Wives and Widows; or The Broken Life Part 24

CHAPTER XXIX.

TROUBLES GATHER ABOUT OUR JESSIE.

Jessie did not look up as I approached; she stood absently pulling the flowers from a vine that fell in luxuriant ma.s.ses over a trellis by her side, and appeared so much engrossed by her own thoughts, that she did not even hear my footsteps.

They were not pleasant reflections which filled her mind. Sunny visions, such as those which, a few weeks since, had made her face so bright and beautiful, were seldom on her features now. I could see by the mournful expression of her mouth, and the despondency of her whole att.i.tude,--so unlike anything I was accustomed to remark in our Jessie, that something was troubling her.

"You naughty girl!" I said, as I ascended the steps; "how can you find the heart to spoil that pretty vine?"

She started, turned quickly round, and a burning blush shot up to her forehead, while she looked at me in a confused way, as if she supposed me able to read her very thoughts.

"Oh! is it you, Aunt Matty?" she exclaimed, trying to laugh and seem more at ease.

"I believe so," was my answer; "I have every reason to suppose that I am that person, and very tired into the bargain."

"You look fatigued," she said, with her usual kindness; "do go up-stairs and lie down before dinner."

"Now, my dear, you know I am never guilty of that weakness."

"I forgot."

"How could you? I am astonished--when you know how much I pride myself on regular habits and a systematic disposal of my time!"

She laughed a little at my nonsense, which was the thing I desired; for it pained me greatly to see her look so weary and disconsolate.

"At all events, you will sit down, I suppose," she said, running into the hall and bringing out a chair. "Your rigid principles do not prevent that!"

"Thank you, my dear. I am happy to say they do not."

I seated myself, really glad of an opportunity to rest; for now that excitement had pa.s.sed, I was astonished to find myself worn out in body and mind. The mere walk could never have produced that sensation--I was too much accustomed to out-door exercise for any fine lady feebleness of that kind; but my interview with Bosworth and his friends, the sight of Mrs. Dennison and Mr. Lawrence in the wood, together with Lottie's revelations, had so worked upon my mind, that I had no strength left.

"Dear me! Aunt Matty!" exclaimed Jessie; "how tired and pale you look! I never saw you so overcome!"

"It is nothing. I walked faster than I ought, perhaps."

"That is not all," she answered; "I am sure something troubles you."

"So there does!" I said,--"very greatly!"

"Can I help you? You know how gladly I will do it."

She began untying my bonnet-strings, drawing off my shawl, and performing every little office possible to show her solicitude.

Generally, I dislike to have anybody touch me, or a.s.sist me in any way; but it was always a pleasure to feel Jessie's fingers smoothing my hair, or arranging my collar; and just then her a.s.siduity quieted me more than anything else could have done.

"Did you take a long walk?" Jessie asked, apparently anxious to turn my thoughts from the painful theme upon which she supposed them to be dwelling.

"Yes, very long, Jessie; I have been over to old Mrs. Bosworth's."

She looked at me in astonishment.

"Why, you hardly know the ladies! How came you to go there, Aunt Matty?"

"The old lady sent for me."

"Sent for you!" interrupted Jessie, in wonder and displeasure, while her great eyes gave me a searching glance.

"Young Bosworth is very sick, and he wished so much to see me that his grandmother put aside all ceremony, and desired me to go as soon as possible."

Jessie turned very pale while I spoke, and leaned heavily against the arm of my chair.

"Was it sudden?" she asked, trembling. "Has he been sick long, Matty?"

"For several days, I believe."

I had not the heart to tell her that he was stricken down the very day after his last visit to her father's house, lest she should accuse herself as the cause.

"What is the matter?"

"He has brain-fever, Jessie."

She uttered a cry.

"Oh! Aunt Matty! Aunt Matty!"

"I hope he is not in great danger," I said, anxious to soothe her. "He was able to talk with me, and he had a comfortable sleep."

She put her hands in mine, with a look so beseeching and helpless, that I answered as if she had spoken.

"He asked for you," I said. "He wants to see you, Jessie."

She shrunk back, and held up her hands like a child pleading for pity.

"Oh! I cannot go! indeed I cannot!"

"That is unlike you, Jessie. I did not think you would have refused a sick friend any request!"

"Don't blame me--please don't! I would do anything for him; but, indeed, I have not the courage to go there."

"Why, what do you fear, my child? I am sure he would not for the world speak a syllable that could pain you."

"I know that, Aunt Matty--I am certain of it."

"Then what is it?"

"Old Mrs. Bosworth has such a stately way; so soft, yet decided. She will look at me so sharply."

"I found her very kind and grateful."