Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
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[Illustration: "HOW GOOD OF YOU TO COME!" SHE EXCLAIMED. BESSIE SAW SHE
HAD BEEN CRYING.]
OUR BESSIE
BY
ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY
AUTHOR OF "MERLE'S CRUSADE," "NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS,"
"ONLY THE GOVERNESS," ETC.
THE MERSHON COMPANY
RAHWAY, N. J. NEW YORK
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
BESSIE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE 1
CHAPTER II.
"HERE IS OUR BESSIE" 16
CHAPTER III.
HATTY 31
CHAPTER IV.
A COSY MORNING 46
CHAPTER V.
THE OATLANDS POST-MARK 61
CHAPTER VI.
LITTLE MISS MUCH-AFRAID 74
CHAPTER VII.
IN THE KENTISH LANES 87
CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE GRANGE 101
CHAPTER IX.
RICHARD SEFTON 115
CHAPTER X.
BESSIE IS INTRODUCED TO BILL SYKES 129
CHAPTER XI.
EDNA HAS A GRIEVANCE 148
CHAPTER XII.
THE FIRST SUNDAY AT THE GRANGE 156
CHAPTER XIII.
WHITEFOOT IN REQUISITION 171
CHAPTER XIV.
BESSIE SNUBS A HERO 183
CHAPTER XV.
"SHE WILL NOT COME" 197
CHAPTER XVI.
A NOTE FROM HATTY 209
CHAPTER XVII.
"TROUBLE MAY COME TO ME ONE DAY" 222
CHAPTER XVIII.
"FAREWELL, NIGHT" 236
CHAPTER XIX.
"I MUST NOT THINK OF MYSELF" 249
CHAPTER XX.
"BESSIE'S SECOND FLITTING" 263
CHAPTER XXI.
ON THE PARADE 276
CHAPTER XXII.
BESSIE BUYS A JAPANESE FAN 289
CHAPTER XXIII.
MRS. SEFTON HAS ANOTHER VISITOR 303
CHAPTER XXIV.
IN THE COOMBE WOODS 318
OUR BESSIE.
CHAPTER I.
BESSIE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE.
It was extremely tiresome!
It was vexatious; it was altogether annoying!
Most people under similar circumstances would have used stronger
expressions, would have bemoaned themselves loudly, or at least
inwardly, with all the pathos of self-pity.
To be nearly at the end of one's journey, almost within sight and sound
of home fires and home welcomes, and then to be snowed up, walled,
imprisoned, kept in durance vile in an unexpected snowdrift--well, most
human beings, unless gifted with angelic patience, and armed with
special and peculiar fortitude, would have uttered a few groans under
such depressing circumstances.
Fortunately, Bessie Lambert was not easily depressed. She was a cheerful
young person, an optimist by nature; and, thanks to a healthy
organization, good digestion, and wholesome views of duty, was not
given to mental nightmares, nor to cry out before she was hurt.
Bessie would have thought it faint-hearted to shrink at every little
molehill of difficulty; she had plenty of what the boys call pluck (no
word is more eloquent than that), and a fund of quiet humor that tided
her safely over many a slough of despond. If any one could have read
Bessie's thoughts a few minutes after the laboring engine had ceased to
work, they would have been as follows, with little staccato movements
and pauses:
"What an adventure! How Tom would laugh, and Katie too! Katie is always
longing for something to happen to her; but it would be more enjoyable
if I had some one with me to share it, and if I were sure father and
mother would not be anxious. An empty second-class compartment is not a
particularly comfortable place on a cold afternoon. I wonder how it
would be if all the passengers were to get out and warm themselves with
a good game of snowballing. There is not much room, though; we should
have to play it in a single file, or by turns. Supposing that, instead
of that, the nice, white-haired old gentleman who got in at the last
station were to assemble us all in the third-class carriage and tell us
a story about Siberia; that would be nice and exciting. Tom would
suggest a ghost story, a good creepy one; but that would be too dismal.
The hot-water tin is getting cold, but I have got a rug, I am thankful
to say, so I shall not freeze for the next two hours. If I had only a
book, or could go to sleep--oh!" in a tone of relief, as the guard's
face was suddenly thrust in at the open window.
"I beg your pardon, miss; I hope I did not startle you; but there is a
young lady in the first-class compartment who, I take it, would be the
better for a bit of company; and as I saw you were alone, I thought you
might not object to change your carriage."
"No, indeed; I shall be delighted to have a companion," returned Bessie
briskly. "How long do you think we shall be detained here, guard?"
"There is no knowing, miss; but one of our men is working his way back
to the signals. We have not come more than three miles since we left
Cleveley. It is only a bit of a drift that the snow-plow will soon
clear, and it will be a matter of two or three hours, I dare say; but it
has left off snowing now."
"Will they telegraph to Cliffe the reason of the delay?" asked Bessie, a
little anxiously.
"Oh, yes, they will do that right enough; you needn't be uneasy. The
other young lady is in a bit of a fuss, too, but I told her there was no
danger. Give a good jump, miss; there, now you are all right. I will
take care of your things. Follow me, please; it is only a step or so."
"This is more of an adventure than ever," thought Bessie, as she
followed the big, burly guard. "What a kind man he is! Perhaps he has
daughters of his own." And she thanked him so warmly and so prettily as
he almost lifted her into the carriage, that he muttered, as he turned
away:
"That's a nice, pleasant little woman. I like that sort."
The first-class compartment felt warm and snug. Its only tenant was a
fair, pretty-looking girl, dressed very handsomely in a mantle trimmed
with costly fur, and a fur-lined rug over her knees.
"Oh, thank you! How good of you to come!" she exclaimed eagerly; and
Bessie saw at once that she had been crying. "I was feeling so
frightened and miserable all by myself. I got it into my head that
another train would run into us, and I was quite in a panic until the
guard assured me there was no danger. He told me that there was another
young lady alone, and that he would bring her to me."
"Yes, that was so nice of him; and of course it is pleasanter to be able
to speak to somebody," returned Bessie cheerfully; "and it is so much
warmer here."
"Take some of my rug; I do not need it all myself; and we may as well be
as comfortable as we can, under the miserable circumstances."
"Well, do you know I think it might be worse?"
"Worse! how can you talk so?" with a shudder.
"Why, it can hardly be a great hardship to sit for another two hours in
this nice warm carriage, with this beautiful rug to cover us. It
certainly was a little dull and cold in the other compartment, and I
longed to get out and have a game of snowballing to warm myself." But
here her companion gave a little laugh.
"What a funny idea! How could you think of such a thing?" And here she
looked, for the first time, rather scrutinizingly at Bessie. Oh, yes,
she was a lady--she spoke nicely and had good manners; but how very
shabbily she was dressed--at least, not shabbily; that was not the right
word--inexpensively would have been the correct term.
Bessie's brown tweed had evidently seen more seasons than one; her
jacket fitted the trim figure, but was not made in the last fashion; and
the brown velvet on her hat was decidedly worn. How was the young lady
to know that Bessie was wearing her oldest things from a sense of
economy, and that her new jacket and best hat--a very pretty one--were
in the neat black box in the luggage-van?
Certainly the two girls were complete opposites. Bessie, who, as her
brother Tom often told her, was no beauty, was, notwithstanding, a
bright, pleasant-looking girl, with soft gray eyes that could express a
great deal of quiet sympathy on occasions, or could light up with fun.
People who loved her always said Bessie's face was better than a
beautiful one, for it told nothing but the truth about itself. It did
not say, "Come, admire me," as some faces say, but, "Come, trust me if
you can."
The fashionably dressed young stranger had a very different type of
face. In the first place, it was undeniably pretty; no one ever thought
of contradicting that fact, though a few people might have thought it a
peculiar style of beauty, for she had dark-brown eyes and fair
hair--rather an uncommon combination.
She was small, too, and very pale, and yet not fragile-looking; on the
contrary, she had a clear look of health, but there was a petulant curve
about the mouth that spoke of quick temper, and the whole face seemed
capable of great mobility, quick changes of feeling that were perfectly
transparent.
Bessie was quite aware that her new acquaintance was taking stock of
her; she was quietly amused, but she took no apparent notice.
"Is Cliffe-on-Sea your destination?" she asked presently.
"No; is it yours?" with a quick note of alarm in her voice. "Oh, I am so
sorry!" as Bessie nodded. "I hoped we should have travelled together to
London. I do dislike travelling alone, but my friend was too ill to
accompany me, and I did not want to stay at Islip another day; it was
such a stupid place, so dull; so I said I must come, and this is the
result."
"And you are going to London? Why, your journey is but just beginning.
Cliffe-on-Sea is where I live, and we cannot be more than two miles off.
Oh, what will you do if we are detained here for two or three hours?"
"I am sure I don't know," returned the other girl disconsolately, and
her eyes filled with tears again. "It is nearly five now, and it will
be too late to go on to London; but I dare not stay at a hotel by
myself. What will mamma say? She will be dreadfully vexed with me for
not waiting for Mrs. Moultrie--she never will let me travel alone, and
I have disobeyed her."
"That is a great pity," returned Bessie gravely; but politeness forbade
her to say more. She was old-fashioned enough to think that disobedience
to parents was a heinous offence. She did not understand the present
code, that allows young people to set up independent standards of duty.
To her the fifth commandment was a very real commandment, and just as
binding in the nineteenth century as when the young dwellers in tents
first listened to it under the shadow of the awful Mount.
Bessie's gravely disapproving look brought a mocking little smile to the
other girl's face; her quick comprehension evidently detected the
rebuke, but she only answered flippantly:
"Mamma is too much used to my disobedience to give it a thought; she
knows I will have my way in things, and she never minds; she is sensible
enough to know grown-up girls generally have wills of their own."
"I think I must have been brought up differently," returned Bessie
simply. "I recollect in our nursery days mother used to tell us that
little bodies ought not to have grown-up wills; and when we got older,
and wanted to get the reins in our own hands, as young people will, she
would say, 'Gently, gently, girls; you may be grown up, but you will
never be as old as your parents--'" But here Bessie stopped, on seeing
that her companion was struggling with suppressed merriment.
"It does sound so funny, don't you know! Oh, I don't mean to be rude,
but are not your people just a little bit old-fashioned and behind the
times? I don't want to shock you; I am far too grateful for your
company. Mamma and I thoroughly understand each other. I am very fond of
her, and I am as sorry as possible to vex her by getting into this
mess;" and here the girl heaved a very genuine sigh.
"And you live in London?" Bessie was politely changing the subject.
"Oh, no; but we have some friends there, and I was going to break my
journey and do a little shopping. Our home is in Kent; we live at
Oatlands--such a lovely, quiet little place--far too quiet for me; but
since I came out mamma always spends the season in town. The
Grange--that is our house--is really Richard's--my brother's, I mean."
"The Grange--Oatlands? I am sure I know that name," returned Bessie, in
a puzzled tone; "and yet where could I have heard it?" She thought a
moment, and then added quickly, "Your name cannot be Sefton?"
"To be sure it is," replied the other girl, opening her brown eyes
rather wildly; "Edna Sefton; but how could you have guessed it?"
"Then your mother's name is Eleanor?"
"I begin to think this is mysterious, and that you must be a witch, or
something uncanny. I know all mamma's friends, and I am positive not
one of them ever lived at Cliffe-on-Sea."
"And you are quite sure of that? Has your mother never mentioned the
name of a Dr. Lambert?"
"Dr. Lambert! No. Wait a moment, though. Mamma is very fond of talking
about old days, when she was a girl, don't you know, and there was a
young doctor, very poor, I remember, but his name was Herbert."
"My father's name is Herbert, and he was very poor once, when he was a
young man; he is not rich now. I think, many years ago, he and your
mother were friends. Let me tell you all I know about it. About a year
ago he asked me to post a letter for him. I remember reading aloud the
address in an absent sort of way: 'Mrs. Sefton, The Grange, Oatlands,
Kent;' and my father looked up from his writing, and said, 'That is only
a business letter, Bessie, but Mrs. Sefton and I are old correspondents.
When she was Eleanor Sartoris, and I was a young fellow as poor as a
church mouse, we were good friends; but she married, and then I married;
but that is a lifetime ago; she was a handsome girl, though.'"
"Mamma is handsome now. How interesting it all is! When I get home I
shall coax mamma to tell me all about it. You see, we are not strangers
after all, so we can go on talking quite like old friends. You have made
me forget the time. Oh dear, how dark it is getting! and the gas gives
only a glimmer of light."
"It will not be quite dark, because of the snow. Do not let us think
about the time. Some of the passengers are walking about. I heard them
say just now the man must have reached Cleveley, so the telegram must
have gone--we shall soon have help. Of course, if the snow had not
ceased falling, it would have been far more serious."
"Yes," returned Miss Sefton, with a shiver; "but it is far nicer to read
of horrid things in a cheerful room and by a bright fire than to
experience them one's self. Somehow one never realizes them."
"That is what father says--that young people are not really
hard-hearted, only they do not realize things; their imagination just
skims over the surface. I think it is my want of imagination helps me. I
never will look round the corner to try and find out what disagreeable
thing is coming next. One could not live so and feel cheerful."
"Then you are one of those good people, Miss Lambert, who think it their
duty to cultivate cheerfulness. I was quite surprised to see you look so
tranquil, when I had been indulging in a babyish fit of crying, from
sheer fright and misery; but it made me feel better only to look at
you."
"I am so glad," was Bessie's answer. "I remember being very much struck
by a passage in an essay I once read, but I can only quote it from
memory; it was to the effect that when a cheerful person enters a room
it is as though fresh candles are lighted. The illustration pleases me."
"True, it was very telling. Yes, you are cheerful, and you are very fond
of talking."
"I am afraid I am a sad chatterbox," returned Bessie, blushing, as
though she were conscious of an implied reproof.
"Oh, but I like talking people. People who hold their tongues and listen
are such bores. I do detest bores. I talk a great deal myself."
"I think I have got into the way for Hatty's sake. Hatty is the sickly
one of our flock; she has never been strong. When she was a tiny, weeny
thing she was always crying and fretful. Father tells us that she cannot
help it, but he never says so to her; he laughs and calls her 'Little
Miss Much-Afraid.' Hatty is full of fear. She cannot see a mouse, as I
tell her, without looking round the corner for pussy's claws."
"Is Hatty your only sister, Miss Lambert?"
"Oh, no; there are three more. I am the eldest--'Mother's crutch,' as
they call me. We are such a family for giving each other funny names.
Tom comes next. I am three-and-twenty--quite an old person, as Tom
says--and he is one-and-twenty. He is at Oxford; he wants to be a
barrister. Christine comes next to Tom--she is nineteen, and so pretty;
and then poor Hatty--'sour seventeen,' as Tom called her on her last
birthday; and then the two children, Ella and Katie; though Ella is
nearly sixteen, and Katie fourteen, but they are only school-girls."
"What a large family!" observed Miss Sefton, stifling a little yawn.
"Now, mamma has only got me, for we don't count Richard."
"Not count your brother?"
"Oh, Richard is my step-brother; he was papa's son, you know; that makes
a difference. Papa died when I was quite a little girl, so you see what
I mean by saying mamma has only got me."
"But she has your brother, too," observed Bessie, somewhat puzzled by
this.
"Oh, yes, of course." But Miss Sefton's tone was enigmatical, and she
somewhat hastily changed the subject by saying, plaintively, "Oh, dear,
do please tell me, Miss Lambert, what you think I ought to do when we
reach Cliffe, if we ever do reach it. Shall I telegraph to my friends in
London, and go to a hotel? Perhaps you could recommend me one, or----"
"No; you shall come home with me," returned Bessie, moved to this sudden
inspiration by the weary look in Miss Sefton's face. "We are not
strangers; my father and your mother were friends; that is sufficient
introduction. Mother is the kindest woman in the world--every one says
so. We are not rich people, but we can make you comfortable. To be sure,
there is not a spare room; our house is not large, and there are so many
of us; but you shall have my room, and I will have half of Chrissy's
bed. You are too young"--and here Bessie was going to add "too pretty,"
only she checked herself--"to go alone to a hotel. Mother would be
dreadfully shocked at the idea."
"You are very kind--too kind; but your people might object," hesitated
Miss Sefton.
"Mother never objects to anything we do; at least, I might turn it the
other way about, and say we never propose anything to which she is
likely to object. When my mother knows all about it, she will give you a
hearty welcome."
"If you are quite sure of that, I will accept your invitation
thankfully, for I am tired to death. You are goodness itself to me, but
I shall not like turning you out of your room."
"Nonsense. Chriss and I will think it a bit of fun--oh, you don't know
us yet. So little happens in our lives that your coming will be quite an
event; so that is settled." And Bessie extended a plump little hand in
token of her good will, which Miss Sefton cordially grasped.