Bessie's Fortune Part 49

"What ails you, Neil? Surely you are not fretting after that girl?"

She knew Bessie was to sail that afternoon, and that Neil was to see her off, but she was not prepared for the white face which he turned to her, or the bitter tones in which he said:

"Yes, I am fretting for that girl, as you call her. And I would give half my life to be with her this minute. But she is gone. She is lost to me forever, and I wish I were dead."

To this outburst Lady Jane made no reply, but, as she looked into her son's face, there flashed upon her a doubt as to the result of her opposition to Bessie, and the question as to whether it would not be better to withdraw it and let him have his way. The girl was well enough, or would be if she had money, and this she would unquestionably get from the old-maid aunt. She would wait and see, and meantime she would give Neil a grain of comfort, so she said to him:

"I had no idea you loved her so much. Perhaps that aunt may make her rich, and then she would not be so bad a match. You _must_ marry money."

Yes, Neil must marry money if possible, but he must marry Bessie, too; and as he looked upon the broken engagement as something which could easily be taken up again, he felt greatly consoled by his mother's words, and for the remainder of the evening was as gay and agreeable as Lady Jane could wish. But still there was always in his mind the picture of a forlorn little girl, wrapped in a blue waterproof, with the hood over her head, disappearing from his sight through the rain, and he was constantly wondering what she was doing, and if Grey Jerrold would find her.

CHAPTER VII.

ON THE s.h.i.+P.

Never in her life had Bessie felt so utterly desolate and friendless as when she said good-by to Neil and threaded her way through the crowd of drays, and cabs, and express-wagons to where Mrs. Goodnough was waiting for her. All her former life, with the dear old home, lay behind her, while before her was the broad ocean and the uncertainty as to what she should find in far-off America. Added to this there was a clinging in her heart to Neil, whom she had loved too long to forget at once, and although she felt it was far better to be free, she was conscious of a sense of loss, and loneliness, and inexpressible homesickness when she at last took her seat in the tug which was to take her and her fellow-companions to the steamer moored in the river.

Oh, how damp and close it was on the boat, especially in the dark corner where Bessie crouched as if to hide herself from view! She had promised Neil to avoid observation as much as possible, and, keeping her hood over her head, she tied over it a dark blue vail, which hid her face from sight, and hid, too, the tears, which fell like rain, as she sat with clasped hands leaning her aching head against Mrs. Goodnough, who, though a rough, uncultivated woman, had a kind, motherly heart, and pitied the young girl, who, she knew, was so sadly out of place.

There were not many cabin pa.s.sengers on the s.h.i.+p, and these were too much absorbed in finding their state-rooms and settling their luggage to pay any attention to, or even to think of, the few German and English emigrants, who went to their own quarters on the middle deck. And so no one noticed the girl, who clung so timidly to the Welsh woman, and who shook with cold and nervousness as she sat down upon the berth allotted to her and glanced furtively around at the people and the appointments of the place. Everything was scrupulously clean, but of the plainest kind, and "steerage" seemed written everywhere. There was nothing aristocratic in Bessie's nature, and, if necessary, she would have broken stone upon the highway, and still Neil himself could not have rebelled more hotly against her surroundings than she did for a few moments, feeling as if she could not endure it, and that if she staid there she must throw herself into the sea.

"Oh, I cannot bear it--I cannot. Why did I come?" she said, as she felt the trembling of the vessel and knew they were in motion. "Oh, can't I go back? Won't they stop and let me off?" she cried convulsively, clutching the arm of Mrs. Goodnough, who tried to comfort her.

"There! there, darling! Don't take it so hard," she said, tenderly caressing the fair head lying in her lap. "They'll not stop now till we are off Queenstown, when there will be a chance to go back if you like, but I don't think you will. America is better than Wales. You will be happy there."

Bessie did not think she should ever be happy again, but with her usual sweet unselfishness, and thoughtfulness for others, she tried to dry her tears, so as not to distress her companion, and when the latter suggested that she go out and look at the docks of Liverpool and the sh.o.r.es as they pa.s.sed, she pulled up her hood and tied on her vail, and with her back to anyone who might see her from the upper deck, where the first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers were congregated, she stood gazing at the land she was leaving, until a chilly sensation in her bones and the violent pain in her head sent her to her berth, which she did not leave again for three days and more.

She knew when they stopped at Queenstown, and was glad for a little respite from the rolling motion, which nearly drove her wild and made her so deadly sick. But she did not see the tug when it came out laden with Irish emigrants, of whom there was a large number. Of these the young girls and single women were sent to the rear of the s.h.i.+p, where Bessie lay, half unconscious of what was pa.s.sing around her, until she heard the sound of suppressed weeping, so close to her that it seemed almost in her ear.

Opening her eyes, she saw a young girl sitting on the floor, with her head upon the berth next to her own, sobbing convulsively and whispering to herself:

"Oh, me father, me father; me heart is breaking for you. What'll ye do without yer Jennie, when the nights are dark and long. Oh, me poor old father, I wish I had niver come. We might have starved together."

"Poor girl," Bessie said, pityingly, as she stretched out her hand and touched the bowed head, "I am so sorry for you. Is your father old, and why did you leave him?"

At the sound of the sweet voice, so full of sympathy, the girl started quickly, and turning to Bessie, looked at her wonderingly; then, as if by some subtle intuition she recognized the difference there was between herself and the stranger whose beautiful face fascinated her so strongly, she said:

"Oh, lady--an' sure you be a lady, even if you are here with the likes of me--I had to lave me father, we was so poor and the taxes is so high, and the rint so big intirely, and the landlord a-threatenin' of us to set us in the road any foine mornin'; and so I'm goin' to Ameriky to take a place; me cousin left to be married, and if I does well--an' sure I'll try me best--I gets two pounds a month, and ivery penny I'll save to bring the old father over. But you cannot be going out to work, and have you left your father?"

"My father is dead, and mother, too," Bessie answered, with a sob. "I have left them both in their graves. I _am_ going out to work, but I have no place waiting for me like you, and I do not know of a friend in the world who can help me."

"An' faith, then, you can just count on me, Jennie Mahoney," the impulsive Irish girl exclaimed, stretching out her hand to Bessie. "You spoke kind like to me when me heart was fit to break, and it's meself will stand by you and take care of ye, too, as if ye was the greatest lady in the land, as ye might be, for I knows very well that the likes of ye has nought to do with the likes of me; an' if them spalpeens dares to come round a speerin' at ye, it's meself will shovel out their eyes with me nails. I know 'em. They are on every s.h.i.+p, and they are on this.

I heard one of 'em say when I come aboard, 'By Jove, Hank, that's a neat Biddy, I think I'll cultivate her.' Cultivate me, indade! I'll Hank him.

Let him come anigh you or me, the bla'guard!"

Bessie had no definite idea what the girl meant by spalpeens and bla'guards, whose eyes she was to shovel out, but she remembered what Neil had said about her attracting the notice of the upper deck pa.s.sengers, and resolved more fully than ever to keep herself from sight as much as possible. She had a friend in Jennie, to whom she put numberless questions as to where she was going, and so forth. But Jennie could not remember the name of the lady or place. Her cousin, who had married lately, and lived in New York, was to tell her everything on her arrival.

"It is a good place," she said, "and if it's companion or the like of that ye are wis.h.i.+n' to be, I'll spake a good word to the lady, who, me cousin says, is mighty quare, but very good and kind when she takes a fancy."

Bessie smiled as she thought of an offer of help coming from this poor girl, but she did not resent the offer. On the contrary, she felt comforted because of it, and because of Jennie, whose faithfulness and devotion knew no stint or cessation during the next twenty-four hours, when it seemed to Bessie that she must die, both from the terrible sea-sickness and the close atmosphere of the cabin, where so many were congregated.

The fourth day out Mrs. Goodnough said Bessie must be taken into the fresh air, as nothing else would avail to help her, and a stool was placed for her on the deck, and then Jennie took her in her strong arms, and carrying her out put her down as gently as if she had been a baby.

"An', faith ye must be covered," she said, as, faint and sick, Bessie leaned back against the door, thus fully disclosing to view her white, beautiful face, which made such a striking picture among the steerage pa.s.sengers, and began to attract attention from the upper deck.

It had already been rumored through the s.h.i.+p that there was a young lady in the steerage, and as it takes but little to interest a s.h.i.+p's company, much curiosity was felt concerning her, and when it was known that she had come out from the cabin, quite a little group gathered in the part of the boat nearest to her, and stood looking down at her.

"Och, me honeys," Jennie said, frowning savagely at them, "I'll spile yer fun for you, an' it's not her blessed face ye shall stare at, though the sight of it might do ye good," and rus.h.i.+ng to her berth she brought out Mrs. Goodnough's big sun-bonnet, which she tied on Bessie's head, thus effectually hiding her features from sight. "There!" Jennie continued, as she contemplated the disfiguring head-gear with great satisfaction, "them spalpeens can't see ye now, and if they heave you down anything it's meself will heave it back, for what business have they to be takin' things from the table without the captain's lave, and throwin' 'em to us as if we was a lot of pigs. It's just stalin', and nothin' else."

The fresh air and change did Bessie good, and, protected by the sun-bonnet and Jennie, she sat outside until sunset, and was then carried to her berth. That night the wind changed, causing the s.h.i.+p to roll in a most unsatisfactory manner; and Bessie, who was exceedingly sensitive to every motion, was not able to go outside again, but lay on her bed, whiter a great deal than the pillow under her head, and with a look of suffering on her face which touched the kind-hearted Jennie to the quick.

"An' sure she'll be throwin' up ivery blessed thing she'll ate for the next year," she said. "If I could only right side up her stomach. I wonder if an orange would do it;" and counting her little stock of money--six s.h.i.+llings in all--she took a few pennies, and going to the stewardess, bade her buy two of the finest and swatest oranges in the butler's pantry."

"Here, honey! Here's what will turn that nasty, creepin' sickness, an'

make ye feet like the top of the mornin'," she said to Bessie, as she sat down beside her and held a piece of the juicy fruit to her lips.

And Bessie was trying to take it when a voice outside said to Mrs.

Goodnough:

"I heard there was some one very sick, and have come to see if I can do anything for her."

The next moment a middle-aged lady, with grayish hair and a sweet, sad face, came in, and going up to Jennie, said:

"Is this the sick girl?"

For a moment Bessie's face was scarlet, and there was a frightened look in her blue eyes as she regarded her visitor, who continued, very gently:

"I am sorry to find you suffering so much. My nephew Grey has been sick all the voyage, or I should have been down here before. What can I do for you?"

"Her nephew Grey!" Bessie repeated the words to herself, us she stared in bewilderment at the face bending over her, recognizing in it, or fancying that she did, a resemblance to the face which had looked so pityingly at her by her dead father's bedside, and which, whether waking or sleeping, haunted her continually. Was this woman Grey's Aunt Lucy, of whom she had heard so much? and was he there on the s.h.i.+p with her, and would he know by and by that she was there and come to see her? Then she remembered Neil, and her promise to let no one know who she was, lest he should be disgraced. So when Miss Grey sat down beside her, and taking the hot hands in hers, said to her, "Please tell me what I can do for you, and pardon me if I ask your name," she sobbed piteously:

"No, no--oh, no! I promised never to let it be known that I was here, _I_ am not ashamed, but he is, and I can tell only this--I am very poor and am going to America to earn my living. I had no money for a first-cla.s.s ticket, and so I came in here. They are very kind to me, Jennie and Mrs. Goodnough. I am going out with her. Are you an American?"

"Yes; I am Miss Grey, from Allington, I will help you if I can," was the reply, and then Bessie's tears fell faster, as she cried:

"Thank you, no. You must not talk to me. You must not come again. Please go away, or I shall break my promise to Neil."

The name dropped from her lips unwittingly, and Miss Grey repeated it to herself, trying to remember why it seemed so familiar to her, and as she thought and looked wonderingly at the tear-stained face, the impulsive Jennie broke in:

"An' plaze yer ladys.h.i.+p, if you'll go away now and lave Miss Bessie to be aisy for a little, I'm sure she'll see you again."

"Bessie! Neil!" Miss Grey repeated aloud, and then she thought of Grey's friend, Neil McPherson, and remembered there was a cousin Bessie of whom she, too, had heard. Could this be she? Impossible; and yet so strong an impression had been made upon her that as she pa.s.sed out and met Mrs.

Goodnough, who, she knew, had the young lady in charge, she said to her:

"I hope you will let me know if I can do anything for Miss McPherson."