Breakfastwas half over before Miss Sefton made her appearance; but her graceful apology for her tardiness was received by Dr. Lambert in the most indulgent manner. In spite of his love of punctuality, and his stringent rules for his household in this respect, he could not have found it in his heart to rebuke the pretty, smiling creature who told him so naïvely that early rising disagreed with her and put her out for the day.
“I tell mamma that I require a good deal of sleep, and, fortunately, she believes me,” finished Edna complacently.
Well, it was not like the doctor to hold his peace at this glaring opposition to his favorite theory, and yet, to Tom’s astonishment, he forebore to quote that threadbare and detestable adage, “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise”—proverbial and uncomfortable philosophy that Tom hated with all his foolish young heart. Tom,in his budding manhood, often thought fit to set this domestic tyranny at defiance, and would argue at some length that his father was wrong in laying down rules for the younger generation.
“If my father likes to get up early, no one can find any fault with him for doing it,” Tom would say; “but he need not impose his venerable and benighted opinions upon us. Great men are not always wise; even intellectual veterans like Dr. Johnson, and others I can mention, if you only give me time, have their hallucinations, fads, fancies, and flummeries. For example, every one speaks of Dr. Johnson with respect; no one hints that he had a bee in his bonnet, and yet a man who could make a big hole for a cat and a little one for a kitten—was it Johnson or Newton who did that?—must have had a screw loose somewhere. And so it is with my father; early rising is his hobby—his pet theory—the keystone that binds the structure of health together. Well, it is a respectable theory, but my father need not expect an enlightened and progressive generation to subscribe to it. The early hours of the morning are not good for men and mice, only for birds and bricklayers, and worms weary of existence.”
Tom looked on, secretly amused, as his father smiled indulgently at Miss Sefton’s confession of indolence. He asked her how she had slept, andmade room for her beside him, and then questioned her about her intended journey, and finally arranged to drive her to the station before he went on his usual round.
An hour afterward the whole family collected in the hall to see Miss Sefton off. Edna bid them good-bye in her easy, friendly fashion, but as she took Bessie’s hand, she said:
“Good-bye, dear. I have an idea that we shall soon meet again. I shall not let you forget me;” and then she put up her face to be kissed.
“I am not likely to forget you,” thought Bessie, as Edna waved her little gloved hand to them all; “one could soon get fond of her.”
“How nice it must be to be rich,” sighed Christine, who was standing beside Bessie. “Miss Sefton is very little older than we are, and yet she has lovely diamond and emerald rings. Did you see her dressing bag? It was filled up so beautifully; its bottles silver mounted; it must have cost thirty guineas, at least. And then her furs; I should like to be in her place.”
“I should not envy Miss Sefton because she is rich,” retorted Hatty disdainfully. “I would rather change places with her because she is so strong and so pretty. I did like looking at her so much, and so did Tom. Didn’t you, Tom?”
“I say, I wish you girls would shut up or clear off,” responded Tom crossly; for things felt a little flat this morning. “How is a fellow to work with all this chattering going on round him?”
“Why, you haven’t opened your books yet,” replied Hatty, in an aggrieved voice; but Bessie hastily interposed:
“Tom is quite right to want the room to himself. Come along, girls, let us go to mother in the morning-room; we might do some of our plain sewing, and then I can tell you about Aunt Charlotte. It is so long since we have been cosy together, and our needles will fly while we talk—eh, Hatty?”
“There are those night shirts to finish,” said Christine disconsolately; “they ought to have been done long ago, but Hatty was always saying her back ached when I wanted her help, and I could not get on with them by myself.”
“Never mind, we will all set to work vigorously,” and Bessie tripped away to find her work basket. The morning-room, as they called it, was a small room leading out of the drawing-room, with an old-fashioned bay window looking out on the garden.
There was a circular cushioned seat running round the bay, with a small table in the middle, and this was the place where the girls loved to sit and sew, while their tongues kept pace with their needles. WhenHatty’s back ached, or the light made her head throb with pain, she used to bring her low chair and leave the recess to Bessie and Christine.
The two younger girls went to school.
As Hatty brought her work (she was very skilful with the needle, and neither of her sisters could vie with her in delicate embroidery), she slipped a cold little hand into Bessie’s.
“It is so lovely to have you back, Betty, dear,” she whispered. “I woke quite happy this morning to know I should see you downstairs.”
“I think it is lovely to be home,” returned Bessie, with a beaming smile. “I am sure that is half the pleasure of going away—the coming back again. I don’t know how I should feel if I went to stay at any grand place; but it always seems to me now that home is the most delicious place in the world; it never looks shabby to me as it does to Tom; it is just homelike.”
Mrs. Lambert, who was sitting apart from the girls, busy with her weekly accounts, looked up at hearing her daughter’s speech.
“That is right, dear,” she said gently, “that is just how I like to hear you speak; it would grieve me if my girls were to grow discontented with their home, as some young ladies do.”
“Bessie is not like that, mother,” interposed Hatty eagerly.
“No, Hatty, we know that, do we not? What do you think father said the other day, Bessie? He said, ‘I shall be glad when we get Bessie back, for the place does not seem like itself when she is away.’ That was a high compliment from father.”
“Indeed it was,” returned Bessie; and she blushed with pleasure. “Every one likes to be missed; but I hope you didn’t want me too much, mother.”
“No, dear; but, like father, I am glad to get you back again.” And the mother’s eyes rested fondly on the girl’s face. “Now you must not make me idle, for I have all these accounts to do, and some notes to write. Go on with your talking; it will not interrupt me.”
It spoke well for the Lambert girls that their mother’s presence never interfered with them; they talked as freely before her as other girls do in their parent’s absence. From children they had never been repressed nor unnaturally subdued; their childish preferences and tastes had been known and respected; no thoughtless criticism had wounded their susceptibility; imperceptibly and gently maternal advice had guided and restrained them.
“We tell mother everything, and she likes to hear it,” Ella and Katie would say to their school-fellows.
“We never have secrets from her,” Ella added.“Katie did once, and mother was so hurt that she cried about it. Don’t you recollect, Katie?”
“Yes, and it is horrid of you to remind me,” returned Katie wrathfully, and she walked away in high dudgeon; the recollection was not a pleasant one. Katie’s soft heart had been pierced by her mother’s unfeigned grief and tender reproaches.
“You are the only one of all my little girls who ever hid anything from me. No, I am not angry with you, Katie, and I will kiss you as much as you like,” for Katie’s arms were round her neck in a moment; “but you have made mother cry, because you do not love her as she does you.”
“Mother shall never cry again on my account,” thought Katie; and, strange to say, the tendency to secretiveness in the child’s nature seemed cured from that day. Katie ever afterward confessed her misdemeanors and the accidents that happen to the best-regulated children with a frankness that bordered on bluntness.
“I have done it, mother,” she would say, “but somehow I don’t feel a bit sorry. I rather liked hurting Ella’s feelings; it seemed to serve her right.”
“Perhaps when we have talked about it a little you will feel sorry,” her mother would reply quietly; “but I have no time for talking just now.”
Mrs. Lambert was always very busy; on these occasionsshe never found time for a heated and angry discussion. When Katie’s hot cheeks had cooled a little, and her childish wrath had evaporated, she would quietly argue the point with her. It was an odd thing that Katie generally apologized of her own accord afterward—generally owned herself the offender.
“Somehow you make things look different, mother,” she would say, “I can’t think why they all seem topsy-turvy to me.”
“When you are older I will lend you my spectacles,” her mother returned, smiling. “Now run and kiss Ella, and pray don’t forget next time that she is two years older; it can’t possibly be a younger sister’s duty to contradict her on every occasion.”
It was in this way that Mrs. Lambert had influenced her children, and she had reaped a rich harvest for her painstaking, patient labors with them, in the freely bestowed love and confidence with which her grown-up daughters regarded her. Now, as she sat apart, the sound of their fresh young voices was the sweetest music to her; not for worlds would she have allowed her own inward sadness to damp their spirits, but more than once the pen rested in her hand, and her attention wandered.
Outside the wintry sun was streaming on the leaflesstrees and snowy lawns; some thrushes and sparrows were bathing in the pan of water that Katie had placed there that morning.
“Let us go for a long walk this afternoon,” Christine was saying, “through the Coombe Woods, and round by Summerford, and down by the quarry.”
“Even Bessie forgets that it will be Frank’s birthday to-morrow,” thought Mrs. Lambert. “My darling boy, I wonder if he remembers it there; if the angels tell him that his mother is thinking of him. That is just what one longs to know—if they remember;” and then she sighed, and pushed her papers aside, and no one saw the sadness of her face as she went out. Meanwhile Bessie was relating how she had spent the last three weeks.
“I can’t think how you could endure it,” observed Christine, as soon as she had finished. “Aunt Charlotte is very nice, of course; she is father’s sister, and we ought to think so; but she leads such a dull life, and then Cronyhurst is such an ugly village.”
“It is not dull to her, but then you see it is her life. People look on their own lives with such different eyes. Yes, it was very quiet at Cronyhurst; the roads were too bad for walking, and we had a great deal of snow; but we worked and talked, andsometimes I read aloud, and so the days were not so long after all.”
“I should have come home at the end of a week,” returned Christine; “three weeks at Cronyhurst in the winter is too dreadful. It was real self-sacrifice on your part, Bessie; even father said so; he declared it was too bad of Aunt Charlotte to ask you at such a season of the year.”
“I don’t see that. Aunt Charlotte liked having me, and I was very willing to stay with her, and we had such nice talks. I don’t see that she is to be pitied at all. She has never married, and she lives alone, but she is perfectly contented with her life. She has her garden and her chickens, and her poor people. We used to go into some of the cottages when the weather allowed us to go out, and all the people seemed so pleased to see her. Aunt Charlotte is a good woman, and good people are generally happy. I know what Tom says about old maids,” continued Bessie presently, “but that is all nonsense. Aunt Charlotte says she is far better off as she is than many married people she knows. ‘Married people may double their pleasures,’ as folks say, ‘but they treble their cares, too,’ I have heard her remark; ‘and there is a great deal to be said in favor of freedom. When there is no one to praise there is no one to blame, and if there is no one to love there is no oneto lose, and I have always been content myself with single blessedness.’ Do you remember poor Uncle Joe’s saying, ‘The mare that goes in single harness does not get so many kicks?’”
“Yes, I know Aunt Charlotte’s way of talking; but I dare say no one wanted to marry her, so she makes the best of her circumstances.”
Bessie could not help laughing at Christine’s bluntness.
“Well, you are right, Chrissy; but Aunt Charlotte is not the least ashamed of the fact. She told me once that no one had ever fallen in love with her, ‘I could not expect them to do so,’ she remarked candidly. ‘As a girl I was plain featured, and so shy and awkward that your Uncle Joe used to tell me that I was the only ugly duckling that would never turn into a swan.’”
“What a shame of Uncle Joe!”
“Idon’tthink Aunt Charlotte took it much to heart. She says her hard life and many troubles drove all nonsense thoughts out of her head. Why, grandmamma was ill eight years, you know, and Aunt Charlotte nursed her all that time. I am sure when she used to come to my bedside of a night, and tuck me up with a motherly kiss, I used to think her face looked almost beautiful, it was so full of kindness. Somehow I fancy when I am old,” addedBessie pensively, “I shall not care so much about my looks nor my wrinkles, if people will only think I am a comfortable, kind-hearted sort of a person.”
“You will be the dearest old lady in the world,” returned Hatty, dropping her work with an adoring look at her Betty. “You are cosier than other people now, so you are sure to be nicer than ever when you are old. No wonder Aunt Charlotte loved to have you.”
“What a little flatterer you are, Hatty! It is a comfort that I don’t grow vain. Do you know, I think Aunt Charlotte taught me a great deal. When you get over her little mannerisms and odd ways, you soon find out what a good woman she really is. She is always thinking of other people; what she can do to lighten their burdens; and little things give her so much pleasure. She says the first violet she picks in the hedgerow, or the sight of a pair of thrushes building their nest in the acacia tree, makes her feel as happy as a child; ‘for in spring,’ she said once, ‘all the world is full of young life, and the buds are bursting into flowers, and they remind me that one day I shall be young and beautiful too.’”
“I think I should like to go and stay with Aunt Charlotte,” observed Hatty, “if you think she would care to have me.”
“I am sure she would, dear. Aunt Charlotte lovesto take care of people. You most go in the summer, Hatty; the cottage is so pretty then, and you could be out in the garden or in the lanes all day. June is the best month, for they will be making hay in the meadows, and you could sit on the porch and smell the roses, and watch Aunt Charlotte’s bees filling their honey bags. It is just the place for you, Hatty—so still and quiet.”
This sort of talk lasted most of the morning, until Ella and Katie returned from school, and Tom sauntered into the room, flushed with his mental labors, and ready to seek relaxation in his sisters’ company.
Bessie left the room and went in search of her mother; when she returned, a quarter of an hour later, she found Tom sulky and Hatty in tears.
“It is no use trying to keep the peace,” observed Christine, in a vexed tone. “Tom will tease Hatty, and then she gets cross, and there is no silencing either of them.”
“Come with me, Hatty dear, and help me put my room in order. I have to finish my unpacking,” said Bessie soothingly. “You have been working too long, and so has Tom. I shall leave him to you, Chrissy.” And as Hatty only moaned a little in her handkerchief, Bessie took the work forcibly away, and then coaxed her out of the room.
“Why is Tom so horrid to me?” sobbed Hatty“I don’t believe he loves me a bit. I was having such a happy morning, and he came in and spoiled all.”
“Never mind about Tom. No one cares for his teasing, except you, Hatty. I would not let him see you mind everything he chooses to say. He will only think you a baby for crying. Now, do help me arrange this drawer, for dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour, and the floor is just strewn with clothes. If it makes your head ache to stoop, I will just hand you the things; but no one else can put them away so tidily.”
The artful little bait took. Of all things Hatty loved to be of use to any one. In another moment she had dried her eyes and set to work, her miserable little face grew cheerful, and Tom’s sneering speeches were forgotten.
“Why, I do believe that is Hatty laughing!” exclaimed Christine, as the dinner-bell sounded, and she passed the door with her mother. “It is splendid, the way Bessie manages Hatty. I wish some of us could learn the art, for all this wrangling with Tom is so tiresome.”
“Bessie never loses patience with her,” returned her mother; “never lets her feel that she is a trouble. I think you will find that is the secret of Bessie’s influence. Your father and I are often grateful toher. ‘What would that poor child do without her?’ as your father often says; and I do believe her health would often suffer if Bessie did not turn her thoughts away from the things that were fretting her.”
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Oneday, about three months after her adventure in the Sheen Valley, Bessie was climbing up the steep road that led to the Lamberts’ house. It was a lovely spring afternoon, and Bessie was enjoying the fresh breeze that was blowing up from the bay. Cliffe was steeped in sunshine, the air was permeated with the fragrance of lilac blended with the faint odors of the pink and white May blossoms. The flower-sellers’ baskets in the town were full of dark-red wallflowers and lovely hyacinths. The birds were singing nursery lullabies over their nests in the Coombe Woods, and even the sleek donkeys, dragging up some invalids from the Parade in their trim little chairs, seemed to toil more willingly in the sweet spring sunshine.
“How happy the world looks to-day!” said Bessie to herself; and perhaps this pleasant thought was reflected in her face, for more than one passer-by glanced at her half enviously. Bessie did not notice them; her soft gray eyes were fixed on the blue skyabove her, or on the glimpses of water between the houses. Just before she turned into the avenue that led to the house, she stopped to admire the view. She was at the summit of the hill now; below her lay the town; where she stood she could look over the housetops to the shining water of the bay, with its rocky island in the middle. Bessie always called it the bay, but in reality it resembled a lake, it was so landlocked, so closed in by the opposite shore, except in one part; but the smooth expanse of water, shining in the sunlight, lacked the freedom and wild freshness of the open sea, though Bessie would look intently to a distant part, where nothing, as she knew, came between her and the Atlantic. “If we only went far enough, we should reach America; that gives one the idea of freedom and vastness,” she thought.
Bessie held the idea that Cliffe-on-Sea was one of the prettiest places in England, and it was certainly not devoid of picturesqueness.
The houses were mostly built of stone, hewn out of the quarry, and were perched up in surprisingly unexpected places—some of them built against the rock, their windows commanding extensive views of the surrounding country. The quarry was near the Lamberts’ house, and the Coombe Woods stretched above it for miles. Bessie’s favorite walk was thelong road that skirted the woods. On one side were the hanging woods, and on the other the bay. Through the trees one could see the gleam of water, and on summer evenings the Lambert girls would often sit on the rocks with their work and books, preferring the peaceful stillness to the Parade crowded with strangers listening to the band. When their mother or Tom was with them, they would often linger until the stars came out or the moon rose. How glorious the water looked then, bathed in silvery radiance, like an enchanted lake! How dark and sombre the woods! What strange shadows used to lurk among the trees! Hatty would creep to Bessie’s side, as they walked, especially if Tom indulged in one of his ghost stories.
“What is the use of repeating all that rubbish, Tom?” Bessie would say, in her sturdy fashion. “Do you think any one would hear us if we sung one of our glees? That will be better than talking about headless bogies to scare Hatty. I like singing by moonlight.”
Well, they were just healthy, happy young people, who knew how to make the most of small pleasures. “Every one could have air and sunshine and good spirits,” Bessie used to say, “if they ailed nothing and kept their consciences in good order. Laughing cost nothing, and talking was the cheapest amusement she knew.”
“That depends,” replied her father oracularly, on overhearing this remark. “Words are dear enough sometimes. You are a wise woman, Bessie, but you have plenty to learn yet. We all have to buy experience ourselves. I don’t want you to get your wisdom second-hand; second-hand articles don’t last; so laugh away, child, as long as you can.”
“I love spring,” thought Bessie, as she walked on. “I always did like bright things best. I wonder why I feel so hopeful to-day, just as though I expected something pleasant to happen. Nothing ever does happen, as Chriss says. Just a letter from Tom, telling us his news, or an invitation to tea with a neighbor, or perhaps a drive out into the country with father. Well, they are not big things, but they are pleasant, for all that. I do like a long talk with father, when he has no troublesome case on his mind, and can give me all his attention. I think there is no treat like it; but I mean Hatty to have the next turn. She has been good lately; but she looks pale and dwindled. I am not half comfortable about her.” And here Bessie broke off her cogitations, for at that moment Katie rushed out of the house and began dancing up and down, waving a letter over her head.
“What a time you have been!” cried the child excitedly. “I have been watching for you for half an hour. Here is a letter for your own self, and it isnot from Aunt Charlotte nor Uncle Charles, nor any old fogy at all.”
“Give it to me, please,” returned Bessie. “I suppose it is from Tom, though why you should make such a fuss about it, as though no one ever got a letter, passes my comprehension. No, it is from Miss Sefton; I recognize her handwriting;” which was true, as Bessie had received a note from Edna a few days after she had left them, conveying her own and her mother’s thanks for the kind hospitality she had received.
“Of course it is from Miss Sefton; there’s the Oatlands post-mark. Ella and I were trying to guess what was in it; we thought that perhaps, as Mrs. Sefton is so rich, she might have sent you a present for being so kind to her daughter; that was Ella’s idea. Do open it quickly, Bessie; what is the use of looking at the envelope?”
“I am afraid I can’t satisfy your curiosity just yet, Kitty. Hatty is waiting for the silks I have been matching, and mother will want to know how old Mrs. Wright is. Duty before pleasure,” finished Bessie, with good-humored peremptoriness, as she marched off in the direction of the morning-room.
“Bessie is getting dreadfully old-maidish,” observed Katie, in a sulky voice. “She never used to be so proper. I suppose she thinks it is none of my business.”
When Bessie had got through her list of commissions she sat down to enjoy her letter quietly, but before she had read many lines her color rose, and a half-stifled exclamation of surprise came from her lips; but, in spite of Hatty’s curious questions, she read steadily to the end, and then laid the letter on her mother’s lap.
“Oh, mother, do let me hear it,” implored Hatty, with the persistence of a spoiled child. “I am sure there is something splendid about Bessie, and I do hate mysteries.”
“So do I, Hatty; we think alike there. Shall I read it aloud, my dear?” and as Bessie nodded, Mrs. Lambert read the letter in her quiet, silvery voice:
“My Dear Miss Lambert,” it began; “I told you that I should not allow you to forget me, so, you see, I am keeping my promise like a reliable young woman. Mamma says I have made a bad commencement to my letter—that self-praise is no recommendation. I think I remember that profoundly wise saying in copy-book days; but I hold a more worldly view of the subject. I think people are taken at their own value; so, on principle, I never undervalue myself; and the gist of all this is that I do not intend to be forgotten by a certain young lady who enacted the part of Good Samaritan in the Sheen Valley.“Now, as I must candidly confess to a sincere wish for a better acquaintance with this same young lady, I am writing in my own and mamma’s name to beg you to favor us with your company at The Grange for a few weeks.“You must not think this is a very unconventional proceeding on our part, as our parents were old friends. Mamma is writing to Dr. Lambert by the same post, and she means to say all sorts of pretty things to induce him to intrust you to our care.“I wish I had the power of persuasion. Mamma has such a knack of saying nice things, but indeed you must come. The Grange is such a dear old house, and we know such pleasant people, and I want you to see our Kentish lanes, and indeed mamma and I will make you so comfortable. I don’t mention Richard, because he is nobody, and he never interferes with our friends.“Now I am taking it for granted that you will not refuse me, so I will proceed to tell you our arrangements. Mamma and I have been in town the last five weeks, and we are both of us tired to death of Vanity Fair, so we mean to go back to Oatlands next week. You may come to us as soon after that as you like; fix your own day and your train, and I will be at the station to meet you.“I remain, yours most sincerely,“Edna Sefton.”
“My Dear Miss Lambert,” it began; “I told you that I should not allow you to forget me, so, you see, I am keeping my promise like a reliable young woman. Mamma says I have made a bad commencement to my letter—that self-praise is no recommendation. I think I remember that profoundly wise saying in copy-book days; but I hold a more worldly view of the subject. I think people are taken at their own value; so, on principle, I never undervalue myself; and the gist of all this is that I do not intend to be forgotten by a certain young lady who enacted the part of Good Samaritan in the Sheen Valley.
“Now, as I must candidly confess to a sincere wish for a better acquaintance with this same young lady, I am writing in my own and mamma’s name to beg you to favor us with your company at The Grange for a few weeks.
“You must not think this is a very unconventional proceeding on our part, as our parents were old friends. Mamma is writing to Dr. Lambert by the same post, and she means to say all sorts of pretty things to induce him to intrust you to our care.
“I wish I had the power of persuasion. Mamma has such a knack of saying nice things, but indeed you must come. The Grange is such a dear old house, and we know such pleasant people, and I want you to see our Kentish lanes, and indeed mamma and I will make you so comfortable. I don’t mention Richard, because he is nobody, and he never interferes with our friends.
“Now I am taking it for granted that you will not refuse me, so I will proceed to tell you our arrangements. Mamma and I have been in town the last five weeks, and we are both of us tired to death of Vanity Fair, so we mean to go back to Oatlands next week. You may come to us as soon after that as you like; fix your own day and your train, and I will be at the station to meet you.
“I remain, yours most sincerely,
“Edna Sefton.”
“Oh, Bessie, how delightful! But I don’t like to spare you again so soon.”
“Now, Hatty, don’t be selfish. You must not grudge Bessie the first real treat she has ever had offered to her. We have none of us had such a chance before. Fancy staying at a place like The Grange, and seeing lots of nice people.”
“I wish you could go in my place, Chrissy, dear. I am not quite sure how I should like staying with strange people; we have got into homely ways, nevergoing anywhere except to Aunt Charlotte’s or Uncle Charles’, and I don’t know how I should get on with rich people like the Sefton’s; besides, father and mother may not wish me to accept the invitation,” glancing at her mother’s thoughtful face.
“We must see what your father says about it,” returned Mrs. Lambert, rousing herself with difficulty from her abstraction. “I would not talk about it any more, girls, until we know his wishes. It will only disappoint Bessie if she makes up her mind that she would like to accept the invitation, and father thinks it wiser to refuse. Let us put it out of our heads until he comes home, and he and I will have a talk about it.”
“Yes, that will be best,” returned Bessie, putting the letter in the envelope. “Father will not be home until late, but that does not matter; to-morrow will do quite well.” And, to her sister’s surprise and disappointment, she refused to say any more on the subject.
“Mother is quite right,” she observed, as Hatty fussed and grumbled at her silence. “If we talk about it, I shall just long to go, and shall be vexed and disappointed if father wishes me to refuse.”
“But you might coax him to change his mind. Father never likes disappointing us when we set our hearts on anything,” urged Hatty.
“No, indeed; I never like arguing things with father. He is not one to make up his mind in a hurry, like some people; he thinks over a thing thoroughly, and then he gives his opinion. If he does not wish me to go, he will have a good reason for saying so. I never found either father or mother wrong yet, and I am not going to find fault with them now. Don’t let us talk any more about it, Hatty. I want to think of something else.” But, in spite of this wise resolution, Bessie did think a good deal about the letter, and in her heart she hoped that her father would allow her to accept Miss Sefton’s tempting invitation.
Dr. Lambert did not return home that night until long after his girls had retired to rest, and to Bessie’s surprise he said nothing to her at breakfast; but just as she was leaving the room to give out the stores, as usual, he called her back. “Oh, by the by, Bessie,” he observed, “I have to drive out as far as Castleton this afternoon. I will take you with me if you care to go.”
“I always care to go with you, father dear,” replied Bessie, and then she hesitated, as she remembered Hatty’s pale cheeks; “but I think you ought to take Hatty instead; it would do her so much good, and she does so love a drive.”
“No, I think you shall be my companion this afternoon; I will take Hatty to-morrow,” replied the doctor, as he took up his paper again.
“Good child, she always thinks of poor Hatty,” he said to himself, and his eyes glistened. “They are all good girls, but not one of them is so unselfish as my little Betty; she takes after her mother in that. Dora never thinks of herself.”
Bessie went about her household tasks with a light heart, for she had the prospect of a pleasant afternoon before her. The drive to Castleton would be lovely, and she would hear what her father had to say about the letter. So she was ready and waiting by the time the pretty little victoria came around to the door, and as Dr. Lambert stood on the porch, he thought the happy, sunshiny face looked very attractive under the new gray hat.
“You look very smart, Bessie,” he said, smiling. “Have I seen that very becoming hat before?”
“Only last Sunday,” returned Bessie brightly; “but I always put on my best things when I drive with you, that your daughter may do you credit;” for Bessie in her heart thought her father the handsomest man in Cliffe; and indeed many people admired the doctor’s clever, refined face, and quiet, genial manners.
The sturdy little roan trotted briskly down the lower road, as it was called, and Bessie leaned back and looked dreamily at the golden ripples that lay on the water, while the branches overhead threw flickeringshadows on the road before them, until her father’s voice roused her.
“You and I are to have some talk together, I believe. Would you like to see Mrs. Sefton’s letter, Bessie? Your mother showed me the one you received from her daughter.” And as Bessie eagerly assented, he handed it to her.
“It is a very nice letter,” she observed, as soon as she had finished it; “it could not be more kindly expressed.”
“No; Mrs. Sefton is a ladylike woman, and she knows exactly what to say. It is a grand thing to have tact.” And then he paused for a moment, and continued in an amused voice, “The world is a very small place after all. I have lived long enough in it not to be surprised at running against all sorts of odd people in all sorts of odd places, but I must own I was a little taken aback when you brought Miss Sefton into my house that night.”
“You knew Mrs. Sefton when you were a young man, father?”
“I suppose I knew her fairly well, for I was engaged to her for six months.” And as Bessie started, “Well, you will think that an odd speech for a father to make to his daughter, but, you see, I know our Bessie is a reliable little woman, who can keep her tongue silent. I have my reasons for telling you this. You have alwaysbeen your mother’s companion, as well as my right hand, and I would not let you go to The Grange in ignorance of the character of its inhabitants.”
“Oh, father, do you really mean me to go?”
“We will come to that presently; let me finish what I was saying. I was fool enough to engage myself to a beautiful girl, knowing her to be unsuitable in every way for a poor man’s wife, and I dare say I should have persisted in my blindness to the bitter end, if I had not been jilted by the young lady.”
“My dear father!”
“My dear little Betty, please don’t speak in that pitying tone; it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I dare say I had a bad time of it; young men are such fools; but I soon met your mother, and she healed all wounds; but if Eleanor Sartoris treated me badly, she met with her punishment. The man she married was a worthless sort of a fellow; he is dead, so I need not mind saying so now. He was handsome enough and had all the accomplishments that please women, but he could not speak the truth. I never knew a man who could lie so freely, and in other respects he was equally faulty, but Eleanor was infatuated, and she would marry him against the advice of her friends, and the first thing she found out was that he had deceived her on one point. She knew that he had married when almosta boy, and his wife had been long dead, but he kept from her that he had a son living. His excuse was that he had heard her say that nothing would induce her to undertake the duties of a stepmother, and that he feared a refusal on account of Richard. In this he had overreached himself; she never forgave the deception, and she barely tolerated the poor boy. I am afraid, from what I heard, that their short married life was not a happy one. Eleanor had a proud, jealous temper, but she was truthful by nature, and nothing was so odious in her eyes as falsehood and deceit. I can feel sorry for her, for no woman could respect a character like Sefton’s, but I have always blamed her for her hardness to her stepson. His father doted on him, and Richard was the chief subject of their dissension on his death bed. He begged his wife to be kinder to the boy, but I do not know if this appeal softened her. The property belongs, of course, to her stepson, and in a sense she and her daughter are dependent on him, but it is not a united household. I know very little about the young man, except that he is industrious and fond of out-of-door pursuits, and farms his own estate; but I hear he is a little clownish in appearance. Now we are stopping, because I have a patient to see here, but I shall not be ten minutes, and we will resume our conversation presently.”
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Bessiehad plenty of food for meditation while Dr. Lambert paid his visit to his patient, and he found her apparently absorbed in a brown study when he returned to the carriage.
“Father dear,” she said, rousing herself, as he placed himself beside her, “I have been thinking over all you have told me, and I cannot help wondering why you wish me to visit Mrs. Sefton, when she treated you so badly.”
Dr. Lambert was silent for a minute; the question was not an easy one to answer. His wife had said the very same thing to him the previous evening:
“I wonder that you care to let Bessie visit at The Grange, when Eleanor Sartoris treated you so badly.” And then she added, “I think she is very much to blame, too, for her behavior to her stepson. Margaret Tillotson tells me that he is an honest, good-hearted fellow, though not very clever, butthat want of appreciation has made him shy and awkward.”
But he had been able to satisfy his wife without much difficulty. All their married life there had never been a shadow of a doubt between them; her calm, reasonable judgment had wholly approved her husband’s conduct on all occasions; whatever he did or said had been right in her eyes, and she had brought up her daughters to think the same.
“Well, do you know, Bessie,” he said playfully, “I have more reasons than one for wishing you to go to The Grange? I have taken a fancy to Miss Sefton, and I want her mother to be acquainted with my daughter; and I think it will be good for you to extend your knowledge of the world. You girls are tied too much to your mother’s apron-strings, and you must learn to do without her sometimes.”
This was all very well, but though Bessie smilingly accepted this explanation of her father’s motives in permitting her to go to Oatlands, she was clever enough to know that more lay behind.
Dr. Lambert had long ago forgiven the injury that had been done to him. His nature was a generous one; good had come out of evil, and he was tolerant enough to feel a kindly interest in Mrs. Sefton as an old friend. It is true she had created her own troubles, but in spite of that he could be sorry for her.Like a foolish woman she had built her life’s hopes upon a shifting, sandy foundation; she had looked on the outward appearance, and a fair exterior had blinded her to the hollowness beneath. The result was bitterness and disappointment.
“I should like her to see our Bessie,” he had said to his wife. “Bessie is just like a sunbeam; she will do her good, and even if things are different from what she sees at home, it will do her no harm to know how other people live. Our girls are good girls, but I do not want them to live like nuns behind a grating; let them go out into the world a little, and enlarge their minds. If it were Christine, I might hesitate before such an experiment, but I have perfect confidence in Bessie.”
And his wife’s answer to this had been:
“I am quite sure you are right, Herbert, and I am perfectly willing to let Bessie visit your old friend.” And so the matter ended. The doctor got his way as usual, simply by wishing for it.
The drive was a long one, but it seemed short to Bessie, and she was quite sorry when it was over.
“Thank you, father dear, it has been such a treat,” she said, with a loving little squeeze of his arm; and then she ran in to find her mother.
Mrs. Lambert looked up inquiringly as Bessie took off her hat and gloves.
“Well, my dear, have father and you settled it?”
“Yes, indeed, mother; and I am really to go. Father seems to like the idea. He has evidently fallen in love with Miss Sefton. I am afraid I am a great deal too much excited about it at present, but Hatty will soon damp me.”
“Poor child! she never likes you to go away. She does not mean to be selfish, and I know she struggles hard to control her feelings, but she will have a good cry when she hears you are going to Oatlands.”
“We must not let her mope, mother. If I thought it were good for Hatty I would stay at home, to prevent her feeling so miserable, but it would be false kindness to give in to her; she would hate herself for her selfishness, and she would not be a bit happy if she knew she had prevented my visit. I would rather see her fret before I go, and bear it as well as I can, and then I know she will cheer up soon and be looking forward to my return.”
“You are quite right, Bessie, and neither your father nor I would allow you to sacrifice yourself for Hatty. Too much indulgence on your part would only feed the poor child’s nervous fancies. I know she feels her parting with you for a week or two as a serious trial, and I dare say it is a trial to her, but she must take it as one, and not selfishly spoil your pleasure.Now we will forget Hatty for a few minutes; there is something else troubling me. How are you to be fitted out for your visit, when I dare not ask your father for any more money?”
“Well, I have thought about that, too,” returned Bessie briskly. “I was reviewing my wardrobe all the time father was at Castleton House. He was quite half an hour away, so I had plenty of time. I was a little worried at first, thinking how I should manage, but somehow I made it all straight. Listen to me, mother, dear,” as Mrs. Lambert sighed and shook her head. “Miss Sefton has been here, so she knows we are not rich people, and she will not expect to see many smart dresses. I don’t want to pretend to be what I am not. We cannot afford to dress grandly, nor to have many new frocks, but I am sure we are just as happy without them.”
“Yes; but you never have stayed with rich people before, Bessie,” returned her mother sadly. “You do not know how shabby your old things will look beside other people’s silks and satins. Father does not think about these things, and I do not like to remind him; but you ought to have a new jacket, though we did say the old one would do this year.”
“Now, mother, will you be quiet, please, and listen to me? for I am brimful of ideas, and I won’t have you worry. The jacket must do, for I do notmean to ask father for a new one. I have my gray dress and hat, and father thinks they are very becoming; and there is my Indian muslin Uncle Charles gave me for best occasions, and if you will let me buy a few yards of white nun’s-cloth Chrissy and I will contrive a pretty dinner-dress. I like white best, because one can wear different flowers, and so make a change. Perhaps I must have a pair of new gloves, and some shoes; but those won’t cost much.”
“You are easily satisfied, darling,” replied Mrs. Lambert fondly. “Yes, you shall have the nun’s-cloth, and I will give you some of my lace to trim it. And there are the pearls that I wore on my wedding-day. Your father is so fond of them, but I always told him they were put aside for you. Wait a moment; they are in my escritoire, and you may as well have them now.” And Mrs. Lambert unlocked the door, and opening a little box, placed the necklace in Bessie’s hand. It consisted of three rows of tiny pearls, and was very simple and pretty.
“Oh, mother, how lovely!” exclaimed the girl. “Is it really for me? That is just what I wanted; my gold chain is so thin that I hardly ever dare to wear it. It has been broken twice. But this is far prettier.” And Bessie clasped the little necklace around her neck, and then went off proudly to show hertreasureto Christine and Hatty, while Mrs. Lambert shed a few tears at the thought how little she had to give her girls. The next moment she dashed them away indignantly.
“I ought to be ashamed of myself,” she thought. “What would Herbert say if he found me crying in this childish way? What do our girls want with ornaments and pretty dresses? They have youth and good looks andmanners.My Bessie is a perfect gentlewoman, in spite of her shabby frocks. No one could help being pleased with her gentle, modest ways. I expect it is my pride. I did not want Mrs. Sefton to think we are not rich. But I am wrong; my girls are rich. They are rich in having such a father, and in their own happy natures.” And then Mrs. Lambert thought of those other ornaments that she desired for them—the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit; the priceless jewels of innocence and purity, which are the fairest adornments of a young girl.
“These will not be lacking,” she said to herself. “My Bessie’s unobtrusive goodness will soon make itself felt.”
Bessie had made up her mind not to trouble about her scanty wardrobe, and she was quite happy planning the nun’s-cloth dress with Christine.
But though Dr. Lambert said nothing, he thought a great deal, and the result of his cogitations was, afive-pound note was slipped into Bessie’s hand the next evening.
“Go and buy yourself some finery with that,” he observed quietly.
Bessie could hardly sleep that night, she was so busy spending the money in anticipation; and the very next day she was the delighted purchaser of a new spring jacket and had laid out the remainder of the five-pound note in a useful black and white tweed for daily use, and a pretty lilac cotton, and she had even eked out a pair of gloves.
Three dresses to be made; no wonder they were busy; even Mrs. Lambert was pressed into the service to sew over seams and make buttonholes.
Hatty never complained her back ached when she worked for Bessie; her thin little hands executed marvelous feats of fine workmanship; all the finer parts were intrusted to Hatty.
“I feel almost as though I were going to be married,” observed Bessie, as she surveyed the fresh, dainty dresses. “I never had more than one new gown at a time. Now they are finished, and you are tired, Hatty, and you must go and lie down, like a good child.”
“I am not tired, not a bit,” returned Hatty touchily; “and I am going out with Ella.”
Bessie held her peace. Hatty’s temper had beenvery trying for the last three days; she had slaved for Bessie to the detriment of her health, but had worn an injured manner all the time.
She would not join in the conversation, nor understand a joking remark. When Christine laughed at her in a good-humored way, Hatty pursed up her lips, and drew herself up in a huffy manner, and would not condescend to speak a word. She even rejected Bessie’s caresses and little attempts at petting. “Don’t, Bessie. I must go on with my work; I wish you would leave me alone,” she would say pettishly.
Bessie did leave her alone, but it made her heart ache to see the lines under Hatty’s eyes, that showed she had cried herself to sleep. She knew it was unhappiness and not temper that was the cause of her irritability.
“She is ashamed of letting me know that she cannot bear me to go away,” she thought. “She is trying to get the better of her selfishness, but it conquers her. I will leave her alone for a little, and then I will have it all out. I could not go away and leave her like that.” For Bessie’s warm, affectionate nature could not endure the thought of Hatty’s pain.
“I have so much, and she has so little,” she said to herself, and her pity blunted all Hatty’s sharp, sarcastic little speeches and took the sting out of them.“Poor little thing! she does not mean half she says,” she remarked, as a sort of apology to Christine, when Hatty had marched off with Ella.
“I don’t know how you put up with her as you do,” observed Christine, whose patience had been sorely exercised that morning by Hatty’s tempers. “She is treating you as badly as possible. I would rather have been without her help, if I had been you; we might have had Miss Markham in for two days; that would have shamed Hatty nicely.”
“I don’t want to shame her, Chrissy, dear; poor little Hatty! when she has been working so beautifully, too. She is worrying herself about my going away, and that makes her cross.”
“As though no one else would miss you,” returned Christine stormily, for she was not quite devoid of jealousy. “But there, it is no use my talking; you will all treat Hatty as though she were a baby, and so she behaves like a spoiled child. I should like to give her a bit of my mind.” And Christine tossed her pretty head and swept off the last dress, while Bessie cleared the table.
Bessie’s visit was fixed for the following Tuesday, so on Sunday evening she made up her mind that the time was come for speaking to Hatty. As it happened, they were keeping house together, for the rest of the family, the servants included, hadgone to church. Hatty had just settled herself in a corner of the couch, with a book in her hand, expecting that Bessie would follow her example (for the Lambert girls were all fond of reading), when a hand was suddenly interposed between her eyes and the page.
“This is our last quiet evening, Hatty, and I am going to talk instead of read, so you may as well shut up that big book.”
“It takes two to talk,” observed Hatty, rather crossly, “and I am not in the mood for conversation, so you had better let me go on with ‘Bishop Selwyn’s Life.’”
“You are not in the mood for reading either,” persisted Bessie, and there was a gleam of fun in her eyes. “When you pucker up your forehead like that, I know your thoughts are not on your book. Let us have a comfortable talk instead. You have not been like yourself the last week, not a bit like my Hatty; so tell me all about it, dear, and see if I cannot make you feel better.”
“No, Bessie, don’t try; it is not any use, unless I jump into somebody else’s body and mind. I can’t make myself different. I am just Hatty, a tiresome, disagreeable, selfish little thing.”
“What a lot of adjectives! I wonder they don’t smother you. You are not big enough to carryso many. I think I could word that sentence better. I should just say, ‘Hatty is a poor, weak little body to whom mole-hills are mountains, and the grasshopper a burden.’ Does not that sound nicer?”
“Yes, if it were true,” returned Hatty sorrowfully, and then her ill-humor vanished. “No, don’t pet me, Bessie; I don’t deserve it,” as Bessie stroked her hand in a petting sort of a way. “I have been cross and ill-tempered all the week, just unbearable, as Christine said; but oh, Bessie, it seemed as though I could not help it. I was so miserable every night to think you were going away, that I could not sleep for ever so long, and then my head ached, and I felt as though I were strung on wires when I came down the next morning, and every time people laughed and said pleasant things I felt just mad, and the only relief was to show every one how disagreeable I could be.”
Hatty’s description of her overwrought feelings was so droll that Bessie with some difficulty refrained from laughing outright, but she knew how very real all this was to Hatty, so she exercised self-control, and said, quite gravely:
“And so you wanted to make us all miserable, too. That was hardly kind, was it, when we were all so sorry for you? I do think you have a great deal to bear, Hatty. I don’t mean because you areso weak in health; that could be easily borne; but it must be so sad always to look on the dark side of things. Of course, in some sense, we all project our own shadows; but you are not content with your own proper shadow, you go poking and peering about for imaginary ones, and so you are dark all round.”
“But your going away to Oatlands is not imaginary,” returned Hatty piteously.
“No, you foolish child. But I hope you do not grudge me a pleasant visit. That would be a great piece of substantial selfishness on your part, of which, I trust, my Hatty would not be capable. Supposing I gave in to this ridiculous fancy and said, ‘Hattie hates me to go away, so I will just stop at home, and Miss Sefton shall be disappointed.’ I wonder how you would like that?”
“That would not please me, either. I am not so selfish as that. Oh, Bessie, do tell me how I am to conquer this nervous dread of losing you. It is not selfishness, for I do love to have treats; but when you go away I don’t seem to take any pleasure in anything; it is all so flat and disagreeable. Sometimes I lie awake and cry when I think what I should do if you were to die. I know how silly and morbid it is, but how am I to help it?” And here Hatty broke down, and hid her face on Bessie’s shoulder.
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Bessiedid not make any answer for a minute or two, but her eyes were a little dim as she heard Hatty sob.
“I must not break the bruised reed,” she said to herself. “Hatty’s world is a very little one; she is not strong enough to come out of herself, and take wider views; when she loves people, she loves them somehow in herself; she can’t understand the freedom of an affection that can be happy in the absence of its object. I am not like Hatty; but then our natures are different, and I must not judge her. What can I say that will help her?”
“Can’t you find anything to say to me, Bessie dear?”
“Plenty; but you must wait for it to come. I was just thinking for you—putting myself in your place, and trying to feel as you do.”
“Well!”
“I was getting very low down when you spoke; itwas quite creepy among the shadows. ‘So this is how Hatty feels,’ I said to myself, and did not like it at all.”
“You would not like to be me, Bessie.”
“What an ungrammatical sentence! Poor little me! I should think not; I could not breathe freely in such a confined atmosphere. Why don’t you give it up and let yourself alone? I would not be only a bundle of fears and feelings if I were you.”
“Oh, it is easy to talk, but it is not quite so easy to be good.”
“I am not asking you to be good. We can’t make ourselves good, Hatty; that lies in different hands. But why don’t you look on your unhappy nature as your appointed cross, and just bear with yourself as much as you expect others to bear with you? Why not exercise the same patience as you expect to be shown to you?”
“I hardly understand you, Bessie. I ought to hate myself for my ill-temper and selfishness, ought I not?”
“It seems to me that there are two sorts of hatred, and only one of them is right. We all have two natures. Even an apostle could say, ‘Oh, wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death?’ Even St. Paul felt the two natures warring within him. How can you and I, then, expect to be exempt from this conflict?”
“Don’t put yourself in the same category with me, Bessie. You have crushed your lower nature, if you ever had it.”
“Oh, hush!” replied her sister, quite shocked at this. “You can’t know what you are talking about.” And here her voice trembled a little, for no one was more conscious of her faults and shortcomings. Bessie could remember the time when the conflict had been very hard; when her standard of duty had been lower than that she held now; when she had been as careless and indifferent as many girls of her age, until Divine guidance had led her feet into better paths; and knowing this, in her humility she could be tolerant of others.
“You do not know what you are saying, Hatty, or you would not hurt me by such a speech; it is only your love for me that blinds you. What I want to tell you is this—that you must not be so impatient; you waste all your strength in saying hard things about yourself, instead of fighting your faults. Why don’t you say to yourself, ‘I am a poor, weak little creature, but my Creator knows that too, and he bears with me. I cannot rid myself of my tiresome nature; it sticks to me like a Nessus shirt‘—you know the old mythological story, Hatty—‘but it is my cross, a horrid spiky one, so I will carry it as patiently as I can. If it is not always light, I will grope my way through theshadows; but my one prayer and my one effort shall be to prevent other people suffering through me?’”
“Oh, Bessie, that is beautiful!”
“You will find nothing else will help you to fight your bogies; do try it, darling. Be merciful to your poor little self; ‘respect the possible angel in you,’ as Mr. Robertson said. You will get rid of all your faults and fancies one day, as your namesake did in the river. You won’t always be poor little Hatty, whose back aches, and who is so cross; there is no pain nor crossness in the lovely land where all things are new.”
“Oh, if we were only there now, Bessie, you and I, safe and happy!”
“I would rather wait till my time comes. I am young and strong enough to find life beautiful. Don’t be cowardly, Hatty; you want to drop behind in the march, before many a gray-haired old veteran. That is because you are weak and tired, and you fear the long journey; but you forget,” and here Bessie dropped her voice reverently, “that we don’t journey alone, any more than the children of Israel did in the wilderness. We also have our pillar of cloud to lead us by day, and our pillar of fire by night to give us light. Mother always said what a type of the Christian pilgrimage the story of the Israelites is; she made us go through it all with her, and I remember all shetold me. Hark! I think I hear footsteps outside the window; the servants are coming in from church.”
“Wait a minute, Bessie, before you let them in. You have done me so much good; you always do. I will try not to mope and vex mother and Christine while you are away.” And Hatty threw her arms penitently round her sister’s neck.
Bessie returned her kisses warmly, and left the room with a light heart. Her Sunday evening had not been wasted if she had given the cup of cold water in the form of tender sympathy to one of Christ’s suffering little ones.
Bessie felt her words were not thrown away when she saw Hatty’s brave efforts to be cheerful the next day, and how she refrained from sharp speeches to Christine; she did not even give way when Bessie bade her good-bye.
“You will remember our Sunday talk, Hatty, dear.”
“I do remember it,” with a quivering lip, “and I am trying to march, Bessie.”
“All right, darling, and I shall soon be back, and we can keep step again. I will write you long letters, and bring you back some ferns and primrose roots,” and then Bessie waved her hand to them all, and jumped in the brougham, for her father was going to take her to the station.
It must be confessed that Bessie felt a trifle dullwhen the train moved off, and she left her father standing on the platform. With the exception of short visits to her relatives, that were looked on in the light of duties, she had never left home before. But this feeling soon wore off, and a pleasant sense of exhilaration, not unmixed with excitement followed, as the wide tracts of country opened before her delighted eyes, green meadows and hedgerows steeped in the pure sunlight. Bessie was to be met at the station by some friend of the Seftons, as the country-bred girl knew little about London, and though a short cab drive would deposit her at Charing Cross, it would be far pleasanter for her to have an escort. Mrs. Sefton had suggested Mrs. Sinclair, and Dr. Lambert had been much relieved by her thoughtfulness.
As the train drew up to the platform Bessie jumped out, and stood eagerly looking about her for the lady whom she expected to see, and she was much surprised when a gentlemanly looking man approached her, and lifting his hat, said, with a pleasant smile:
“I believe I am addressing Miss Lambert.”
“Yes, certainly; that is my name,” returned Bessie, in rather anembarrassedmanner.
“Ah, that is all right, and I have made no mistake. Miss Lambert, my mother is so seriously indisposed that she was unable to meet you herself, but you must allow me to offer my services instead. Now I willlook after your luggage, and then I will find you a cab. Will you come with me, please? The luggage is at the other end.”
“I am so sorry to trouble you,” returned Bessie. “I have only one box—a black one, with ‘E. L.’ on the cover.” And then she stood aside quietly, while Mr. Sinclair procured a porter and identified the box; and presently she found herself in a cab, with her escort seated opposite to her, questioning her politely about her journey, and pointing out different objects of interest on their way.
Bessie’s brief embarrassment had soon worn off; and she chatted to her new companion in her usual cheerful manner. She liked Mr. Sinclair’s appearance—he looked clever, and his manners were quiet and well bred. He did not seem young; Edna had told her that he was thirty but he looked quite five years older.
“I wonder how you recognized me so quickly?” Bessie observed presently.
“It was not very difficult to identify you,” he returned quietly. “I saw a young lady who seemed rather strange to her surroundings, and who was evidently, by her attitude, expecting some one. I could tell at once you were not a Londoner.”
“I am afraid I must have looked very countrified,” returned Bessie, in an amused tone.
“Pardon me, I meant no such invidious comparison.People from the country have an air of greater freshness about them, that is all. You live at Cliffe, do you not? I was never there, but it is rather an interesting place, is it not?”
“I think it a dear place,” returned Bessie enthusiastically; “but then it is my home, so I am not unprejudiced. It is very unlike other places. The streets are so steep, and some of the houses are built in such high, out-of-the-way nooks, you look up and see steps winding up the hill, and there is a big house perched up among the trees, and then another. You wonder how people care to climb up so many steps; but then, there is the view. I went over one of the houses one day, and from every window there was a perfect panorama. You could see miles away. Think what the sunsets must be from those windows!”
“You live lower down the hill, then?” with an air of polite interest.
“Yes, in such a quiet, secluded corner; but we are near the quarry woods, and there are such lovely walks. And then the bay; it is not the real open sea you know, but it is so pretty; and we sit on the rocks sometimes to watch the sunset. Oh, I should not like to live anywhereelse!”
“Not in London, for example?”
“Oh, no, not for worlds! It is very amusing to watch the people, but one seems to have no room to breathe freely.”
“We are pretty crowded, certainly,” returned Mr. Sinclair; “but some of us would not care to live anywhere else, and I confess I am one of those people. The country is all very well for a month or two, but to a Londoner it is a sort of stagnation. Men like myself prefer to be at the heart of things—to live close to the centre of activity. London is the nucleus of England; not only the seat of government, but the focus ofintellect, of art, of culture, of all that makes life worth living; and please do not put me down as a cockney, Miss Lambert, if I confess that I love these crowded streets. I am a lawyer, you know, and human nature is my study.”
“I quite understand you,” returned Bessie, with the bright intelligence that was natural to her. She was beginning to think Edna a fortunate girl. “There must be more in her than I thought, or this clever man would not have chosen her,” she said to herself; for Bessie, in her girlish innocence, knew little of the law of opposites, or how an intellectual or scientific man will sometimes select for his life companion a woman of only ordinary intelligence, who will, nevertheless, adorn her husband’s home by her simple domestic virtues. A wife does not need to be a moral whetstone to sharpen her husband’s wits by the fireside, neither would it enhance his happiness to find her filling reams of foolscap paper with choice specimens of proseand poetry; intelligent sympathy with his work is all he demands, and a loving, restful companion, who will soothe his hours of depression, who is never too weary or self-absorbed to listen to the story of his successes or failures.
“I shall be down at The Grange in a week or two—that is, if my mother be better; and then I hope we shall renew our acquaintance,” were Mr. Sinclair’s parting words as he took leave of Bessie; and Bessie sincerely echoed this wish.
“He is the sort of a man father would like,” she thought, as the train moved slowly out of the station.
This was paying a great compliment to Mr. Sinclair, for Dr. Lambert was rather severe on the young men of the day. “I don’t know what has come to them,” he would remark irritably; “young men nowadays call their father ‘governor,’ and speak to him as though he were their equal in age. There is no respect shown to elders. A brainless young puppy will contradict a man twice his age, and there is not even the same courtesy shown to the weaker sex either. I have heard young men and young women—young ladies, I suppose I ought to say—who address each other in a ‘hail-fellow-well-met’ sort of manner, but what can you expect,” in a disgusted tone, “when the girls talk slang, and ape their young brothers? Ithink the ‘sweet madame’ of our great-grandmothers’ times preferable to these slipshod manners. I would rather see our girls live and die in single blessedness than marry one of those fellows.”
“Father, we don’t want to marry any one, unless he is as nice as you,” replied Christine, on overhearing this tirade, and Bessie had indorsed this speech.
It was rather late in the afternoon when Bessie reached her destination, and she was feeling somewhat weary and dusty as she stood on the platform beside her box. The little station was empty, but as Bessie was waiting to question the porter, a man-servant came up to her and touched his hat.
“Miss Sefton is outside with the pony-carriage,” he said civilly. “I will look after the luggage, ma’am—there is a cart waiting for it.”
“Oh, thank you!” returned Bessie, and she went quickly through the little waiting-room. A young man in knickerbockers, with a couple of large sporting dogs, was talking to the station-master, and looked after her as she passed; but Bessie did not notice him particularly; her eyes were fixed on the road, and on a pony-carriage drawn up under the trees. Miss Sefton waved her whip when she saw Bessie, and drove quickly up to the door. She looked prettier than ever in her dark-blue cambric and large shady hat.