VI.
One evening I came home and found Hessie dull and out of humor. My mother told me that Mr. Vance had called and mentioned that he was about to leave town for some weeks. He had left his regards for me. I knew by Hessie's face that he had said nothing to make her happy during his absence.
Some evenings after, I found my mother sitting alone in the parlor, and on going upstairs Hessie curled up on our bed with her face in the pillows. I so loved this little sister, that I could not endure to see her grieve without sharing her vexation. So I sat down by her side and drew her head upon my shoulder. Sitting thus I coaxed her trouble from her. She had been out walking, and had met Edward Vance in Kensington. He had seen her. He had pretended not to see her. He had avoided her.
At first this seemed so very unlikely, I jested with her, laughed at her, said she must have been mistaken. He had been delayed in London, and had not recognized her. But Hessie declared vehemently that he had purposely avoided her, and cried as though her heart would break.
Then I said: "Hessie, if he be a person to behave so, we need neither of us trouble ourselves about him. We lived before we knew him, and I dare say we shall get on very well now that he has gone." But Hessie only stared and turned her face from me. She could not understand such a view of the case. She thought I did not feel for her.
After that the weeks passed drearily. We heard no news of Edward Vance; but he had not left London, for I saw him once in the street. I told Hessie, for I thought it right to rouse her a little rudely from the despondent state into which she had fallen. I tried, gently but decidedly, to make her understand that we had looked on as a steadfast friend one who for some reason had been tired of us, and made an excuse to drop our acquaintance; and that she would be doing serious injury to her self-respect did she give him one more thought.
For myself I mused much upon his [{320}] strange conduct. It remained an enigma to me. A dull listlessness hung upon me, which was more terrible than physical pain. I spent the days at home, because I could not leave Hessie to mope her life away, and damp my mother's spirits with her sad face. So I had not even the obligation of going out to daily work to stimulate me to healthful action. Now, indeed, was my life weary and burdensome for one dark space, which, thank God and his gift of strong energy, was not of vast compass. So long as we sacrifice ourselves for those we love, whether in reality or in imagination, something sublime in the idea of our purpose—whether that purpose be mistaken or not—is yet a rock to lean on in the weakest hour of anguish. But when our eyes are opened, and we see that we have only dragged others as well as ourselves deeper into misery, then indeed it is hard to "suffer and be strong."