“No, indeed, nor any other day of the week when I want you to do anything,” returned Edna, with rising excitement. “Now don’t make any more excuses, Richard. Do you think I am a child to believe in your Medways and Stephensons? I saw you look at mamma before you answered, and you think she does not wish me to go.”
“My darling, why need you excite yourself so?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton.
“It is you that excite me, mamma, you and Richard. You have got some foolish notion in your heads about Captain Grant, just because the poor man is civil to me. You treat me, both of you, as though I were a baby—as though I could not be trusted to take care ofmyself. It is very unjust,” continued Edna, “and I will not bear it from Richard.”
“I confess I don’t see the gist of your remarks,” returned her brother, who was now growing angry in his turn; “and I don’t think all this can be very amusing to Miss Lambert. If my mother has an objection to your keeping up an acquaintance with Captain Grant, it is your duty to give the thing up. In my opinion she is right; he is not the sort of friend for you, Edna, and his mother is disliked by all the officers’ wives. I should think Sinclair would have a right to object to your frequent visits to Staplehurst.”
But Edna was in no mood to listen to reason.
“Neville knows better than to state his objections to me,” she returned haughtily; “and it is quite unnecessary to drag his name into the present conversation. I will only trouble you to answer me one question: Do you absolutely refuse to do me this favor, to drive Miss Lambert and me over to Staplehurst on Thursday?”
“I must refuse,” returned Richard firmly. “It is quite true that my engagement can be put off, but it is so evident that my mother objects to the whole thing, that I will not be a party to your disobeying her wishes.”
Edna rose from the table and made him a profound courtesy. “Thank you for your moral lecture, Richard;but it is quite thrown away. I am not going to be controlled like a child. If you will not take us, Bessie and I will go alone. I quite mean it, mamma.” And Edna marched angrily out of the room.
“Oh, dear,” observed Mrs. Sefton fretfully; “I have not seen her so put out for months; it must have been your manner, Richard. You were so hard on the poor child. Now she will go and make herself ill with crying.”
“Did I misunderstand you?” asked Richard, astonished at this. “Did you wish me to take them, after all?”
“Of course not; what an absurd question! I would not have Edna go for worlds. Neville only said the other day how much he disliked the Grants, and how he hoped Edna kept them at a distance. I think he has heard something to Captain Grant’s disadvantage; but you know how wilful she is; you might have carried your point with a little tact andfinesse, but you are always so clumsy with Edna.”
“You did not help me much,” returned Richard rather bitterly. “You left me to bear the brunt of Edna’s temper, as usual. Why did you not tell her yourself your reasons for disliking her to go? But, no; I am to be the scapegoat, as usual, and Edna will not speak to me for a week.” And so saying he pushed his chair away and walked to the window.
Mrs. Sefton did not answer her stepson. Most likely her conscience told her that his reproach was a just one. She only glanced at Bessie’s grieved face and downcast eyes, and proposed to retire.
The drawing-room was empty when they entered it, and as Bessie noticed Mrs. Sefton’s wistful look round the room, she said timidly:
“May I go and talk to Edna?”
“No, my dear; far better not,” was the reply. “Edna has a hot temper; she takes after her poor father in that. We must give her time to cool. I will go to her myself presently. She was very wrong to answer Richard in that way, but he has so little tact.”
Bessie did not trust herself to reply. She took her book to the window, that her hostess might not find it incumbent on her to talk, and in a short time Mrs. Sefton left the room. Richard entered it a moment later.
“Are you alone?” he asked, in some surprise. “I suppose my mother has gone up to Edna?”
“Yes; she is uneasy about her. Shall I play to you a little, Mr. Sefton? It is getting too dark to read.” Bessie made this overture as a sort of amends to Richard, and the friendly little act seemed to soothe him.
“You are very kind. I should like it of all things,” he returned gratefully. So Bessie sat down and played her simple tunes and sung her little songs until the young man’s perturbed spirits were calmed and quietedby the pure tones of the girlish voice; and presently when she paused for a minute, he said:
“It is awfully good of you to take all this trouble for me.”
“Oh, no, it is not,” replied Bessie, smiling. “I like singing; besides, you are feeling dull this evening; your talk with your sister has upset you.”
“No one ever noticed before if I were dull or not,” he replied, with a sigh; “but I am afraid that sounds ungracious. I think we owe you an apology, Miss Lambert, for airing our family disagreements in your presence. I am more sorry than I can say that you should have been subjected to this unpleasantness.”
“Oh, never mind me,” returned Bessie cheerfully. “I am only sorry for all of you. I dare say Edna did not mean half she said; people say all sorts of things when they are angry. I am afraid she is bitterly disappointed. I have heard her say before how fond she is of watching polo; but I dare say she will soon forget all about it.”
“I cannot flatter myself with that belief. Edna does not so easily forget when her whims are crossed. I dare say she will send me to Coventry all the week; but I can’t help that. Nothing would induce me to drive her over to Staplehurst, and she will hardly carry out her threat of going without me.”
“Of course not,” and Bessie fairly laughed.
“No, it was an idle threat; but all the same it is very vexatious.” But Bessie would not let him dwell on the grievance. She began telling him about Tom, and a funny scrape he had got into last term; and this led to a conversation about her home, and here Bessie grew eloquent; and she was in the midst of a description of Cliffe and its environs when Mrs. Sefton reappeared, looking fagged and weary, and informed them that Edna had a headache and had retired to bed.
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Theunfortunate dispute between Edna and her brother had taken place on Saturday evening, and as Bessie went up to her room that night she made up her mind that the first Sunday at Oatlands would be a failure, as far as enjoyment was concerned.
“I never can be happy myself unless I see others happy round me,” thought Bessie, rather mournfully; “and Edna has taken this disappointment so badly that I am afraid she will make us all suffer for it.” But in this opinion she was wrong. Her acquaintance with Edna had been brief, and she had no suspicion of the intense pride that blended with Edna’s wilfulness, nor of the tenacity, strange in such a bright young creature, that could quietly maintain its purpose under a careless, light-hearted exterior.
Edna had evidently been ashamed of her outburst of temper on the previous evening, for she came down on Sunday morning looking a little pale and subdued, and very gentle in her manner to her mother and Bessie.She seemed to ignore Richard; beyond a cold good morning she did not vouchsafe him a word or a look; and as all his overtures toward reconciliation were passed over in chilling silence, he soon left her to herself.
They all went to church together, and as they walked through the lanes Edna seemed to recover her buoyancy. She laughed and chatted with her mother, and made sprightly speeches in her usual way; and no one could have judged from her manner that there was a spot of bitterness under the smooth surface—an angry consciousness that Richard had dared to cross her will.
Ah, well! there are many beside Edna who enter God’s house with their darling sin hugged close to their bosom, fondled and cherished. Truly we may say we are miserable sinners, and that there is no health in us, for the black plague spot is often hidden under the white vesture, undetected by human insight, but clearly legible to the “Eye that seeth not as man seeth.”
Once Bessie looked up from her hymn-book as Edna’s clear, high notes reached her ear. Edna seemed singing with all her heart:
“Oh, Paradise! Oh, Paradise!Who does not crave for rest?”
Her brown eyes were soft with feeling, there wasa sweet, almost angelic look upon her face; a passing emotion possessed her. Alas, that such moods should be transitory! And yet it has ever been so in the world’s history. Unsanctified human nature is always fickle, and the “Hosanna” of yesterday become the “Crucify Him” of to-day.
After their early luncheon, Edna asked Bessie if she would go with her to see the Athertons.
“Mamma indulges in a nap on Sunday afternoons,” she explained, “and as I am not fond of my own company, I run in and have a chat with the girls.”
“If you would excuse me,” returned Bessie, looking rather uncomfortable, “I would so much rather stay at home. You see, I have been accustomed to spend Sunday very quietly. We have never paid visits as some people do. Church and Sunday-school and a little sacred music and reading, and the day soon passes. If you do not mind, I would rather sit in the garden, or take a stroll through those lovely lanes, than go to the Athertons’.”
Edna looked exceedingly amused at this speech, and at Bessie’s hot cheeks.
“My dear Daisy, don’t look so perturbed. This is Liberty Hall, and our guests always do exactly as they please. I would not interfere with your little prudish ways for the world. I do not require your company in the least. You may retire to your own room and readthe ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ with the blinds down, if you please, and mamma and I will not say a word. There’s Blair’s ‘Sermons’ in the attic, and Hervey’s ‘Meditations Among the Tombs.’ They are a bit dusty, perhaps, but you won’t object to that, for they are full of wholesome and cheerful reading.”
“Thank you,” returned Bessie, undisturbed by this light banter. “But I brought a book from home, in which I am much interested—‘Bishop Hannington’s Life’—and as you are so good as to spare me, I mean to explore some of those shady lanes; they are so nice and quiet.”
Edna was about to make another mischievous rejoinder, but as she looked at Bessie she refrained. Bessie’s contented, gentle expression, the quiet dignity that seemed to invest her girlishness, closed Edna’s mouth.
“She is a good little thing, and I won’t tease her,” she thought. And she refrained with much magnanimity from one of her droll speeches when Maud Atherton asked where Miss Lambert was.
“She preferred taking a walk,” returned Edna; which was the truth, but not the whole truth, for, as she said to herself, “those girls shall not have the chance of laughing at my dear little Bessie.” And she cleverly changed the conversation to a safer topic; for she was quite a diplomatist in her small way.
“Edna is really very good-natured,” thought Bessie gratefully, as she sauntered happily through the leafy lanes.
How delicious the air felt! It was June, and yet there was still the crispness of the spring. She felt as though she and the birds had this beautiful world to themselves, and the twitterings and rustlings in the thicket were the only sounds that broke the Sabbath stillness.
Bessie had just turned into a sunny bit of road when an abject-looking white dog with a black patch over his eye suddenly wriggled himself through a half-closed gate.
“Why, I do believe that is Bill Sykes,” thought Bessie, as the creature stood looking at her. “Bill, what are you doing so far from home?” Bill wagged his tail feebly in a deprecating manner. “Why don’t you walk like a gentleman?” continued Bessie, and, to her great amusement, the dog rose solemnly on his hind legs and commenced stalking down the lane. Bessie burst into a laugh that was echoed by another voice.
“Well done, old Bill.” And, looking up, Bessie saw Richard Sefton leaning on the gate, with his dogs round him. “Don’t move, Miss Lambert,” he continued hastily; “stand where you are till I join you.” And as Bessie looked rather surprised at this peremptoryspeech, he walked quickly to her side and put his hand on her shoulder. “A friend, Leo. Excuse my unceremoniousness, Miss Lambert, but Leo needs an introduction;” and at his words a huge mastiff, who had been eyeing Bessie in a dubious manner, walked quietly up to her.
“Will it be safe for me to pat him?” asked Bessie, as she looked at the big tawny head and heavy jowl of the magnificent beast; but the brown sunken eyes had a friendly expression in them.
“Oh, yes, Leo will be as quiet as a lamb; and what is more, he will never forget you. You may go within the reach of his chain any day, and he will behave to you like a gentleman. Leo is an aristocrat, and never forgetsnoblesse oblige.”
“He is a splendid animal,” returned Bessie; and then she noticed the other dogs. They were all there: Gelert and Brand, and Juno and her puppies, and Spot and Tim.
“We have been for a long walk,” observed Richard, as they turned their faces homeward. “The dogs have been wild with spirits, and I had some difficulty with them at first. You see, they make the most of their weekly holiday.”
“What do you do on a wet Sunday?” asked Bessie curiously.
“Well, I smoke a pipe with them in the stable, andso give them the pleasure of my company. I do hate disappointing dumb animals, Miss Lambert—they have their feelings as well as we have, and I think we ought to behave handsomely to them. I remember when I was quite a little fellow my mother taught me that.”
“Your mother!” in some surprise, for somehow Mrs. Sefton never gave Bessie the impression that her relations with Richard were of the motherly sort.
“Oh, I mean my then mother,” he returnedhastily, as though answering her unspoken thought. “I was very young when she died, but I have never forgotten her. She was not a lady by birth, you know; only a farmer’s or yeoman’s daughter, but there is not a lady living who is prettier or sweeter than she was.”
“I am glad you feel like that to your mother,” replied Bessie, in a sympathetic voice that seemed to ask for further confidence.
Richard Sefton had never spoken of his mother to any one before. What could have drawn the beloved name from his lips? Was it this girl’s soothing presence, or the stillness of the hour and the quiet beauty of the scene round him? Richard was impressionable by nature, and possibly each of these things influenced him. It was a new pleasure to speak to a kindly listener of the memories that lay hidden in his faithful heart.
“Yes, and yet I was a mere child when I lost her,” he went on, and there was a moved look on his face; “but I remember her as plainly as I see you now. She was so young and pretty—every one said so. I remember once, when I was lying in my little cot one night, too hot and feverish to sleep, that she came up to me in her white gown—it was made of some shining stuff, silk or satin—and she had a sparkling cross on her neck. I remember how it flashed in my eyes as she stooped to kiss me, and how she carried me to the window to look at the stars. ‘Are they not bright, Ritchie?’ she said; ‘and beyond there is the great beautiful heaven, where my little boy will go some day;’ and then she stood rocking me in her arms. I heard her say plainly, ‘Oh, that I and my little child were there now!’ And as she spoke something wet fell on my face. I have heard since that she was not happy—not as happy as she ought to have been, poor mother!”
“And is that all you can remember?” asked Bessie gently.
“Oh, no; I have many vague recollections of making daisy chains with my mother on the lawn; of a great yellow cowslip ball flung to me in the orchard; of a Sunday afternoon, when some pictures of Samuel, and David and Goliath, were shown me; and many other little incidents. Children do remember, whatever grown-up people say.”
“I think it would be terrible to lose one’s mother, especially when one is a child,” observed Bessie, in a feeling voice.
“I have found it so, I assure you,” replied Richard gravely. “Mystepmotherwas young, and did not understand children—boys especially. I seemed somewhat in the way to every one but my father. A lonely childhood is a sad thing; no success nor happiness in after life seems to make up for it.”
“I understand what you mean; father always says children claim happiness as a right.”
“It is most certainly their prerogative; but I fear I am boring you with my reminiscences.”
“Not at all; you are giving me a great pleasure, Mr. Sefton. I do like knowing about people—their real selves, I mean, not their outside; it is so much more interesting than any book. I think, as a rule, people shut themselves up too much, and so they exclude light and sympathy.”
“One longs for sympathy sometimes,” said Richard; but he turned away his face as he spoke.
“Yes; every one needs it, and most of us get it,” replied Bessie, feeling very sorry for the young man in her heart. He was too manly and too generous to complain openly of his stepmother’s treatment, but Bessie understood it all as well as though he had spoken.
“In a large family there is no complaint to be made on this score. When I have a grievance there is always mother or Hatty, or Christine and father. We take all our big things to father. Oh, at home, no one is left out in the cold.”
“I think your home must be a happy one, Miss Lambert—but here we are at The Grange. I must bid you good-bye for the present, for I have an errand in the village.”
But Richard did not explain that his errand was to sit with a crippled lad, whose life of suffering debarred him from all pleasure. If there were one person in the world whom Bob Rollton adored it was “the young squire.”
“He is a real gentleman, he is,” Bob would say; “and not one of your make-believe gentry. It is all along of him and Spot and the little ’un, Tim, that I don’t hate Sundays; but he comes reg’lar, does the squire; and he brings some rare good books with him; and Tim curls himself up on my blanket, and Spot sits on the window-sill, making believe to listen, and we have a good old time.”
Other people beside Bob could have cited instances of the young squire’s thoughtfulness and active benevolence; but Richard Sefton was one who did good by stealth, and almost as though he were ashamed of it, and neither his stepmother nor Edna guessed how much he was beloved in the village.
Mrs. Sefton was one of those people who never believed in virtue, unless it had the special hall-mark that conventionality stamps upon it, and Richard’s simple charities, his small self-denials, would have appeared despicable in her eyes. She herself gave largely to the poor at Christmas; blankets and clothing by the bale found their way to the East End. The vicar of Melton called her “The benevolent Mrs. Sefton,” but she and Edna never entered a cottage, never sat beside a sick bed, nor smoothed a dying pillow. Edna would have been horrified at such a suggestion. What had her bright youth to do with disease, dirt and misery? “Don’t tell me about it,” was her usual cry, when any one volunteered to relate some piteous story. That such things should be allowed in a world governed by a merciful Providence was incredible, terrible, but that she should be brought into contact with it was an offence to her ladylike judgment.
Many a girl has thought like Edna Sefton, and yet a royal princess could enter a squalid cottage, and take the starving babe to her bosom; and from that day to this Princess Alice has been a type of loving womanhood.
Edna had not returned from the Athertons when Bessie entered the house, so she went alone to the evening service. As the service was at half-past six, an informal meal was served at a quarter past eight, toallow the servants to attend church. Bessie was rather surprised at this mark of thoughtfulness, but she found out afterward that Richard had induced his stepmother, with some difficulty, to give up the ceremonious late dinner. She urged as an objection that neither she nor Edna ever attended the evening service; but he overruled this, and carried his point.
Just before service commenced, Bessie was surprised to see him enter the church. She had no idea that he would come, but he told her afterward that it was his usual practice.
Just as they were starting for the homeward walk they were joined by a cousin of the Athertons. Bessie had seen her the previous day. She was a fair, interesting-looking girl, dressed in deep mourning. Her name was Grace Donnerton. Richard seemed to know her well. He had evidently waited for her to overtake them, and they all walked on happily together.
Bessie was much taken with her. She was the daughter of a clergyman, who had a large parish in Leeds, and she interested Bessie very much in her account of her own and her sister’s work. They had lately lost their mother, and it was surprising to hear of the way in which these young creatures helped their father in his good work.
“When any one is ill, we generally help in nursingthem,” Grace had said, quite simply. “There are so many of us that we can easily be spared, and we are so fond of our poor people. We have all attended ambulance lectures, and Lizzie, that is my eldest sister, is now training for a year at a hospital. She is very strong, and so fond of nursing, and she hopes to be very useful when she comes home. There are five of us, and we take turns in being papa’s housekeeper. Emma, who is very clever, manages the mother’s meeting, and the rest of us do district work.”
Bessie was so interested by all this that she was sorry when the walk drew to a close. After they had said good-bye to Miss Donnerton, Bessie said “What a nice girl! I am sure I should like to know more of her.”
“Yes; I knew she would be your sort; that is why I waited for her,” replied Richard, as he opened the gate.
Bessie wondered over this speech as she ran up to her room. “My sort! what could he have meant by that?” she said to herself. “I only wish I were like Miss Donnerton, for I am sure she is sweet and good. Well, it has been a lovely day. I have not wished myself at home once. Now I must devote myself to Edna.”
Edna looked a little tired and bored, and Bessie didnot find it easy to interest her. She appeared to be quite indifferent to Miss Donnerton’s merits.
“Oh, Grace! so you like her, do you? Well, I must confess she is too good for me. I never found her say anything interesting yet, but then I did not talk to her about poor people,” and Edna sneered slightly in a ladylike way. “I think all the girls were relieved when she went to church, for we could not get her to talk about anything.”
Yes, Edna was decidedly impracticable that evening. She would not be induced to play or sing; she was not in the humor for sacred music; no, she did not want to read; and everything was slow and stupid.
Bessie coaxed her into the garden at last, and the soft evening air refreshed her in spite of herself.
“Don’t you ever feelennuyéeand horrid?” she asked, in a sort of apologetic manner, presently.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so; at least, I don’t quite know what you mean,” returned Bessie; but she was not thinking of the question. The stars were glittering overhead, and Richard Sefton’s words recurred to her. How clearly she could see it all! The little lonely boy in his cot, the young mother coming up to soothe him. She could picture her so plainly in the white shining gown and the sparkling cross, with the tears falling on the child’s face. “Oh, that I andmy little child were there now!” Oh, how sad it all sounded; and she had gone, and not taken the boy with her. “Poor Mr. Sefton!” thought Bessie, as she recalled the sad, quiet tones and the moved look on Richard’s face.
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Threedays after this Bessie wrote the following letter—it was commenced on Wednesday, and finished on Thursday morning:
“My Dear Little Hattie: It is your turn for a regular long letter, as I have already written to mother and Christine. I don’t write to father because he is so busy, and letters bother him; but you must tell him all the news. You cannot think how Edna laughs at my correspondence; she always says it is such waste of time; but you and I know better than that. It is just the one thing that I can do for you all, now that I am away, and I am not so selfish that I grudge an hour in the day. I know how disappointed one face looks when there is no letter from Bessie in the morning, and so I lay down my book and scribble away as I am doing now.“I am having a lovely time. I do not think I have ever played so much in my life before. It is such a new thing, and yet it is rather nice, too, to hear Edna say in the morning, ‘Now, what shall we do to-day?’ as though one’s whole duty were to amuse one’s self. Father always says, ‘Whatever you do, do it thoroughly,’ and I am carrying out his maxim to the letter, for I do nothing but enjoy myself, and I do it thoroughly.On Monday I finished my letter to Crissy before breakfast, and afterward, as Edna was busy, I spent a long morning reading ‘The Village on the Cliff.’ I have finished it now, and think it lovely. I do enjoy these mornings in the garden; but I must not read too many stories, only Edna says I shall like ‘Old Kensington,’ and I must indulge myself with that. I assure you we make quite a picture. Mac lies at my feet, and Spot generally curls himself up on my lap. Tim prefers lying on the lawn and keeping an eye upon the kitten. She is such a droll little creature, and her antics quite distract me.“Well, I had this delicious morning to myself, and in the afternoon we played tennis at the Athertons’. There were no visitors, but we girls played by ourselves, and I had a long talk with Grace Donnerton. I liked her better than ever; but just as she was talking to me about her sister’s hospital, Maud Atherton disturbed us by telling us tea was ready.“The next morning Edna drove me over to Kimberley—such a lovely drive; and the ponies were so frisky and went so well. We called at a beautiful old house, called Kimberley Hall—I never saw such a place—and had luncheon there. Mrs. Blondell, our hostess, is such a dear old lady, with pretty white curls, and such a sweet old face. Her husband is such a handsome old man; but he is quite deaf, and no one seems to make him hear anything except his wife, and she goes up and speaks to him in a low, distinct voice, and tells him things, and he brightens up at once. He is such a courtly old man, and pays little old-fashioned compliments. He took Edna’s hand and said, ‘We do not often see a pretty young face, my dear, but it is a very pleasant sight. I remember your mother when she was a girl, and a fine, handsome creature she was. I think her daughter does her credit, eh, Dolly?’ And Dolly—that is the dear old lady’s name—put her pretty oldhand on his arm, and said, ‘She does indeed, Rupert, and she has got a look of our Maisie about her;’ and then they looked at each other in such a way.“Edna explained it to me as we drove home. She said they had one child, a beautiful girl, who lived until she was seventeen, and then died of some wasting disease. She had been dead fifteen years, but the old couple had never got over her loss. ‘I am there often,’ Edna went on, ‘but I have never once been without hearing Maisie’s name mentioned; they are always talking about her. One day Mrs. Blondell took me upstairs and showed me all her things. There were her little gowns, most of them white, folded in the big wardrobe. ‘She was to have worn this at her first ball,’ said the poor woman, pulling down a lace dress; it looked quite fresh somehow, only the satin slip was a trifle discolored. There were the shoes, and the silk stockings, and a case of pearls, and the long gloves. ‘She would have looked lovely in it,’ she went on, smoothing out the folds with her tremulous fingers. ‘Rupert says she would have made hearts ache. Thank you my dear, you are very kind,’ for I could not help hugging the dear old thing. It made me cry, too, to hear her.‘I gothere very often because they like to see me; they will have it I am like Maisie, but I am not half so pretty.’ And Edna laughed, though her eyes were moist, and touched up Jill rather smartly.“We had some people to dinner that evening, so Edna made me put on my Indian muslin, which she said looked very nice. She wore a soft white silk herself, which suited her admirably. She has some beautiful dresses which she showed me; she says her mother thinks nothing too good for her, and showers presents on her. She gets tired of her dresses before they are half worn out. I was half afraid she was going to offer me one, for she looked at me rather wistfully, but I made a pretext to leave the room. I enjoyed myselfvery much that evening. The curate took me in to dinner, and I found him very clever and amusing, and he talked so much that, though I was very hungry, I could hardly get enough to eat; but Edna, who declared that she had had no dinner either, brought me up a great plate of cake when we went to bed. Edna sang beautifully that evening, and the curate—his name is Horton—sung too, and Florence Atherton brought her violin. I had never heard a lady play the violin before, but Edna tells me I am old-fashioned, and that it is all the rage at present, and certainly Miss Atherton played extremely well.“Good-bye for the present, dear Hatty; I will add more to-morrow. This is a sort of journal, you know, not a letter, and I shall write a little bit each day.“‘Do be nice and lengthy,’ you said, and I am sure I am carrying out your wish.”“Thursday morning.“Well, here I am again sitting at my writing-table, pen in hand, and ‘the top of the morning to ye, darlint,’ as Biddy used to say; but my Hatty will be still asleep, I know, as she is not one of the strong ones, poor little Hatty! Such a wonderful thing happened to me yesterday—I actually had a riding-lesson. Do tell father that, for he knows how I used to envy Tom when Colonel Miles gave him a mount. It happened in this way. Edna was talking at breakfast time about her ride in the Row, and Mr. Sefton said suddenly, ‘How would you like to learn to ride, Miss Lambert?’ and not thinking he meant anything by the question, I said, ‘I should like it of all things. I do long for a good gallop.’‘Oh, you must not gallop before you trot,’ he returned, quite seriously; ‘Edna, if you still have your old habit by you, I don’t see why I should not give Miss Lambert a lesson. Old Whitefoot is doing nothing for her living.’“Well—would you believe it?—he was quite in earnest, and Edna, who is very good-natured, seemed to think it a good bit of fun, for she jumped up from the table and told her brother to bring Whitefoot round in half an hour; and then she made me go upstairs with her and put on a beautiful blue habit, which seemed to me quite new; but she said she had a much better one made for her last season. It fitted me tolerably, and only required a little alteration to be perfect—and I assure you I hardly knew myself in it, I looked so nice; but a dark habit is always so becoming. Edna looks like a picture in hers.“Well, when we went downstairs, there was Whitefoot—such a pretty brown mare—with Mr. Sefton standing beside her, and Brown Bess was being brought round from the stable. I was just a little nervous at first, but Mr. Sefton was very kind and patient; he taught me how to gather up my reins, and how to hold myself; and he would not mount for some time, but walked beside me for a little distance, telling me things, and when he saw I felt less strange he jumped on Brown Bess, and we had a canter together.“My dear Hatty, it was just delicious! I never felt happier in my life. But Mr. Sefton would not let me ride long; he said I should be very stiff at first, and that we should have a longer ride to-morrow, when Edna would be with us; and of course I had to submit.“I was far too lazy to play tennis that afternoon, so Edna made me get into the hammock, and I had a nice, quiet time with my book, while she and the Athertons had their usual games, and bye and bye Grace Donnerton came and sat by me, and we had another nice talk.“The next morning Edna said she would ride with us, so Mr. Sefton ordered the horses directly after breakfast, and we had a glorious ride for more than two hours. I found trotting rather difficult at first, but Mr. Sefton would not let Edna laugh at my awkwardness,and he encouraged me by telling me that I should soon ride well, and after that I did not mind a bit. Edna really rides perfectly; it was a pleasure to watch her. Once she left us and had a tearing gallop by herself over the common. The other horses got excited and wanted to gallop too, but Mr. Sefton held Whitefoot’s reins, and managed to quiet them both with some difficulty. I thought Edna looked lovely as she rode back to us; she had such a beautiful color, and her eyes looked so bright I don’t wonder people admire her so.“Edna was going to an archery meeting that afternoon with the Athertons, but as there was no room for me in their wagonette, I stayed at home quietly with Mrs. Sefton, and managed to make myself useful, for several people called, and I had to make tea and help entertain them; but I got a quiet hour in my favorite garden seat. Edna brought Florence and Maud Atherton back to dinner, and we had a very merry evening, playing all sorts of games. Mr. Sefton came into the drawing-room for a little while, but he did not stay long. I think the girls quizzed him, and made him uncomfortable. It is such a pity that he is not more at his ease in society; people think he is stupid and cannot talk, but he is really very intelligent, and knows a great deal about a good many subjects. There is to be no ride to-morrow. Mrs. Sefton is going up to town on business, and Edna is to accompany her to the station, for, although Mr. Sefton suggested that I should go out with him for an hour, I could see that they did not second it.“Now, darling, I have told you everything, and I think you will own that I am having a good time. I hope all this pleasure is not spoiling me, but I think of you all as much as ever, and especially of my Hatty. Are you very dull without me, dear? And how do you sleep? Write and tell me everything—how motherlooks, and what Tom said in his last letter, and if father is busy. And if any of you want me very badly, you must say so, and I will come home at once, though I do want some more rides, and Edna has promised to drive me over to Kimberley again. But there is the gong, and I must run down to breakfast. Good-bye, my dearest Hatty.“Your loving“Bessie.”
“My Dear Little Hattie: It is your turn for a regular long letter, as I have already written to mother and Christine. I don’t write to father because he is so busy, and letters bother him; but you must tell him all the news. You cannot think how Edna laughs at my correspondence; she always says it is such waste of time; but you and I know better than that. It is just the one thing that I can do for you all, now that I am away, and I am not so selfish that I grudge an hour in the day. I know how disappointed one face looks when there is no letter from Bessie in the morning, and so I lay down my book and scribble away as I am doing now.
“I am having a lovely time. I do not think I have ever played so much in my life before. It is such a new thing, and yet it is rather nice, too, to hear Edna say in the morning, ‘Now, what shall we do to-day?’ as though one’s whole duty were to amuse one’s self. Father always says, ‘Whatever you do, do it thoroughly,’ and I am carrying out his maxim to the letter, for I do nothing but enjoy myself, and I do it thoroughly.On Monday I finished my letter to Crissy before breakfast, and afterward, as Edna was busy, I spent a long morning reading ‘The Village on the Cliff.’ I have finished it now, and think it lovely. I do enjoy these mornings in the garden; but I must not read too many stories, only Edna says I shall like ‘Old Kensington,’ and I must indulge myself with that. I assure you we make quite a picture. Mac lies at my feet, and Spot generally curls himself up on my lap. Tim prefers lying on the lawn and keeping an eye upon the kitten. She is such a droll little creature, and her antics quite distract me.
“Well, I had this delicious morning to myself, and in the afternoon we played tennis at the Athertons’. There were no visitors, but we girls played by ourselves, and I had a long talk with Grace Donnerton. I liked her better than ever; but just as she was talking to me about her sister’s hospital, Maud Atherton disturbed us by telling us tea was ready.
“The next morning Edna drove me over to Kimberley—such a lovely drive; and the ponies were so frisky and went so well. We called at a beautiful old house, called Kimberley Hall—I never saw such a place—and had luncheon there. Mrs. Blondell, our hostess, is such a dear old lady, with pretty white curls, and such a sweet old face. Her husband is such a handsome old man; but he is quite deaf, and no one seems to make him hear anything except his wife, and she goes up and speaks to him in a low, distinct voice, and tells him things, and he brightens up at once. He is such a courtly old man, and pays little old-fashioned compliments. He took Edna’s hand and said, ‘We do not often see a pretty young face, my dear, but it is a very pleasant sight. I remember your mother when she was a girl, and a fine, handsome creature she was. I think her daughter does her credit, eh, Dolly?’ And Dolly—that is the dear old lady’s name—put her pretty oldhand on his arm, and said, ‘She does indeed, Rupert, and she has got a look of our Maisie about her;’ and then they looked at each other in such a way.
“Edna explained it to me as we drove home. She said they had one child, a beautiful girl, who lived until she was seventeen, and then died of some wasting disease. She had been dead fifteen years, but the old couple had never got over her loss. ‘I am there often,’ Edna went on, ‘but I have never once been without hearing Maisie’s name mentioned; they are always talking about her. One day Mrs. Blondell took me upstairs and showed me all her things. There were her little gowns, most of them white, folded in the big wardrobe. ‘She was to have worn this at her first ball,’ said the poor woman, pulling down a lace dress; it looked quite fresh somehow, only the satin slip was a trifle discolored. There were the shoes, and the silk stockings, and a case of pearls, and the long gloves. ‘She would have looked lovely in it,’ she went on, smoothing out the folds with her tremulous fingers. ‘Rupert says she would have made hearts ache. Thank you my dear, you are very kind,’ for I could not help hugging the dear old thing. It made me cry, too, to hear her.‘I gothere very often because they like to see me; they will have it I am like Maisie, but I am not half so pretty.’ And Edna laughed, though her eyes were moist, and touched up Jill rather smartly.
“We had some people to dinner that evening, so Edna made me put on my Indian muslin, which she said looked very nice. She wore a soft white silk herself, which suited her admirably. She has some beautiful dresses which she showed me; she says her mother thinks nothing too good for her, and showers presents on her. She gets tired of her dresses before they are half worn out. I was half afraid she was going to offer me one, for she looked at me rather wistfully, but I made a pretext to leave the room. I enjoyed myselfvery much that evening. The curate took me in to dinner, and I found him very clever and amusing, and he talked so much that, though I was very hungry, I could hardly get enough to eat; but Edna, who declared that she had had no dinner either, brought me up a great plate of cake when we went to bed. Edna sang beautifully that evening, and the curate—his name is Horton—sung too, and Florence Atherton brought her violin. I had never heard a lady play the violin before, but Edna tells me I am old-fashioned, and that it is all the rage at present, and certainly Miss Atherton played extremely well.
“Good-bye for the present, dear Hatty; I will add more to-morrow. This is a sort of journal, you know, not a letter, and I shall write a little bit each day.
“‘Do be nice and lengthy,’ you said, and I am sure I am carrying out your wish.”
“Thursday morning.
“Well, here I am again sitting at my writing-table, pen in hand, and ‘the top of the morning to ye, darlint,’ as Biddy used to say; but my Hatty will be still asleep, I know, as she is not one of the strong ones, poor little Hatty! Such a wonderful thing happened to me yesterday—I actually had a riding-lesson. Do tell father that, for he knows how I used to envy Tom when Colonel Miles gave him a mount. It happened in this way. Edna was talking at breakfast time about her ride in the Row, and Mr. Sefton said suddenly, ‘How would you like to learn to ride, Miss Lambert?’ and not thinking he meant anything by the question, I said, ‘I should like it of all things. I do long for a good gallop.’
‘Oh, you must not gallop before you trot,’ he returned, quite seriously; ‘Edna, if you still have your old habit by you, I don’t see why I should not give Miss Lambert a lesson. Old Whitefoot is doing nothing for her living.’
“Well—would you believe it?—he was quite in earnest, and Edna, who is very good-natured, seemed to think it a good bit of fun, for she jumped up from the table and told her brother to bring Whitefoot round in half an hour; and then she made me go upstairs with her and put on a beautiful blue habit, which seemed to me quite new; but she said she had a much better one made for her last season. It fitted me tolerably, and only required a little alteration to be perfect—and I assure you I hardly knew myself in it, I looked so nice; but a dark habit is always so becoming. Edna looks like a picture in hers.
“Well, when we went downstairs, there was Whitefoot—such a pretty brown mare—with Mr. Sefton standing beside her, and Brown Bess was being brought round from the stable. I was just a little nervous at first, but Mr. Sefton was very kind and patient; he taught me how to gather up my reins, and how to hold myself; and he would not mount for some time, but walked beside me for a little distance, telling me things, and when he saw I felt less strange he jumped on Brown Bess, and we had a canter together.
“My dear Hatty, it was just delicious! I never felt happier in my life. But Mr. Sefton would not let me ride long; he said I should be very stiff at first, and that we should have a longer ride to-morrow, when Edna would be with us; and of course I had to submit.
“I was far too lazy to play tennis that afternoon, so Edna made me get into the hammock, and I had a nice, quiet time with my book, while she and the Athertons had their usual games, and bye and bye Grace Donnerton came and sat by me, and we had another nice talk.
“The next morning Edna said she would ride with us, so Mr. Sefton ordered the horses directly after breakfast, and we had a glorious ride for more than two hours. I found trotting rather difficult at first, but Mr. Sefton would not let Edna laugh at my awkwardness,and he encouraged me by telling me that I should soon ride well, and after that I did not mind a bit. Edna really rides perfectly; it was a pleasure to watch her. Once she left us and had a tearing gallop by herself over the common. The other horses got excited and wanted to gallop too, but Mr. Sefton held Whitefoot’s reins, and managed to quiet them both with some difficulty. I thought Edna looked lovely as she rode back to us; she had such a beautiful color, and her eyes looked so bright I don’t wonder people admire her so.
“Edna was going to an archery meeting that afternoon with the Athertons, but as there was no room for me in their wagonette, I stayed at home quietly with Mrs. Sefton, and managed to make myself useful, for several people called, and I had to make tea and help entertain them; but I got a quiet hour in my favorite garden seat. Edna brought Florence and Maud Atherton back to dinner, and we had a very merry evening, playing all sorts of games. Mr. Sefton came into the drawing-room for a little while, but he did not stay long. I think the girls quizzed him, and made him uncomfortable. It is such a pity that he is not more at his ease in society; people think he is stupid and cannot talk, but he is really very intelligent, and knows a great deal about a good many subjects. There is to be no ride to-morrow. Mrs. Sefton is going up to town on business, and Edna is to accompany her to the station, for, although Mr. Sefton suggested that I should go out with him for an hour, I could see that they did not second it.
“Now, darling, I have told you everything, and I think you will own that I am having a good time. I hope all this pleasure is not spoiling me, but I think of you all as much as ever, and especially of my Hatty. Are you very dull without me, dear? And how do you sleep? Write and tell me everything—how motherlooks, and what Tom said in his last letter, and if father is busy. And if any of you want me very badly, you must say so, and I will come home at once, though I do want some more rides, and Edna has promised to drive me over to Kimberley again. But there is the gong, and I must run down to breakfast. Good-bye, my dearest Hatty.
“Your loving
“Bessie.”
Bessie had written out of the fullness of her girlish content. She wanted to share her pleasure with Hatty. Happiness did not make her selfish, nor did new scenes and varied experiences shut out home memories, for Bessie was not one of those feeble natures who are carried out of themselves by every change of circumstances, neither had she the chameleon-like character that develops new tendencies under new influences; at The Grange she was just the same simple, kindly Bessie Lambert as she had been at Cliffe.
After all, she was not disappointed of her ride. Jennings, the groom, had a commission to do at Leigh, and Richard proposed to his stepmother that Bessie should ride over there too. Jennings was an old servant, and very trusty and reliable, and she might be safely put in his charge. To this Mrs. Sefton made no objection, and Bessie had a delightful morning, and made good progress under Jennings’ respectful hints. Bessie had just taken off her habit, and was preparing for luncheon, when Edna entered the room.
“What dress are you going to wear this afternoon, Bessie?” she asked rather abruptly, and her manner was a little off-hand. “I shall be in white, of course, and I shall wear my gray dust cloak for the roads, but——”
“What dress!” returned Bessie, rather puzzled at the question; she was hot and tired from her long ride, and had been looking forward to an afternoon of delicious idleness. “Is any one coming? I mean, are we going anywhere?”
“Why, of course,” replied Edna impatiently, and she did not seem in the best of tempers; “it is Thursday, is it not? and we are engaged for the polo match. You must make haste and finish dressing, for we must start directly after luncheon.”
“Do you mean that Mr. Sefton is going to drive us over to Staplehurst, after all?” asked Bessie, feeling very much astonished at Richard’s change of plan; he had not even spoken on the subject at breakfast-time, but he must have arranged it afterward.
“Richard!” rather contemptuously. “Richard is by this time lunching at the Fordham Inn, with half a dozen stupid farmers. Have you forgotten that he flatly refused to drive us at all? Oh, I have not forgotten his lecture, I assure you, though it does not seem to have made much impression on you. Well, why are you looking at me with such big eyes, Bessie, as though you found it difficult to understand me?”
“Because I don’t understand you Edna,” replied Bessie frankly. “You know both your mother and brother objected to Captain Grant’s invitation; you cannot surely intend to go in opposition to their wishes.”
“Their wishes! I suppose you mean Richard’s wish, for mamma never opened her lips on the subject; she just listened to Richard’s tirade.”
“But she did not contradict him; and surely you must have seen from her face that she agreed with every word.” Bessie did not dare to add that Mrs. Sefton had expressed her strong disapproval of Captain Grant to her. “She was looking at you so anxiously all the time.”
“Oh, that is only mamma’s fussiness. Of course I know she does not want me to go. I don’t mean to pretend that I am not aware of that, but mamma knows that I generally have my own way in this sort of thing, and she did not actually forbid it.”
“Oh, Edna! what can that matter when you know her real wishes?”
“My dear, don’t preach; your words will not influence me in the least. I told Richard, before mamma, that I should go, and I mean to carry out my word. You are a free agent, Bessie; I cannot oblige you to go with me, but as the Athertons are all engaged, I could not get one of them in your place.”
“But if I say I cannot go, what will you do then?” asked Bessie anxiously.
“In that case I should go alone,” returned Edna coldly; “but I should think you were unkind to desert me.”
“I should have to bear that,” replied Bessie rather sadly; “it is not what you would think of me, but what I ought to do. Oh, Edna, you are placing me in a very difficult position. I do not know how to act, and the whole thing distresses me so. Do give it up for my sake, and just to please me; do Edna, dear.”
“I cannot give it up,” was Edna’s answer; “but I will not argue any more about it. Make up your mind quickly, Bessie, for there is no time to lose.” And so saying, she left the room, and a moment afterward Bessie heard her ringing for her maid.
Bessie had never felt more distressed; she was so tired and so perplexed how to act, that she could almost have cried from worry. “If I go with her, will not Mrs. Sefton and Mr. Richard have a right to be offended with me?” she thought. “They will not know that I have tried to turn Edna from her purpose; they do not know me well enough to be sure of my motives. Edna told him that I wanted to see polo played; they may believe that I was willing to go. I cannot bear to put myself in this position; and yet, will it be right to let her go alone? Will they notblame me for that, too? Oh, how I wish I could speak to Mr. Sefton; but he is away. What shall I do? I must decide. It seems such a little thing to pray about, and yet little things bring big consequences. No, I can’t moralize; I am too worried. Why can I not see the right thing to do at once?”
Bessie sat and reflected a moment, and then a sudden impulse came to her, and she opened her blotting-case, and wrote a few hurried lines.
“Dear Mrs. Sefton,” she wrote, “I am so troubled, I hardly know what to do. Edna has just told me that she intends to drive over to Staplehurst after luncheon to see polo played, and has asked me to accompany her. I cannot induce her to give it up. Please do not think that I have not tried. I know how much you and Mr. Sefton were against it; but I do not think you would wish me to stay behind. She ought not to go alone. I feel you will be less anxious if I go with her.” Bessie dashed off these few lines, and then dressed herself hurriedly; but before she had half finished the gong sounded.
As she ran downstairs she met Dixon, the butler, coming out of the dining-room, and putting the note in his hand, begged that he would give it to his mistress directly she returned.
“Certainly, ma’am,” replied Dixon civilly; and it struck Bessie that he looked at her in an approvingmanner. He was an old servant, too, and most likely was accustomed to his young mistress’ vagaries. “We expect my mistress home at six, and I will take care she gets the note,” he continued, as he opened the door for her.
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“Soyou are going, after all?” was the only remark made by Edna, as she caught sight of Bessie’s gray gown. “Well, be quick; I have nearly finished my luncheon. I thought you were never coming, and there was no time to lose.”
“I will not keep you waiting,” returned Bessie, whose healthy young appetite failed her for once. “I am not hungry.”
“Nonsense?” said Edna, with restored good-humor. “You will find this mayonnaise excellent. You have had a long ride, and the drive to Staplehurst will take nearly an hour. We shall have a lovely afternoon for our expedition.”
Edna was chatting in her old lively fashion. She really looked exquisitely pretty this afternoon, and she seemed to take a delight in her own naughtiness. Her eyes sparkled mischievously every time she looked at Bessie’s grave face. She was as frisky as a young colt who had just taken his bit between his teeth and hadbolted. Her spirits seemed to rise during her long drive, and she talked and laughed without intermission.
Bessie tried to respond and to make herself agreeable, but her efforts failed signally. She looked forward to the afternoon as a long martyrdom to be endured; the thought of Mrs. Sefton’s and Richard’s reproachful faces came between her and all enjoyment. Edna took no notice of her unusual gravity; she had gained her end, and obliged Bessie to bear her unwilling company, and so she was satisfied. It was almost a relief to Bessie when the drive was over, and they found themselves at Staplehurst.
Polo was to be played in a large park-like meadow belonging to Staplehurst Hall. As they drove in at the gate, two or three of the officers who were to play were walking about in their bright silk jerseys, while their ponies followed them, led by their grooms. One came up at once, and greeted the young ladies.
“I was on the lookout for you, Miss Sefton,” he observed, with a smile that he evidently intended to be winning, but which Bessie thought was extremely disagreeable. “I knew you would not disappoint me, even if Sefton proved obdurate.”
“Richard had some stupid farming engagement,” returned Edna, “so I brought Miss Lambert instead. Is your mother on the ground, Captain Grant?”
“Yes; let me take you to her,” he replied, with alacrity; but it was some time before Jack and Jill made their way to the central point where the ladies were sitting. Several of the officers joined Captain Grant, and there was quite a triumphal procession through the field. Edna sat like a little queen guiding her ponies, and distributing smiles and gay speeches. Admiration and pleasure were as the breath of life to her; she was at once peremptory and gracious; she looked down at her escort with a sort of benign amusement. When Captain Grant handed her out of the low chaise, she made her way through the ladies with the air of a princess.
A tall, high-colored woman, with dark hair, and dressed in rather bad taste, held out her hand and welcomed her warmly.
“My dear, I am so glad to see you; Jem told me you were sure to come. Is this Miss Lambert? Put those chairs closer, Jem. And so your mother could not come. Never mind; I am used to chaperoning young ladies, though I never had girls of my own.”
Edna answered civilly, but Bessie soon perceived that Mrs. Grant’s conversation was not exactly to her taste. She spoke in a loud voice, and as most of her remarks were about her boy Jem, as she called him, his extraordinary cleverness and good luck at polo, and his merits as a son and officer, it was extremely desirablethat they should not be overheard, but Mrs. Grant seemed quite indifferent to the amused looks of the ladies round her, and her broad, good-natured face beamed with smiles as Jem made a fine stroke and won the goal.
“He rides better than any of the men,” she exclaimed proudly. “I’ll back my boy against any of them. Oh, look, Miss Sefton, Singleton has hit the ball away—no, Jem is galloping after him, he means to carry it. Yes—no—yes! they are through! Bravo, Jem, bravo!” and Mrs. Grant clapped her hands excitedly.
In spite of her uneasiness, it was impossible for Bessie not to become first interested and then absorbed in the game, and for a little while she forgot all about The Grange. She had never seen polo played before, and she was carried away by the excitement of that fascinating but perilous game; the mad rush of the horses across the grass, the quick strokes of the players, the magnificent riding, and the ease and grace with which the officers guided their ponies and leaned over their saddles to strike the ball; the breathless moment when young Singleton rode alone with all the others pursuing him wildly; no wonder Bessie felt enthralled by the novelty of the sight. She uttered a little scream once when the horses and riders all crushed together in a sort of confused melee.
“Is any one hurt?” she exclaimed in much distress; but Edna and Mrs. Grant only laughed.
“You must come with me and have some tea,” observed Mrs. Grant, when the match was over. “My lodgings are just by.”
Edna hesitated for a moment, and Bessie touched her arm.
“It is already five,” she whispered. “Do you see those dark clouds? We shall have a thunder-shower soon; I think it would be better to start for home.”
“And be caught in the rain,” replied Edna, with a shrug. “And we have no umbrellas nor waterproofs. No, Bessie; we must take refuge at Mrs. Grant’s until the shower is over. Come along; don’t make a fuss. I do not want to go any more than you do, but it is no use getting wet through; we cannot help it if we are late for dinner.” And so saying, Edna again joined the talkative Mrs. Grant.
Bessie said no more, but all her uneasiness returned as she followed Edna. Mrs. Grant had temporary lodgings in the High Street, over a linen-draper’s shop. She ushered her young guests into a large untidy looking room with three windows overlooking the street. One or two of the other ladies joined them, and one officer after another soon found their way up the steep little staircase, for Mrs. Grant was noted for her hospitality. She called Edna to help her at the tea-table,and Bessie seated herself by one of the windows. No one took much notice of her; her good-natured partner at tennis, Leonard Singleton, was not among Mrs. Grant’s guests.
Captain Grant brought her some tea, and offered her cake and fruit, but he soon left her to devote himself exclusively to Miss Sefton. Bessie felt very dull, and out in the cold, and yet she had no wish to join the gay group round the tea-table. The room felt close and oppressive; the first heavy drops were pattering on the window; two or three children were running down the street with a yellow dog barking at their heels.
“You will get wet; shall I close the window?” observed a voice behind her, and Bessie started and looked round at the tall, solemn-looking young officer who had been introduced to her two hours previously as “Captain Broughton, not of ours, Miss Lambert.”
“Oh, no, I prefer it open, it is so warm,” replied Bessie hastily.
“Oh, ah, yes! Are you fond of polo?”
“I never saw it played until this afternoon; it is very exciting, but I am sure it must be dangerous.”
“Nothing to speak of; an accident now and then—man half killed last Thursday, though.”
“Oh, dear, how dreadful!”
The solemn-faced officer relaxed into a smile.
“Well, he might have been killed outright in battle, don’t you know; accidents will happen now and then; it is just luck, you see, and Owen always is such an unlucky beggar.”
Bessie refuted this with some vivacity. She explained that though it might be a man’s duty to die for his country, it was quite another thing to imperil a valuable life on a mere game; but she could make no impression on the solemn-faced captain.
“But it is an uncommonly good game, don’t you know,” he persisted; and Bessie gave up the point, for Captain Broughton’s mind seemed as wooden as his face.
“It was no good talking to such a man,” she observed to Edna, as they drove home; “he said ‘Don’t you know’ at the end of every sentence, and seemed so stupid.”
“Are you talking about Captain Broughton?” asked Edna calmly. “My dear Daisy, it is not always wise to judge by appearances. Captain Broughton is not specially amusing in conversation, but he is a brave fellow. Do you know, he wears the Victoria Cross for his gallantry in saving a wounded soldier; only a private too. Yes; though he was wounded himself, he carried him off the field. He was a village lad—one of his own tenants—who had followed him out to India, and when another ball struck him he just staggered on.”
“Oh, dear,” groaned Bessie; “this is a punishment to me for judging too quickly. To think I had the opportunity for the first time in my life of talking to a hero, and that I called him stupid! This is a case of entertaining angels unawares. But if one could only know they were angels.”
Edna only laughed at this; but Bessie found food for uncomfortable reflection all the way home. The rain had ceased at last, but not before Edna had grown secretly conscious of the lateness of the hour. It was nearly seven before the weather allowed them to start, and for the last half hour she had stood at the window quite oblivious of Captain Grant’s entreaties that she would make herself comfortable, and evidently deaf to his unmeaning compliments for she answered absently, and with a manner that showed that she was ill at ease.
The moment the rain ceased, she asked him peremptorily to order her pony-chaise round.
“Mamma will be getting anxious at this long delay,” she said, so gravely that Captain Grant dare not disobey her.
“You will come over next Saturday and see our match with the Hussars,” he pleaded, as she gathered up the reins.
“Perhaps; but I will not promise,” she returned, with a nod and a smile. “Oh, dear; how tiresomethese last two hours have been. You have not enjoyed yourself a bit. Bessie. I am so sorry!”
“Oh, never mind.” returned Bessie wearily, and then they had both been silent. Neither was in the mood to enjoy the delicious freshness of the evening; that clear shining after the rain that is so indescribable, the wet, gleaming hedges, the little sparkling pools, the vivid green of the meadows; for Edna was feeling the reaction after her excitement; and Bessie, tired out with conflicting feelings was thinking regretfully of her unsatisfactory conversation with Captain Broughton.
“It serves me right, after all,” she thought penitently. “Father always says that we ought to take trouble to please even the most commonplace, uninteresting person, not to let ourselves be bored by anyone, however uncongenial they may be, and of course he is right. I was just fidgeting about the weather, and how we were to get home, and so I did not try to be entertaining.” And here Bessie made a mental resolution to be more charitable in her estimate of people.
She had no idea that Captain Broughton had said to himself as he left her, “Nice little girl, no nonsense about her; not a bad sort, after the women one sees; can talk to a man without looking for a compliment; like her better than Miss Sefton.”
Just as the drive was drawing to a close, Bessie roused up from her unwonted depression. They had turned out of the narrow lane, and a wide sweep of country lay before them, bathed in the soft tints of the setting sun. A mass of golden and crimson clouds made the western heavens glorious, the meadows were transfigured in the yellow radiance, every hedgerow and bush seemed touched by an unearthly finger, a sense of distance, of mystery, of tranquil rest seemed to pervade the world.
“Oh, Edna, how beautiful! If only one were an artist to try and paint that.”
“Yes; it is a fine evening,” remarked Edna carelessly.
“Thank goodness, there is The Grange at last. Yes, there is Richard, evidently on the lookout for us. So I suppose they have finished dinner.”
“Did you think we were lost?” she asked with a little air of defiance, as her brother came forward and patted the ponies.
“No,” he said gravely; “I told my mother the rain must have detained you. It is a pity you went, Edna. Sinclair has been here two hours. He came down in the same train with mother.”
“Neville here!” And Edna’s look changed, and she became rather pale. “What has brought him, Richard?”
Richard shrugged his shoulders, and replied that he had not the least idea. He supposed it was a whim. It was evident that Edna was not too well pleased at the news. A little hardness came into her face, and she walked into the house without taking any notice of Bessie.
As Bessie stood hesitating for a moment in the hall, Richard followed her. He had not even looked at her, and poor Bessie felt sure that his manner expressed disapproval.
“Will you not go into the drawing-room, Miss Lambert?”
“Oh, no. Mr. Sinclair is there, is he not? I would rather go upstairs and take off my things. I am very tired.” And here Bessie faltered a little.
But to her surprise Richard looked at her very kindly.
“Of course you are tired. You had that long ride; but Edna would not think of that. Take off your things quickly and come down to the dining-room. Dixon will have something ready for you. There is some coffee going into the drawing-room. You will like some?”
“Oh, yes, please,” returned Bessie, touched by this thoughtfulness for her comfort. After all, he could not be angry with her. Perhaps she would have time to explain, to ask his opinion, to talk out her perplexity.How comfortable that would be! Bessie would not stay to change her dress, she only smoothed her hair, and ran down.
Richard was waiting for her, and Dixon had just brought in the coffee. When he had gone out of the room she said eagerly:
“Oh, Mr. Sefton, I am so glad to be able to ask you a question. You were not vexed with me for going to Staplehurst with your sister?”
“Vexed!” returned Richard, in a tone that set her mind at rest in a moment. “You acted exactly as I expected you to act. When mother showed me your note I only said, ‘I never doubted for a moment what Miss Lambert would do; she would go, of course.’”
“Yes; I only hesitated for a moment; but, oh! what a miserable afternoon it has been!” And as she touched on the various incidents, including hertête-à-têtewith Captain Broughton, Richard listened with much sympathy.
“I never dreamed for a moment that Edna would go after all, but it was just a piece of childish bravado. The foolish girl does not think of consequences. It is a most unfortunate thing that Sinclair should turn up at this moment; he is a little stiff on these subjects, and I am afraid that he is terribly annoyed.”
“Did Mrs. Sefton tell him all about it?”
“My mother? No; she would have given worldsto hide it from him. Edna told him herself that she was going in her last letter. Oh, you don’t know Edna,” as Bessie looked extremely surprised at this; “her chief virtue is truthfulness. She will defy you to your face, and trample on all your prejudices, but she will never hide anything.”
“And she actually told Mr. Sinclair?”
“Yes she did it to tease him, I believe, because his last letter did not please her. Sinclair has to put up with a good deal, I can tell you, but he wrote back in a great hurry, begging her not to carry out her plan. Sinclair told us both this evening that he could not have written a stronger letter. He told her that he had good reasons for wishing her to see as little as possible of Captain Grant. And when he came down just to give her a pleasant surprise, as he had a leisure evening, it was quite a shock to him to find his entreaties had been disregarded, and that she had actually gone after all. He is excessively hurt, and no wonder, to find Edna has so little respect for his wishes.”
“It was a grievous mistake,” returned Bessie sorrowfully. “I don’t believe Edna enjoyed herself one bit.”
“No; it was just a freak of temper, and she chose to be self-willed about it. I hope she will show herself penitent to Sinclair; she can turn him around her littlefinger if she likes; but sometimes she prefers to quarrel with him. I really think Edna enjoys a regular flare up,” finished Richard, laughing. “She says a good quarrel clears the air like a thunder-storm; but I confess that I don’t agree with her.”
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