Our Bessie Part 18

"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 Sat.u.r.day 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 tiresome these 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 ma.s.s 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 her _tete-a-tete_ with 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 worlds to 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 little finger 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."

CHAPTER XV.

"SHE WILL NOT COME."

Bessie did not enter the drawing-room that evening; she felt that her presence would be decidedly _de trop_ under the circ.u.mstances. She made the pretext of fatigue the reason for retiring to her room early, and Richard accepted the excuse as though he believed in it.

"Well, I dare say you will be more comfortable," he agreed. "My mother will be sure to come up and wish you good-night. Confess now, Miss Lambert, are you not wis.h.i.+ng yourself at home this evening?"

"No; of course not," replied Bessie briskly. "Have you not promised me another ride to-morrow?" But all the same, as she went upstairs, she thought a talk with her mother and Hatty would have been very soothing.

She was sitting by her window, thinking over things in general, when there was a tap at her door, and Mrs. Sefton entered.

"Richard told me you were tired and had gone up to bed," she said, more kindly than usual. "I am so sorry, my dear, that you have had such an uncomfortable afternoon. Edna has been very naughty--very naughty indeed; but Richard and I feel very grateful to you for accompanying her."

"I thought it was the right thing to do, Mrs. Sefton."

"Yes, of course; there was nothing else to be done; but it was a foolish freak on Edna's part." Mrs. Sefton spoke in a worried voice, and her face looked tired and hara.s.sed. Bessie said as much, and she replied:

"Oh, yes; I am worried enough. I have had a fatiguing day in town, and then when Neville and I entered the house, expecting a welcome, there was Richard's moody face and your note to greet us. And now, to make things worse, Edna chooses to be offended at Neville's coming down in this way, and declares he meant to be a spy on her. She won't say a civil word to him, and yet it is for him to be displeased; but I think he would waive all that if she would only own that she has acted ungenerously to him. I must say Neville is behaving beautifully. He speaks as gently as possible; but Edna is in one of her tempers, and she will not listen to reason."

"I am sorry," replied Bessie, looking so full of sympathy that Mrs.

Sefton relaxed from her usual cold dignity.

"Oh, my dear," she said, and now there were tears in her eyes, "I am afraid it is all my fault. I have indulged Edna too much, and given her her own way in everything; and now she tyrannizes over us all. If I had only acted differently." And here the poor woman sighed.

Bessie echoed the sigh, but she could think of nothing to say that could comfort Mrs. Sefton; she was evidently reaping the effects of her own injudicious weakness. She had not taught her child to practice self-discipline and self-control. Her waywardness had been fostered by indulgence, and her temper had become more faulty. "What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?" asked the Divine Teacher; and yet there are many parents who offer these stony gifts to their children, loading them with false kindness and indulgence, leaving evil weeds unchecked, and teaching them everything but the one thing needful.

"Oh, how different from mother!" thought Bessie, when she was left alone, and recalled the time when her young will had been over strong, and there had been difficult points in her character, and yet, how sensibly and how tenderly her mother had dealt with them.

She had never been blind to one of her children's faults, and up to a certain age it had been her habit on the eve of their birthdays, to talk quietly to them, pointing out their failings and defective habits, and giving her opinion on the year's improvement. "On a birthday one ought to begin afresh," she would say, "and make a new start." How well Bessie could remember these talks, and the gentle words of praise that generally closed them. She was almost sorry when she was too grown up for them, and quiet self-examinations took the place of those fond maternal admonitions.