“She is not with us now,” explained Mrs. Dudley. “She was staying at the Hollow for some months before we left Hertfordshire, and Lally grew very fond of her. I cannot imagine why she so continually talks about her now, though; I do not fancy other children have such tenacious memories. Sometimes for weeks together she will never mention Bessie’s name, and then she breaks out as you see. I wish she would not do it. It is very bad for her, fretting so much after any one. Lally, my darling, you must be patient; whenever Bessie can come to see you, she will.”
“No,” moaned Lally, “no more. Bessie will come to Lally back again, never no more.”
There was something terribly pathetic about the child’s grief even to those who knew nothing whatever of Bessie, or of the circumstances connected with her departure.
“Can’t she come and see the child?” asked Mr. Stewart, a little testily. “Surely, if she be at all within reach, such a yearning as this might be gratified.”
“Perhaps so,” Heather answered, “if we knew where she was; but I have never heard from her since she last left Berrie Down.”
“Did you part in anger then?” Mr. Stewart inquired, true to his theory concerning women’s quarrels.
“In anger!” Heather repeated in astonishment, “when we all loved Bessie as though she had been one of our own household! Why she does not write to me, I cannot tell, only I know she has some good reason for her silence; and I would rather not talk about her any more, or, perhaps, like Lally, I shall begin to be foolish and cry too.” An explanation necessitated by the fact that Mrs. Dudley was crying partly because of her child’s grief, and partly because she never could speak of Bessie without a feeling of bitter sorrow.
After that there fell a sudden silence on the party, during the continuance of which Heather employed herself in adjusting Master Leonard’s collar, which was crooked to an unimaginable extent; Mr. Stewart read the newspaper; Lucy looked at Heather; and Mr. Croft, his chin resting on Lally’s head, gazed out of the window, his thoughts wandering the while miles, and miles away.
“Do you expect Mr. Dudley to meet you?” asked Mr. Stewart, when the train had passed New Cross, and was speeding on through Bermondsey.
“No,” Heather answered; “but his brother will be at the station.”