Our Bessie Part 15

"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 pa.s.ses. 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 read the '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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 peremptory speech, 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 forgets _n.o.blesse 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, and so 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 returned hastily, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 a.s.sure you," replied Richard gravely. "My stepmother was 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, to allow 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 nursing them," 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."