Our Bessie Part 5

"When you are older I will lend you my spectacles," her mother returned, smiling. "Now run and kiss Ella, and pray don't forget next time that she is two years older; it can't possibly be a younger sister's duty to contradict her on every occasion."

It was in this way that Mrs. Lambert had influenced her children, and she had reaped a rich harvest for her painstaking, patient labors with them, in the freely bestowed love and confidence with which her grown-up daughters regarded her. Now, as she sat apart, the sound of their fresh young voices was the sweetest music to her; not for worlds would she have allowed her own inward sadness to damp their spirits, but more than once the pen rested in her hand, and her attention wandered.

Outside the wintry sun was streaming on the leafless trees and snowy lawns; some thrushes and sparrows were bathing in the pan of water that Katie had placed there that morning.

"Let us go for a long walk this afternoon," Christine was saying, "through the Coombe Woods, and round by Summerford, and down by the quarry."

"Even Bessie forgets that it will be Frank's birthday to-morrow,"

thought Mrs. Lambert. "My darling boy, I wonder if he remembers it there; if the angels tell him that his mother is thinking of him. That is just what one longs to know--if they remember;" and then she sighed, and pushed her papers aside, and no one saw the sadness of her face as she went out. Meanwhile Bessie was relating how she had spent the last three weeks.

"I can't think how you could endure it," observed Christine, as soon as she had finished. "Aunt Charlotte is very nice, of course; she is father's sister, and we ought to think so; but she leads such a dull life, and then Cronyhurst is such an ugly village."

"It is not dull to her, but then you see it is her life. People look on their own lives with such different eyes. Yes, it was very quiet at Cronyhurst; the roads were too bad for walking, and we had a great deal of snow; but we worked and talked, and sometimes I read aloud, and so the days were not so long after all."

"I should have come home at the end of a week," returned Christine; "three weeks at Cronyhurst in the winter is too dreadful. It was real self-sacrifice on your part, Bessie; even father said so; he declared it was too bad of Aunt Charlotte to ask you at such a season of the year."

"I don't see that. Aunt Charlotte liked having me, and I was very willing to stay with her, and we had such nice talks. I don't see that she is to be pitied at all. She has never married, and she lives alone, but she is perfectly contented with her life. She has her garden and her chickens, and her poor people. We used to go into some of the cottages when the weather allowed us to go out, and all the people seemed so pleased to see her. Aunt Charlotte is a good woman, and good people are generally happy. I know what Tom says about old maids," continued Bessie presently, "but that is all nonsense. Aunt Charlotte says she is far better off as she is than many married people she knows. 'Married people may double their pleasures,' as folks say, 'but they treble their cares, too,' I have heard her remark; 'and there is a great deal to be said in favor of freedom. When there is no one to praise there is no one to blame, and if there is no one to love there is no one to lose, and I have always been content myself with single blessedness.' Do you remember poor Uncle Joe's saying, 'The mare that goes in single harness does not get so many kicks?'"

"Yes, I know Aunt Charlotte's way of talking; but I dare say no one wanted to marry her, so she makes the best of her circ.u.mstances."

Bessie could not help laughing at Christine's bluntness.

"Well, you are right, Chrissy; but Aunt Charlotte is not the least ashamed of the fact. She told me once that no one had ever fallen in love with her, 'I could not expect them to do so,' she remarked candidly. 'As a girl I was plain featured, and so shy and awkward that your Uncle Joe used to tell me that I was the only ugly duckling that would never turn into a swan.'"

"What a shame of Uncle Joe!"

"I don't think Aunt Charlotte took it much to heart. She says her hard life and many troubles drove all nonsense thoughts out of her head. Why, grandmamma was ill eight years, you know, and Aunt Charlotte nursed her all that time. I am sure when she used to come to my bedside of a night, and tuck me up with a motherly kiss, I used to think her face looked almost beautiful, it was so full of kindness. Somehow I fancy when I am old," added Bessie pensively, "I shall not care so much about my looks nor my wrinkles, if people will only think I am a comfortable, kind-hearted sort of a person."

"You will be the dearest old lady in the world," returned Hatty, dropping her work with an adoring look at her Betty. "You are cosier than other people now, so you are sure to be nicer than ever when you are old. No wonder Aunt Charlotte loved to have you."

"What a little flatterer you are, Hatty! It is a comfort that I don't grow vain. Do you know, I think Aunt Charlotte taught me a great deal.

When you get over her little mannerisms and odd ways, you soon find out what a good woman she really is. She is always thinking of other people; what she can do to lighten their burdens; and little things give her so much pleasure. She says the first violet she picks in the hedgerow, or the sight of a pair of thrushes building their nest in the acacia tree, makes her feel as happy as a child; 'for in spring,' she said once, 'all the world is full of young life, and the buds are bursting into flowers, and they remind me that one day I shall be young and beautiful too.'"

"I think I should like to go and stay with Aunt Charlotte," observed Hatty, "if you think she would care to have me."

"I am sure she would, dear. Aunt Charlotte loves to take care of people. You most go in the summer, Hatty; the cottage is so pretty then, and you could be out in the garden or in the lanes all day. June is the best month, for they will be making hay in the meadows, and you could sit on the porch and smell the roses, and watch Aunt Charlotte's bees filling their honey bags. It is just the place for you, Hatty--so still and quiet."

This sort of talk lasted most of the morning, until Ella and Katie returned from school, and Tom sauntered into the room, flushed with his mental labors, and ready to seek relaxation in his sisters' company.

Bessie left the room and went in search of her mother; when she returned, a quarter of an hour later, she found Tom sulky and Hatty in tears.

"It is no use trying to keep the peace," observed Christine, in a vexed tone. "Tom will tease Hatty, and then she gets cross, and there is no silencing either of them."

"Come with me, Hatty dear, and help me put my room in order. I have to finish my unpacking," said Bessie soothingly. "You have been working too long, and so has Tom. I shall leave him to you, Chrissy." And as Hatty only moaned a little in her handkerchief, Bessie took the work forcibly away, and then coaxed her out of the room.

"Why is Tom so horrid to me?" sobbed Hatty "I don't believe he loves me a bit. I was having such a happy morning, and he came in and spoiled all."

"Never mind about Tom. No one cares for his teasing, except you, Hatty.

I would not let him see you mind everything he chooses to say. He will only think you a baby for crying. Now, do help me arrange this drawer, for dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour, and the floor is just strewn with clothes. If it makes your head ache to stoop, I will just hand you the things; but no one else can put them away so tidily."

The artful little bait took. Of all things Hatty loved to be of use to any one. In another moment she had dried her eyes and set to work, her miserable little face grew cheerful, and Tom's sneering speeches were forgotten.

"Why, I do believe that is Hatty laughing!" exclaimed Christine, as the dinner-bell sounded, and she pa.s.sed the door with her mother. "It is splendid, the way Bessie manages Hatty. I wish some of us could learn the art, for all this wrangling with Tom is so tiresome."

"Bessie never loses patience with her," returned her mother; "never lets her feel that she is a trouble. I think you will find that is the secret of Bessie's influence. Your father and I are often grateful to her.

'What would that poor child do without her?' as your father often says; and I do believe her health would often suffer if Bessie did not turn her thoughts away from the things that were fretting her."

CHAPTER V.

THE OATLANDS POST-MARK.

One day, about three months after her adventure in the Sheen Valley, Bessie was climbing up the steep road that led to the Lamberts' house.

It was a lovely spring afternoon, and Bessie was enjoying the fresh breeze that was blowing up from the bay. Cliffe was steeped in suns.h.i.+ne, the air was permeated with the fragrance of lilac blended with the faint odors of the pink and white May blossoms. The flower-sellers' baskets in the town were full of dark-red wallflowers and lovely hyacinths. The birds were singing nursery lullabies over their nests in the Coombe Woods, and even the sleek donkeys, dragging up some invalids from the Parade in their trim little chairs, seemed to toil more willingly in the sweet spring suns.h.i.+ne.

"How happy the world looks to-day!" said Bessie to herself; and perhaps this pleasant thought was reflected in her face, for more than one pa.s.ser-by glanced at her half enviously. Bessie did not notice them; her soft gray eyes were fixed on the blue sky above her, or on the glimpses of water between the houses. Just before she turned into the avenue that led to the house, she stopped to admire the view. She was at the summit of the hill now; below her lay the town; where she stood she could look over the housetops to the s.h.i.+ning water of the bay, with its rocky island in the middle. Bessie always called it the bay, but in reality it resembled a lake, it was so landlocked, so closed in by the opposite sh.o.r.e, except in one part; but the smooth expanse of water, s.h.i.+ning in the sunlight, lacked the freedom and wild freshness of the open sea, though Bessie would look intently to a distant part, where nothing, as she knew, came between her and the Atlantic. "If we only went far enough, we should reach America; that gives one the idea of freedom and vastness," she thought.

Bessie held the idea that Cliffe-on-Sea was one of the prettiest places in England, and it was certainly not devoid of picturesqueness.

The houses were mostly built of stone, hewn out of the quarry, and were perched up in surprisingly unexpected places--some of them built against the rock, their windows commanding extensive views of the surrounding country. The quarry was near the Lamberts' house, and the Coombe Woods stretched above it for miles. Bessie's favorite walk was the long road that skirted the woods. On one side were the hanging woods, and on the other the bay. Through the trees one could see the gleam of water, and on summer evenings the Lambert girls would often sit on the rocks with their work and books, preferring the peaceful stillness to the Parade crowded with strangers listening to the band. When their mother or Tom was with them, they would often linger until the stars came out or the moon rose. How glorious the water looked then, bathed in silvery radiance, like an enchanted lake! How dark and sombre the woods! What strange shadows used to lurk among the trees! Hatty would creep to Bessie's side, as they walked, especially if Tom indulged in one of his ghost stories.

"What is the use of repeating all that rubbish, Tom?" Bessie would say, in her st.u.r.dy fas.h.i.+on. "Do you think any one would hear us if we sung one of our glees? That will be better than talking about headless bogies to scare Hatty. I like singing by moonlight."

Well, they were just healthy, happy young people, who knew how to make the most of small pleasures. "Every one could have air and suns.h.i.+ne and good spirits," Bessie used to say, "if they ailed nothing and kept their consciences in good order. Laughing cost nothing, and talking was the cheapest amus.e.m.e.nt she knew."

"That depends," replied her father oracularly, on overhearing this remark. "Words are dear enough sometimes. You are a wise woman, Bessie, but you have plenty to learn yet. We all have to buy experience ourselves. I don't want you to get your wisdom second-hand; second-hand articles don't last; so laugh away, child, as long as you can."

"I love spring," thought Bessie, as she walked on. "I always did like bright things best. I wonder why I feel so hopeful to-day, just as though I expected something pleasant to happen. Nothing ever does happen, as Chriss says. Just a letter from Tom, telling us his news, or an invitation to tea with a neighbor, or perhaps a drive out into the country with father. Well, they are not big things, but they are pleasant, for all that. I do like a long talk with father, when he has no troublesome case on his mind, and can give me all his attention. I think there is no treat like it; but I mean Hatty to have the next turn.

She has been good lately; but she looks pale and dwindled. I am not half comfortable about her." And here Bessie broke off her cogitations, for at that moment Katie rushed out of the house and began dancing up and down, waving a letter over her head.

"What a time you have been!" cried the child excitedly. "I have been watching for you for half an hour. Here is a letter for your own self, and it is not from Aunt Charlotte nor Uncle Charles, nor any old fogy at all."

"Give it to me, please," returned Bessie. "I suppose it is from Tom, though why you should make such a fuss about it, as though no one ever got a letter, pa.s.ses my comprehension. No, it is from Miss Sefton; I recognize her handwriting;" which was true, as Bessie had received a note from Edna a few days after she had left them, conveying her own and her mother's thanks for the kind hospitality she had received.

"Of course it is from Miss Sefton; there's the Oatlands post-mark. Ella and I were trying to guess what was in it; we thought that perhaps, as Mrs. Sefton is so rich, she might have sent you a present for being so kind to her daughter; that was Ella's idea. Do open it quickly, Bessie; what is the use of looking at the envelope?"

"I am afraid I can't satisfy your curiosity just yet, Kitty. Hatty is waiting for the silks I have been matching, and mother will want to know how old Mrs. Wright is. Duty before pleasure," finished Bessie, with good-humored peremptoriness, as she marched off in the direction of the morning-room.

"Bessie is getting dreadfully old-maidish," observed Katie, in a sulky voice. "She never used to be so proper. I suppose she thinks it is none of my business."

When Bessie had got through her list of commissions she sat down to enjoy her letter quietly, but before she had read many lines her color rose, and a half-stifled exclamation of surprise came from her lips; but, in spite of Hatty's curious questions, she read steadily to the end, and then laid the letter on her mother's lap.

"Oh, mother, do let me hear it," implored Hatty, with the persistence of a spoiled child. "I am sure there is something splendid about Bessie, and I do hate mysteries."

"So do I, Hatty; we think alike there. Shall I read it aloud, my dear?"