Our Bessie Part 6

and as Bessie nodded, Mrs. Lambert read the letter in her quiet, silvery voice:

"MY DEAR MISS LAMBERT," it began; "I told you that I should not allow you to forget me, so, you see, I am keeping my promise like a reliable young woman. Mamma says I have made a bad commencement to my letter--that self-praise is no recommendation. I think I remember that profoundly wise saying in copy-book days; but I hold a more worldly view of the subject. I think people are taken at their own value; so, on principle, I never undervalue myself; and the gist of all this is that I do not intend to be forgotten by a certain young lady who enacted the part of Good Samaritan in the Sheen Valley.

"Now, as I must candidly confess to a sincere wish for a better acquaintance with this same young lady, I am writing in my own and mamma's name to beg you to favor us with your company at The Grange for a few weeks.

"You must not think this is a very unconventional proceeding on our part, as our parents were old friends. Mamma is writing to Dr. Lambert by the same post, and she means to say all sorts of pretty things to induce him to intrust you to our care.

"I wish I had the power of persuasion. Mamma has such a knack of saying nice things, but indeed you must come. The Grange is such a dear old house, and we know such pleasant people, and I want you to see our Kentish lanes, and indeed mamma and I will make you so comfortable. I don't mention Richard, because he is n.o.body, and he never interferes with our friends.

"Now I am taking it for granted that you will not refuse me, so I will proceed to tell you our arrangements. Mamma and I have been in town the last five weeks, and we are both of us tired to death of Vanity Fair, so we mean to go back to Oatlands next week. You may come to us as soon after that as you like; fix your own day and your train, and I will be at the station to meet you.

"I remain, yours most sincerely, "EDNA SEFTON."

"Oh, Bessie, how delightful! But I don't like to spare you again so soon."

"Now, Hatty, don't be selfish. You must not grudge Bessie the first real treat she has ever had offered to her. We have none of us had such a chance before. Fancy staying at a place like The Grange, and seeing lots of nice people."

"I wish you could go in my place, Chrissy, dear. I am not quite sure how I should like staying with strange people; we have got into homely ways, never going anywhere except to Aunt Charlotte's or Uncle Charles', and I don't know how I should get on with rich people like the Sefton's; besides, father and mother may not wish me to accept the invitation,"

glancing at her mother's thoughtful face.

"We must see what your father says about it," returned Mrs. Lambert, rousing herself with difficulty from her abstraction. "I would not talk about it any more, girls, until we know his wishes. It will only disappoint Bessie if she makes up her mind that she would like to accept the invitation, and father thinks it wiser to refuse. Let us put it out of our heads until he comes home, and he and I will have a talk about it."

"Yes, that will be best," returned Bessie, putting the letter in the envelope. "Father will not be home until late, but that does not matter; to-morrow will do quite well." And, to her sister's surprise and disappointment, she refused to say any more on the subject.

"Mother is quite right," she observed, as Hatty fussed and grumbled at her silence. "If we talk about it, I shall just long to go, and shall be vexed and disappointed if father wishes me to refuse."

"But you might coax him to change his mind. Father never likes disappointing us when we set our hearts on anything," urged Hatty.

"No, indeed; I never like arguing things with father. He is not one to make up his mind in a hurry, like some people; he thinks over a thing thoroughly, and then he gives his opinion. If he does not wish me to go, he will have a good reason for saying so. I never found either father or mother wrong yet, and I am not going to find fault with them now. Don't let us talk any more about it, Hatty. I want to think of something else." But, in spite of this wise resolution, Bessie did think a good deal about the letter, and in her heart she hoped that her father would allow her to accept Miss Sefton's tempting invitation.

Dr. Lambert did not return home that night until long after his girls had retired to rest, and to Bessie's surprise he said nothing to her at breakfast; but just as she was leaving the room to give out the stores, as usual, he called her back. "Oh, by the by, Bessie," he observed, "I have to drive out as far as Castleton this afternoon. I will take you with me if you care to go."

"I always care to go with you, father dear," replied Bessie, and then she hesitated, as she remembered Hatty's pale cheeks; "but I think you ought to take Hatty instead; it would do her so much good, and she does so love a drive."

"No, I think you shall be my companion this afternoon; I will take Hatty to-morrow," replied the doctor, as he took up his paper again.

"Good child, she always thinks of poor Hatty," he said to himself, and his eyes glistened. "They are all good girls, but not one of them is so unselfish as my little Betty; she takes after her mother in that. Dora never thinks of herself."

Bessie went about her household tasks with a light heart, for she had the prospect of a pleasant afternoon before her. The drive to Castleton would be lovely, and she would hear what her father had to say about the letter. So she was ready and waiting by the time the pretty little victoria came around to the door, and as Dr. Lambert stood on the porch, he thought the happy, suns.h.i.+ny face looked very attractive under the new gray hat.

"You look very smart, Bessie," he said, smiling. "Have I seen that very becoming hat before?"

"Only last Sunday," returned Bessie brightly; "but I always put on my best things when I drive with you, that your daughter may do you credit;" for Bessie in her heart thought her father the handsomest man in Cliffe; and indeed many people admired the doctor's clever, refined face, and quiet, genial manners.

The st.u.r.dy little roan trotted briskly down the lower road, as it was called, and Bessie leaned back and looked dreamily at the golden ripples that lay on the water, while the branches overhead threw flickering shadows on the road before them, until her father's voice roused her.

"You and I are to have some talk together, I believe. Would you like to see Mrs. Sefton's letter, Bessie? Your mother showed me the one you received from her daughter." And as Bessie eagerly a.s.sented, he handed it to her.

"It is a very nice letter," she observed, as soon as she had finished it; "it could not be more kindly expressed."

"No; Mrs. Sefton is a ladylike woman, and she knows exactly what to say.

It is a grand thing to have tact." And then he paused for a moment, and continued in an amused voice, "The world is a very small place after all. I have lived long enough in it not to be surprised at running against all sorts of odd people in all sorts of odd places, but I must own I was a little taken aback when you brought Miss Sefton into my house that night."

"You knew Mrs. Sefton when you were a young man, father?"

"I suppose I knew her fairly well, for I was engaged to her for six months." And as Bessie started, "Well, you will think that an odd speech for a father to make to his daughter, but, you see, I know our Bessie is a reliable little woman, who can keep her tongue silent. I have my reasons for telling you this. You have always been your mother's companion, as well as my right hand, and I would not let you go to The Grange in ignorance of the character of its inhabitants."

"Oh, father, do you really mean me to go?"

"We will come to that presently; let me finish what I was saying. I was fool enough to engage myself to a beautiful girl, knowing her to be unsuitable in every way for a poor man's wife, and I dare say I should have persisted in my blindness to the bitter end, if I had not been jilted by the young lady."

"My dear father!"

"My dear little Betty, please don't speak in that pitying tone; it was the best thing that could have happened to me. I dare say I had a bad time of it; young men are such fools; but I soon met your mother, and she healed all wounds; but if Eleanor Sartoris treated me badly, she met with her punishment. The man she married was a worthless sort of a fellow; he is dead, so I need not mind saying so now. He was handsome enough and had all the accomplishments that please women, but he could not speak the truth. I never knew a man who could lie so freely, and in other respects he was equally faulty, but Eleanor was infatuated, and she would marry him against the advice of her friends, and the first thing she found out was that he had deceived her on one point. She knew that he had married when almost a boy, and his wife had been long dead, but he kept from her that he had a son living. His excuse was that he had heard her say that nothing would induce her to undertake the duties of a stepmother, and that he feared a refusal on account of Richard. In this he had overreached himself; she never forgave the deception, and she barely tolerated the poor boy. I am afraid, from what I heard, that their short married life was not a happy one. Eleanor had a proud, jealous temper, but she was truthful by nature, and nothing was so odious in her eyes as falsehood and deceit. I can feel sorry for her, for no woman could respect a character like Sefton's, but I have always blamed her for her hardness to her stepson. His father doted on him, and Richard was the chief subject of their dissension on his death bed. He begged his wife to be kinder to the boy, but I do not know if this appeal softened her. The property belongs, of course, to her stepson, and in a sense she and her daughter are dependent on him, but it is not a united household. I know very little about the young man, except that he is industrious and fond of out-of-door pursuits, and farms his own estate; but I hear he is a little clownish in appearance. Now we are stopping, because I have a patient to see here, but I shall not be ten minutes, and we will resume our conversation presently."

CHAPTER VI.

LITTLE MISS MUCH-AFRAID.

Bessie had plenty of food for meditation while Dr. Lambert paid his visit to his patient, and he found her apparently absorbed in a brown study when he returned to the carriage.

"Father dear," she said, rousing herself, as he placed himself beside her, "I have been thinking over all you have told me, and I cannot help wondering why you wish me to visit Mrs. Sefton, when she treated you so badly."

Dr. Lambert was silent for a minute; the question was not an easy one to answer. His wife had said the very same thing to him the previous evening:

"I wonder that you care to let Bessie visit at The Grange, when Eleanor Sartoris treated you so badly." And then she added, "I think she is very much to blame, too, for her behavior to her stepson. Margaret Tillotson tells me that he is an honest, good-hearted fellow, though not very clever, but that want of appreciation has made him shy and awkward."

But he had been able to satisfy his wife without much difficulty. All their married life there had never been a shadow of a doubt between them; her calm, reasonable judgment had wholly approved her husband's conduct on all occasions; whatever he did or said had been right in her eyes, and she had brought up her daughters to think the same.

"Well, do you know, Bessie," he said playfully, "I have more reasons than one for wis.h.i.+ng you to go to The Grange? I have taken a fancy to Miss Sefton, and I want her mother to be acquainted with my daughter; and I think it will be good for you to extend your knowledge of the world. You girls are tied too much to your mother's ap.r.o.n-strings, and you must learn to do without her sometimes."

This was all very well, but though Bessie smilingly accepted this explanation of her father's motives in permitting her to go to Oatlands, she was clever enough to know that more lay behind.

Dr. Lambert had long ago forgiven the injury that had been done to him.

His nature was a generous one; good had come out of evil, and he was tolerant enough to feel a kindly interest in Mrs. Sefton as an old friend. It is true she had created her own troubles, but in spite of that he could be sorry for her. Like a foolish woman she had built her life's hopes upon a s.h.i.+fting, sandy foundation; she had looked on the outward appearance, and a fair exterior had blinded her to the hollowness beneath. The result was bitterness and disappointment.

"I should like her to see our Bessie," he had said to his wife. "Bessie is just like a sunbeam; she will do her good, and even if things are different from what she sees at home, it will do her no harm to know how other people live. Our girls are good girls, but I do not want them to live like nuns behind a grating; let them go out into the world a little, and enlarge their minds. If it were Christine, I might hesitate before such an experiment, but I have perfect confidence in Bessie."

And his wife's answer to this had been:

"I am quite sure you are right, Herbert, and I am perfectly willing to let Bessie visit your old friend." And so the matter ended. The doctor got his way as usual, simply by wis.h.i.+ng for it.

The drive was a long one, but it seemed short to Bessie, and she was quite sorry when it was over.

"Thank you, father dear, it has been such a treat," she said, with a loving little squeeze of his arm; and then she ran in to find her mother.