Our Bessie Part 12

"Hi, there, Gelert! down, Juno; down, down, good dogs all." And Richard threatened them with his dogwhip.

"Is this Gelert?" asked Bessie, pointing to a fine black retriever.

"Yes; and that is Brand," patting the head of a handsome pointer. "That brown setter is Juno; she is the mother of those three puppies--fine little fellows, aren't they? Look at this curly haired one; two of them are promised to friends; they are a capital breed. Do you care for terriers, Miss Lambert? because Spot is considered a perfect beauty.

Look at his coat; it is like satin."

"And that knowing little fellow, what is his name?" and Bessie pointed to a very small black and tan terrier, who sat up and begged at once.

"Oh, that is Tim; he ought by rights to be a house-dog, but he has taken a fancy to Spot, and insists on sharing his straw bed at night; they both have the run of the house by day--at least, as far as the hall and smoking-room are concerned. My mother hates dogs, and will not tolerate one in the drawing-room."

"Surely, that is not one of your dogs," exclaimed Bessie, looking with some disfavor on an ugly white mongrel, with a black patch over one eye; her attention was attracted by the creature's ugliness. Evidently he knew he was no beauty, for, after uttering a short yelp or two in the attempt to join in the chorus of sonorous barks, he had crept humbly behind Richard, and sat on his haunches, looking up at him with a pathetically meek expression.

"Oh, you mean Bill Sykes; yes, he is a pensioner of mine. Come along, Bill, and say good morning to your master."

It was impossible to describe the change that came over the dog as Richard spoke to him in this kindly fas.h.i.+on; his whole body quivered with pleasure as he sprung up and licked Richard's hands.

"What do you think, Miss Lambert? I found Bill one day tearing through Melton with a tin kettle tied to his tail, hunted by a pack of rascally school-boys; one of the little wretches had thrown a stone at him, and poor Bill was bleeding. I managed to stop him, somehow, and to free the poor beast from his implement of torture, and left him licking his wound by the roadside, while I caught two of the boys and thrashed them soundly. I reserved thras.h.i.+ng the others until a convenient season, but they all caught it. I read them a pretty lesson on cruelty to animals.

Bill followed me home, and I have never parted with him since. The other dogs disdained his company at first, but now they tolerate him, and, on the whole, I think he leads a pleasant life. He knows he is of humble extraction, and so he keeps in the background, but he is a clever dog; he can walk across the yard on his hind legs--the gardener's boy taught him the trick. Now, then, Bill, walk like a gentleman." And Bill obediently rose on his hind legs and stalked across the yard with an air of dignity, followed by a fat, rollicking puppy, barking with all his might.

Bill had just received his meed of praise when the gong sounded, and they had to hurry in to breakfast. They found Edna in a bewitching white morning dress.

"I hope I am not late," observed Bessie, apologetically. "Mr. Sefton took me to see the dogs. I did so enjoy looking at them; they are such beautiful creatures."

"Yes, especially Bill Sykes," returned Edna sarcastically. "Well, there is no accounting for tastes," with a critical look at Bessie's neat blue cotton. "I never venture in the yard myself, unless I have an old ulster on. I could not put on my dress again if all those scratchy paws had been over it. Richard does not train them properly; they all spring up and nearly knock me down in their clumsy gambols."

"They are like their master, eh, Edna?" returned Richard good-humoredly.

"Mother, shall I give you some ham? What time do you mean to bring Miss Lambert to the lower meadow, Edna? We shall be carrying this evening."

"Oh, you need not expect us at all," returned Edna, to Bessie's disappointment. "I quite forgot the Atherton's are coming this afternoon, to practice for to-morrow."

"I thought Miss Lambert wanted to see us make hay," observed Richard, looking at Bessie as he spoke; but she replied hastily:

"Not if your sister has other plans, Mr. Sefton, thank you all the same; I would rather do as she wishes."

"Yes, and you are fond of lawn tennis, are you not? We have a garden party to-morrow, and you ought to practice, you see. I want you to know the Athertons; they are such nice girls, Florence especially; plenty of go in them, and no nonsense."

"Yes, Florence is a sweet girl," a.s.sented her mother. "Mrs. Atherton is a sad invalid, and they are such devoted daughters. Edna, it is your day for writing to Neville, is it not? I want to send a message to Mrs.

Sinclair; don't you think it would be a pretty attention if you were to write to her as well? She seems very poorly again."

"I am not inclined to pay pretty attentions to any one this morning,"

returned Edna, with a little laugh. "Bessie, can you amuse yourself while I do my duty to my _fiance_? There are plenty of books in the morning-room, and a deliciously shady seat under that big tree."

"Oh, that will be delightful," replied Bessie, to whom a book was a powerful attraction. She was some time making her selection from the well-filled bookcase, but at last fixed on some poems by Jean Ingelow, and "The Village on the Cliff," by Miss Thackeray. Bessie had read few novels in her life; Dr. Lambert disliked circulating libraries for young people, and the only novels in the house were Sir Walter Scott's and Miss Austin's, while the girls' private book shelves boasted most of Miss Yonge's, and two or three of Miss Mulock's works. Bessie had read "Elizabeth," by Miss Thackeray, at her Aunt Charlotte's house, and the charming style, the pure diction, the picturesque descriptions, and the beauty and pathos of the story made her long to read another by the same author. As Bessie retraced her steps through the hall Mac raised himself up slowly, and followed her out, and in another moment Spot and Tim flew through a side door and joined her.

Bessie never pa.s.sed a pleasanter morning; her tale enthralled her, but she laid down her book occasionally to notice her dumb companions. A white Persian kitten had joined the group; she was evidently accustomed to the dogs, for she let Tim roll her over in his rough play, and only boxed his ears in return, now and then. When he got too excited, she scrambled up a may-tree, and sat licking herself in placid triumph, while the terriers barked below. Bessie was almost sorry when the quiet was invaded by Edna. Edna, who never opened a book, by her own confession, unless it were an exciting novel, looked a little disdainfully at the book Bessie had chosen.

"Oh, that old thing!" she said contemptuously; "that is not much of a story; it is about a Breton peasant, is it not? Reine, I think she was called. Oh, it was amusing enough, but I prefer something more thrilling."

"I think it lovely," returned Bessie. "It is all so sweet and suns.h.i.+ny; one can smell the flowers in that studio, and the two Catherines, one so happy and charming, and the other so pathetic. All the people are so nice and good, they seem alive somehow. In other books there are wicked people, and that troubles me."

"You would not like the sort of books I read;" returned Edna, shrugging her shoulders. "There was a murder in the last; I could hardly sleep after it--some one thrown out of a train. Oh, it was deliciously horrible! I have not sent it back to Mudie; you can read it if you like."

"No, thank you," returned Bessie quietly; "it would not suit me at all.

Father is very particular about what we read, and mother, too; he will not let us touch what he calls 'the sensational literature of the day'--oh, you may laugh," as Edna looked amused; "but I think father is right. He says it makes him quite unhappy to see books of this description in the hands of mere children. He is a doctor, you know, and he declares that a great deal of harm is done by overstimulating the imagination by highly wrought fiction. 'A meal of horrors can nourish no one,' he would say."

Edna chose to dispute this point, and a long and lively argument ensued between the girls until the luncheon bell silenced them.

Richard did not appear at this meal; he was taking his bread and cheese under the hedge with the haymakers, Edna explained, or in other words, he had desired his luncheon to be sent to him.

"He does not favor us much with his company, as you will soon see for yourself, Miss Lambert. My stepson is not a society man," observed Mrs.

Sefton.

"So much the better," was on Bessie's lips, but she prudently refrained from speaking the words. She was beginning to wonder, however, if Mrs.

Sefton or Edna could mention his name without adding something disparaging. Edna especially was forever indulging in some light sarcasm at her brother's expense.

They sat in the cool drawing-room a little while after luncheon, until the Athertons arrived with their rackets; and then they all went down to the tennis lawn.

The Atherton's were nice-looking girls, and Bessie was rather taken with them, but she was somewhat surprised when they opened their lips. She was walking across the gra.s.s with Florence, the tallest and prettiest of the sisters, and, indeed, she was rather a sweet-looking girl.

"Is it not a lovely day?" observed Bessie.

"Awfully jolly," replied Miss Florence, in a sharp, clipping voice; and the next minute Bessie heard her call one of her sisters a duffer for missing the ball.

"What would mother say?" thought Bessie. She was not much used to the typical girl of the period; after all, she was an old-fas.h.i.+oned little person.

The Athertons were really nice girls, although they talked slang like their brothers, and conformed to all the foolish fas.h.i.+ons of the day, disguising their honest, womanly hearts under blunt, flippant manners.

"What a pity," said Bessie to herself, when she came to know them better. They were good-natured, clever girls, very fond of each other, and devoted to their mother and brothers. Reggie's examination--exam., Florence called it--for Sandhurst; Harold's new coach, and Bertie's score at cricket, were the theme of their conversation. "I am afraid Harold won't pa.s.s," observed Sabina sadly. "His last coach was such a m.u.f.f, but the man he has got now seems a good old sort. Harold can get on with him comfortably."

"Well, what do you think of the girls?" asked Edna, when she and Bessie were left alone at the close of the afternoon.

"I think they are very nice, Florence especially, but it is such a pity that they talk slang; it seems to spoil them, somehow."

"I agree with you that it is bad style, but, you see, they have learned it from their brothers."

Bad style, that was all. Bessie's gentle-looking mouth closed firmly with the expression it always wore when politeness forbade her to air her true opinions, but in her own heart she was saying:

"Bad style. That is how worldly minded people talk. That is how they palliate these sins against good taste and propriety. I like these girls; they are genuine, somehow; but I suppose our bringing up has made us old-fas.h.i.+oned, for I seemed to shrink inwardly every time they opened their lips. Surely it must be wrong to lose all feminine refinement in one's language. There were no young men here, happily, to hear them; but if there had been, they would have expressed themselves in the same manner. That is what I cannot understand, now girls can lay aside their dignity and borrow masculine fas.h.i.+ons. What a little lady Christine would have seemed beside them! Chrissy has such pretty manners."

The dinner hour pa.s.sed more pleasantly than on the previous evening.

Richard talked more, and seemed tolerably at his ease. He followed them into the drawing-room afterward, and asked his sister to sing, but, to Bessie's vexation, Edna declined under the pretext of fatigue, and could not be induced to open the piano. Bessie felt provoked by her wilfulness, and she was so sorry to see the cloud on Richard's face, for he was pa.s.sionately fond of music, as he had informed Bessie at dinner-time, that she ventured to remonstrate with Edna.

"Do sing a little, just to please your brother; he looks so disappointed, and you know you are not a bit tired." But Edna shook her head, and her pretty face looked a little hard.

"I do not wish to please him; it is just because he has asked me that I will not sing a note this evening. I intend to punish Richard for his rudeness to me. I begged him to stay home for our garden party to-morrow; but no, he will not give up his stupid cricket. He says he is captain, and must be with his boys; but that is all nonsense; he does it to spite me."

"Oh, very well," returned Bessie good-humoredly, for she would not quarrel with Edna for her perversity. "If you mean to be so obdurate, I will sing myself." And Bessie actually walked across the room and addressed Richard, who was moodily turning over his sister's music.