Part 88 (2/2)

Compton kissed her gown--a favorite action of his, for he wors.h.i.+ped her--and went away.

The invalid laid her hollow cheek upon her wasted hand, and thought with all her might. By degrees her extraordinary brain developed a twofold plan of action; and she proceeded to execute the first part, being the least difficult, though even that was not easy, and brought a vivid blush to her wasted cheek.

She wrote to Mrs. Ba.s.sett.

”MADAM--I am very ill, and life is uncertain. Something tells me you, like me, regret the unhappy feud between our houses. If this is so, it would be a consolation to me to take you by the hand and exchange a few words, as we already have a few kind looks.

”Yours respectfully,

”BELLA Ba.s.sETT.”

She showed this letter to Compton, and told him he might send a servant with it to Highmore at once.

”Oh, mamma!” said he, ”I never thought you would do that: how good you are! You couldn't ask Ruperta, could you? Just in a little postscript, you know.”

Lady Ba.s.sett shook her head.

”That would not be wise, my dear. Let me hook that fish for you, not frighten her away.”

Great was the astonishment at Highmore when a blazing footman knocked at the door and handed Jessie the letter with a.s.sumed nonchalance, then stalked away, concealing with professional art his own astonishment at what he had done.

It was no business of Jessie's to take letters into the drawing-room; she would have deposited any other letter on the hall table; but she brought this one in, and, standing at the door, exclaimed, ”Here a letter fr' Huntercombe!”

Richard Ba.s.sett, Mrs. Ba.s.sett, and Ruperta, all turned upon her with one accord.

”From where?”

”Fr' Huntercombe itsel'. Et isna for you, nor for you, missy. Et's for the mesterress.”

She marched proudly up to Mrs. Ba.s.sett and laid the letter down on the table; then drew back a step or two, and, being Scotch, coolly waited to hear the contents. Richard Ba.s.set, being English, told her she need not stay.

Mrs. Ba.s.sett cast a bewildered look at her husband and daughter, then opened the letter quietly; read it quietly; and, having read it, took out her handkerchief and began to cry quietly.

Ruperta cried, ”Oh, mamma!” and in a moment had one long arm round her mother's neck, while the other hand seized the letter, and she read it aloud, cheek to cheek; but, before she got to an end, her mother's tears infected her, and she must whimper too.

”Here are a couple of geese,” said Richard Ba.s.sett. ”Can't you write a civil reply to a civil letter without sniveling? I'll answer the letter for you.”

”No!” said Mrs. Ba.s.sett.

Richard was amazed: Ruperta ditto.

The little woman had never dealt in ”Noes,” least of all to her husband; and besides this was such a plump ”No.” It came out of her mouth like a marble.

I think the sound surprised even herself a little, for she proceeded to justify it at once. ”I have been a better wife than a Christian this many years. But there's a limit. And, Richard, I should never have married you if you had told me we were to be at war all our lives with our next neighbor, that everybody respects. To live in the country, and not speak to our only neighbor, that is a life I never would have left my father's house for. Not that I complain: if you have been bitter to them, you have always been good and kind to me; and I hope I have done my best to deserve it; but when a sick lady, and perhaps dying, holds out her hand to me---write her one of your cold-blooded letters! That I WON'T. Reply? my reply will be just putting on my bonnet and going to her this afternoon. It is Pa.s.sion-week, too; and that's not a week to play the heathen. Poor lady! I've seen in her sweet eyes this many years that she would gladly be friends with me; and she never pa.s.sed me close but she bowed to me, in church or out, even when we were at daggers drawn. She is a lady, a real lady, every inch. But it is not that altogether. No, if a sick woman called me to her bedside this week, I'd go, whether she wrote from Huntercombe Hall or the poorest house in the place; else how could I hope my Saviour would come to _my_ bedside at my last hour?”

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