“It is all just selfishness,” she said; “it is just childish. Because she cannot have what she wanted, she will not take what she can get; and the worst of all is that she never wanted it when she could have it.”
“That’s just the way with women,” said her husband; “ye are all alike. Let her come to herself, and don’t bore me about her as you’re doing, night and day. What is a girl and her sweetheart to me?”
“Don’t you think,” said Mr. Moubray, “if you had been honest with Effie from the first, if you had allowed her own heart to speak, if there had been no pressure on one side, and no suppression on the other——”
“In short,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, with a flush of anger, “if we had just left everything to a bit silly thing that has not had the wit to guide herself in the most simple, straightforward way! where ye would have thought a fool could not go wrong——!”
Mr. Ogilvie at this lifted his head.
“Are ye quarrelling with John Moubray, Janet?” he said; “things must have come to a pretty pass when you fling yourself upon the minister, not content with putting me to silence. If ye’re ill-pleased with Effie,” said the head of the family, “let Effie bear the wyte; but what have we done, him and me?”
The minister, however, was Effie’s resource and help. He opened his own heart to her, showing her how it had bled and how it had been healed, and by and by the girl came to see, with slowly growing perception and a painful, yet elevating, knowledge, how many things lay hidden in the lives and souls which presented often a common-place exterior to the world. This was a moment in which it seemed doubtful whether the rending of all those delicate chords in her own being might not turn to bitterness and a permanent loss and injury. She was disposed to turn her face from the light, to avoid all tenderness and sympathy, to find that man delighted her not, nor woman either.
It was in this interval that Eric’s brief but very unsatisfactory visit took place, which the young fellow felt was as good as the loss of his six weeks’ leave altogether. To be sure, there was a hard frost which made him some amends, and in the delights of skating and curling compensated him for his long journey home; and Ronald, his old comrade, whom he had expected to lose, went back with him, which was something to the credit side. But he could not understand Effie, and was of opinion that she had been jilted, and could scarcely be kept from making some public demonstration against Fred Dirom, who had used his sister ill, he thought. This mistake, too, added to Effie’s injuries of spirit a keener pang: and the tension was cruel.
But when Eric and Ronald were gone again, and all had relapsed into silence, the balance turned, and the girl began to be herself once more, or rather to be a better and loftier self, never forgetful of the sudden cross and conflict of the forces of life which had made so strong an impression upon her youth.
Miss Dempster, after some further suffering, died quite peacefully in the ruddy dawn of a winter’s morning, after doing much to instruct the world and her immediate surroundings from her sick bed, and much enjoying the opportunity. She did not sleep very well the last few nights, and the prospect of “just getting a good sleep in my coffin before you bury me, and it all begins again,” was agreeable to her.