her into the little kitchen, where Malvina's cherished fern still hung in the window, and sat down with her, scarcely knowing what to say at first. Both girls felt intense sympathy for the poor mother, who was looking very careworn and ill.

"Dr. Elizabeth wrote and told me of your great sorrow, Mrs. Medland," Ann said gently, "I was so grieved to hear of it—so grieved for you and Lottie, you know."

"I knew you would be sorry for us, miss," Mrs. Medland rejoined in a choked voice, the tears coursing down her pale, thin cheeks. "We've met with a terrible loss," she proceeded, "least-ways, I have, for Malvina was a good daughter to me. I can't wish her back again, though, for she suffered so much that death came as a blessed release at last, but often and often since the poor dear went I've wished that my life was ended, too."

"Oh, you mustn't say that," said Ann, "for you know you've Lottie—"

"Lottie!" broke in Mrs. Medland; "yes, I've Lottie, but, oh, Miss Ann, you don't understand how little Lottie cares for me! If she had a particle of affection for me, do you think she'd leave me evening after evening as she does, knowing how lonesome and sad I feel without Malvina, to go pleasure seeking? Oh, dear, oh dear! And it's so soon after her poor sister's death too! Oh, I can think of my dead daughter with far less sorrow than I can think of my living one, for I know Malvina's safe with Jesus, but Lottie's very far from the Kingdom of God."

"Those two girls of mine had the same bringing up, and yet how different they've always been! Lottie was always difficult to manage and would have her own way. She works hard, 'tis true, but how does she spend her money? I see very little of it, most of it goes in betting; and now she's crazy about the hobby-horses, they're here for a week in the Recreation Ground, and every night she's there watching them or having rides if she can get the money, with a lot of other factory hands—flighty young girls like herself, who care for nothing but amusing themselves. I wish those hobby-horses had never come to Barford."

"Hobby-horses?" said Violet, looking mystified, for she had never seen anything of the kind.

"Round-abouts some people call them, they go round and round for a certain time, worked by steam, and they're lit up at night by electric lights," explained Mrs. Medland. "This particular round-about comes here every now and again and carries away a lot of money from the place; I'm not saying I think there's any real harm in folks riding on it, but for Lottie whose sister hasn't been in her grave a month—oh, it does seem heartless of her and no mistake!" And the poor woman, overcome with grief, wept unrestrainedly.

It certainly did seem heartless, and neither Ann nor Violet could think of any words suitable for the occasion. Whilst Mrs. Medland was still in tears, the street door opened, and a minute later Lottie appeared on the threshold of the room. She paused at the sight of her mother's visitors, a look of consternation on her face; and then, without a word, she turned away and ran hurriedly upstairs.

"Is she not going to speak to us?" said Ann, in astonishment. "Why has she gone?"

"I don't know, miss," Mrs. Medland answered, with a troubled sigh, "I don't know what's taken to her."

"Perhaps she has only gone to take off her hat and jacket," suggested Violet; "no doubt she will be down presently."

But Lottie did not appear again. Certainly her behaviour was most incomprehensible, and seemed very rude.

"I must see her," said Ann, at length; "I have something to say to her. Will you please tell her so, Mrs. Medland, or may I go upstairs to her? I should much like to speak to her alone."

"It's very good of you to trouble about her I'm sure," Mrs. Medland replied, "I can't think why she's keeping away. If you will please go upstairs, miss, you'll find her in the room which was Malvina's; she used to sleep with me, but since Malvina died she's had her little room."

Ann rose and went quietly upstairs. She found the bedroom door shut, and tapped upon it with her knuckles.

"Are they gone?" asked Lottie from within, evidently imagining it was her mother who had knocked.

"It is I, Lottie," Ann responded, "I want to speak to you, please."

Immediately the door was opened, and Ann stepped into the room. Lottie, who was crimson with confusion, mumbled something which sounded like an apology and stood with her eyes fixed on the floor. Ann took her hand and pressed it gently as she spoke a few sympathetic words in reference to Malvina's death.

"Don't, pray don't!" Lottie exclaimed distressfully; "you mean to be kind, I daresay, but I can't bear it! You don't know what I feel!"

"Not fully perhaps, but I know you loved Malvina dearly, and—"

"Loved her!" interrupted Lottie, in great excitement, "I treated her as though I loved her, didn't I? But there, you don't know—you don't know!"

"Yes, I believe I do," Ann said quietly; "I know that you caused her many a heartache, but still I am sure that you loved her; and you were very dear to her—I need not tell you that, for you know it well enough! Listen, Lottie, I want you to let me be your friend as I was hers—"

"You might have been hers, miss, for she was as good as gold and fit to be the friend of the likes of you, but I'm very different. I'm wicked—oh, you don't know how wicked! You can't be my friend! It's impossible!"

"I know that you bet, if you mean that; but I hope that you mean to give up that bad habit and—and spend more time at home with your mother, she looks very worn and sad, poor thing."

"I can't stay at home to hear mother for ever talking of Malvina, it nearly drives me mad to listen to her. That's one reason why I go out of an evening. I want to forget—everything!"

"But you don't want to forget your sister," said Ann, with a tinge of reproach in her voice. She glanced around the room as she spoke. "Do you still feed the sparrows as she used to do?" she asked.

"Yes," answered Lottie with a sob. She flung herself on the bed and burst into a flood of tears. "Oh," she wailed, "I'm a miserable, wicked girl, and I shall never be happy again—never, never! Oh, please go away and leave me to myself!"

"I will certainly go if you desire me to do so," Ann rejoined, alarmed at the violence of her companion's grief; "but remember, Lottie, that I wish to be your friend, for your own sake as well as for Malvina's, and if ever I can do anything to help you in any way I will."

As Lottie made no response Ann turned to leave the room, but at the door she paused and spoke again:—

"I don't understand you quite," she said; "but I can see that you are very unhappy. Won't you tell God your trouble and ask His help?"

"I can't, I can't!" sobbed Lottie; "I'm not fit to pray! God wouldn't listen to me if I did! Don't you bother about me, Miss Ann—indeed I'd rather you wouldn't."

Deeply hurt, Ann left the room, closing the door behind her, and went downstairs. She realised that, in spite of her apparent heartlessness in many ways, Lottie's grief at the loss of her sister was very deep, and all the harder to bear, no doubt, because it was mingled with remorse; but she failed to understand the workings of the unhappy girl's mind, and was much pained that her well-meant offer of friendship had been so decidedly repulsed.