The Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax | Page 2

that everybody wondered with great amazement what possessed that
laughing, rosy woman to fall off in health, and die soon after the birth
of a second daughter, who died also, and was buried in the same grave
with her mother.
The rector was a cheerful exemplification of the adage that man is not
made to live alone. He wore the willow just long enough for decency,
and then married again--married another pretty, portionless young
woman of no family worth mentioning. This reiterated indiscretion
caused a breach with his father, and the slender allowance that had been
made him was resumed. But his new wife was good to his little Bessie,
and Abbotsmead was a long way off.
There were no children of this second marriage, which was lucky; for
three years after, the rector himself died, leaving his widow as desolate
as a clergyman's widow, totally unprovided for, can be. She had never
seen any member of her husband's family, and she made no claim on
Mr. Fairfax, who, for his part, acknowledged none. Bessie's near
kinsfolk on her mother's side were all departed this life; there was

nobody who wanted the child, or who would have regarded her in any
light but an incumbrance. The rector's widow therefore kept her
unquestioned; and being a woman of much sense and little pride, she
moved no farther from the rectory than to a cottage-lodging in the town,
where she found some teaching amongst the children of the small
gentry, who then, as now, were its main population.
It was hard work for meagre reward, and perhaps she was not sorry to
exchange her mourning-weeds for bride-clothes again when Mr.
Carnegie asked her; for she was of a dependent, womanly character,
and the doctor was well-to-do and well respected, and ready with all his
heart to give little Bessie a home. The child was young enough when
she lost her own parents to lose all but a reflected memory of them, and
cordially to adopt for a real father and mother those who so cordially
adopted her.
Still, she was Bessie Fairfax, and as the doctor's house grew populous
with children of his own, Bessie was curtailed of her indulgences, her
learning, her leisure, and was taught betimes to make herself useful.
And she did it willingly. Her temper was loving and grateful, and Mrs.
Carnegie had her recompense in Bessie's unstinting helpfulness during
the period when her own family was increasing year by year;
sometimes at the rate of one little stranger, and sometimes at the rate of
twins. The doctor received his blessings with a welcome, and a brisk
assurance to his wife that the more they were the merrier. And neither
Mrs. Carnegie nor Bessie presumed to think otherwise; though seven
tiny trots under ten years old were a sore handful; and seven was the
number Bessie kept watch and ward over like a fairy godmother in the
doctor's nursery, when her own life had attained to no more than the
discretion and philosophy of fifteen. The chief of them were boys--boys
on the plan of their worthy father; five boys with excellent lungs and
indefatigable stout legs; and two little girls no whit behind their
brothers for voluble chatter and restless agility. Nobody complained,
however. They had their health--that was one mercy; there was enough
in the domestic exchequer to feed, clothe, and keep them all warm--that
was another mercy; and as for the future, people so busy as the doctor
and his wife are forced to leave that to Providence--which is the

greatest mercy of all. For it is to-morrow's burden breaks the back,
never the burden of to-day.
A constant regret with Mrs. Carnegie (when she had a spare moment to
think of it) was her inability, from stress of annually recurring
circumstances, to afford Bessie Fairfax more of an education, and
especially that she was not learning to speak French and play on the
piano. But Bessie felt no want of these polite accomplishments. She
had no accomplished companions to put her to shame for her
deficiencies. She was fond of a book, she could write an unformed,
legible hand, and add up a simple sum. The doctor, not a bad judge,
called her a shrewd, reasonable little lass. She had mother-wit, a warm
heart, and a nice face, as sweet and fresh as a bunch of roses with the
dew on them, and he did not see what she wanted with talking French
and playing the piano; if his wife would believe him, she would go
through life quite as creditably and comfortably without any
fashionable foreign airs and graces. Thus it resulted, partly from want
of opportunity, and partly from want of ambition in herself, that Bessie
Fairfax remained a rustic little maid, without the