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 sunshine,
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 sunshine.
"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
passer-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 shining 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
shore, except in one part; but the smooth expanse of water, shining 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 sturdy fashion. "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 sunshine 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 amusement 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, passes 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?"
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
nobody, 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, sunshiny 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 sturdy 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 assented, 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."