Our Bessie Part 16

Edna looked a little tired and bored, and Bessie did not 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 feel _ennuyee_ and 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 s.h.i.+ning gown and the sparkling cross, with the tears falling on the child's face. "Oh, that I and my 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.

CHAPTER XIII.

WHITEFOOT IN REQUISITION.

Three days 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 a.s.sure 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 old hand 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 go there 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 myself very 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-fas.h.i.+oned, 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 a.s.sure 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 mother looks, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 a.s.sure 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.