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 wishing 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 apron-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 shifting, 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 wishing 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.
Mrs. Lambert looked up inquiringly as Bessie took off her hat and
gloves.
"Well, my dear, have father and you settled it?"
"Yes, indeed, mother; and I am really to go. Father seems to like the
idea. He has evidently fallen in love with Miss Sefton. I am afraid I am
a great deal too much excited about it at present, but Hatty will soon
damp me."
"Poor child! she never likes you to go away. She does not mean to be
selfish, and I know she struggles hard to control her feelings, but she
will have a good cry when she hears you are going to Oatlands."
"We must not let her mope, mother. If I thought it were good for Hatty I
would stay at home, to prevent her feeling so miserable, but it would be
false kindness to give in to her; she would hate herself for her
selfishness, and she would not be a bit happy if she knew she had
prevented my visit. I would rather see her fret before I go, and bear it
as well as I can, and then I know she will cheer up soon and be looking
forward to my return."
"You are quite right, Bessie, and neither your father nor I would allow
you to sacrifice yourself for Hatty. Too much indulgence on your part
would only feed the poor child's nervous fancies. I know she feels her
parting with you for a week or two as a serious trial, and I dare say it
is a trial to her, but she must take it as one, and not selfishly spoil
your pleasure. Now we will forget Hatty for a few minutes; there is
something else troubling me. How are you to be fitted out for your
visit, when I dare not ask your father for any more money?"
"Well, I have thought about that, too," returned Bessie briskly. "I was
reviewing my wardrobe all the time father was at Castleton House. He was
quite half an hour away, so I had plenty of time. I was a little worried
at first, thinking how I should manage, but somehow I made it all
straight. Listen to me, mother, dear," as Mrs. Lambert sighed and shook
her head. "Miss Sefton has been here, so she knows we are not rich
people, and she will not expect to see many smart dresses. I don't want
to pretend to be what I am not. We cannot afford to dress grandly, nor
to have many new frocks, but I am sure we are just as happy without
them."
"Yes; but you never have stayed with rich people before, Bessie,"
returned her mother sadly. "You do not know how shabby your old things
will look beside other people's silks and satins. Father does not think
about these things, and I do not like to remind him; but you ought to
have a new jacket, though we did say the old one would do this year."
"Now, mother, will you be quiet, please, and listen to me? for I am
brimful of ideas, and I won't have you worry. The jacket must do, for I
do not mean to ask father for a new one. I have my gray dress and hat,
and father thinks they are very becoming; and there is my Indian muslin
Uncle Charles gave me for best occasions, and if you will let me buy a
few yards of white nun's-cloth Chrissy and I will contrive a pretty
dinner-dress. I like white best, because one can wear different flowers,
and so make a change. Perhaps I must have a pair of new gloves, and some
shoes; but those won't cost much."
"You are easily satisfied, darling," replied Mrs. Lambert fondly. "Yes,
you shall have the nun's-cloth, and I will give you some of my lace to
trim it. And there are the pearls that I wore on my wedding-day. Your
father is so fond of them, but I always told him they were put aside for
you. Wait a moment; they are in my escritoire, and you may as well have
them now." And Mrs. Lambert unlocked the door, and opening a little box,
placed the necklace in Bessie's hand. It consisted of three rows of tiny
pearls, and was very simple and pretty.
"Oh, mother, how lovely!" exclaimed the girl. "Is it really for me? That
is just what I wanted; my gold chain is so thin that I hardly ever dare
to wear it. It has been broken twice. But this is far prettier." And
Bessie clasped the little necklace around her neck, and then went off
proudly to show her treasure to Christine and Hatty, while Mrs. Lambert
shed a few tears at the thought how little she had to give her girls.
The next moment she dashed them away indignantly.
"I ought to be ashamed of myself," she thought. "What would Herbert say
if he found me crying in this childish way? What do our girls want with
ornaments and pretty dresses? They have youth and good looks and
manners. My Bessie is a perfect gentlewoman, in spite of her shabby
frocks. No one could help being pleased with her gentle, modest ways. I
expect it is my pride. I did not want Mrs. Sefton to think we are not
rich. But I am wrong; my girls are rich. They are rich in having such a
father, and in their own happy natures." And then Mrs. Lambert thought
of those other ornaments that she desired for them--the ornament of a
meek and quiet spirit; the priceless jewels of innocence and purity,
which are the fairest adornments of a young girl.
"These will not be lacking," she said to herself. "My Bessie's
unobtrusive goodness will soon make itself felt."
Bessie had made up her mind not to trouble about her scanty wardrobe,
and she was quite happy planning the nun's-cloth dress with Christine.
But though Dr. Lambert said nothing, he thought a great deal, and the
result of his cogitations was, a five-pound note was slipped into
Bessie's hand the next evening.
"Go and buy yourself some finery with that," he observed quietly.
Bessie could hardly sleep that night, she was so busy spending the money
in anticipation; and the very next day she was the delighted purchaser
of a new spring jacket and had laid out the remainder of the five-pound
note in a useful black and white tweed for daily use, and a pretty lilac
cotton, and she had even eked out a pair of gloves.
Three dresses to be made; no wonder they were busy; even Mrs. Lambert
was pressed into the service to sew over seams and make buttonholes.
Hatty never complained her back ached when she worked for Bessie; her
thin little hands executed marvelous feats of fine workmanship; all the
finer parts were intrusted to Hatty.
"I feel almost as though I were going to be married," observed Bessie,
as she surveyed the fresh, dainty dresses. "I never had more than one
new gown at a time. Now they are finished, and you are tired, Hatty, and
you must go and lie down, like a good child."
"I am not tired, not a bit," returned Hatty touchily; "and I am going
out with Ella."
Bessie held her peace. Hatty's temper had been very trying for the last
three days; she had slaved for Bessie to the detriment of her health,
but had worn an injured manner all the time.
She would not join in the conversation, nor understand a joking remark.
When Christine laughed at her in a good-humored way, Hatty pursed up her
lips, and drew herself up in a huffy manner, and would not condescend to
speak a word. She even rejected Bessie's caresses and little attempts at
petting. "Don't, Bessie. I must go on with my work; I wish you would
leave me alone," she would say pettishly.
Bessie did leave her alone, but it made her heart ache to see the lines
under Hatty's eyes, that showed she had cried herself to sleep. She knew
it was unhappiness and not temper that was the cause of her
irritability.
"She is ashamed of letting me know that she cannot bear me to go away,"
she thought. "She is trying to get the better of her selfishness, but it
conquers her. I will leave her alone for a little, and then I will have
it all out. I could not go away and leave her like that." For Bessie's
warm, affectionate nature could not endure the thought of Hatty's pain.
"I have so much, and she has so little," she said to herself, and her
pity blunted all Hatty's sharp, sarcastic little speeches and took the
sting out of them. "Poor little thing! she does not mean half she
says," she remarked, as a sort of apology to Christine, when Hatty had
marched off with Ella.
"I don't know how you put up with her as you do," observed Christine,
whose patience had been sorely exercised that morning by Hatty's
tempers. "She is treating you as badly as possible. I would rather have
been without her help, if I had been you; we might have had Miss Markham
in for two days; that would have shamed Hatty nicely."
"I don't want to shame her, Chrissy, dear; poor little Hatty! when she
has been working so beautifully, too. She is worrying herself about my
going away, and that makes her cross."
"As though no one else would miss you," returned Christine stormily, for
she was not quite devoid of jealousy. "But there, it is no use my
talking; you will all treat Hatty as though she were a baby, and so she
behaves like a spoiled child. I should like to give her a bit of my
mind." And Christine tossed her pretty head and swept off the last
dress, while Bessie cleared the table.
Bessie's visit was fixed for the following Tuesday, so on Sunday evening
she made up her mind that the time was come for speaking to Hatty. As it
happened, they were keeping house together, for the rest of the family,
the servants included, had gone to church. Hatty had just settled
herself in a corner of the couch, with a book in her hand, expecting
that Bessie would follow her example (for the Lambert girls were all
fond of reading), when a hand was suddenly interposed between her eyes
and the page.
"This is our last quiet evening, Hatty, and I am going to talk instead
of read, so you may as well shut up that big book."
"It takes two to talk," observed Hatty, rather crossly, "and I am not in
the mood for conversation, so you had better let me go on with 'Bishop
Selwyn's Life.'"
"You are not in the mood for reading either," persisted Bessie, and
there was a gleam of fun in her eyes. "When you pucker up your forehead
like that, I know your thoughts are not on your book. Let us have a
comfortable talk instead. You have not been like yourself the last week,
not a bit like my Hatty; so tell me all about it, dear, and see if I
cannot make you feel better."
"No, Bessie, don't try; it is not any use, unless I jump into somebody
else's body and mind. I can't make myself different. I am just Hatty, a
tiresome, disagreeable, selfish little thing."
"What a lot of adjectives! I wonder they don't smother you. You are not
big enough to carry so many. I think I could word that sentence better.
I should just say, 'Hatty is a poor, weak little body to whom mole-hills
are mountains, and the grasshopper a burden.' Does not that sound
nicer?"
"Yes, if it were true," returned Hatty sorrowfully, and then her
ill-humor vanished. "No, don't pet me, Bessie; I don't deserve it," as
Bessie stroked her hand in a petting sort of a way. "I have been cross
and ill-tempered all the week, just unbearable, as Christine said; but
oh, Bessie, it seemed as though I could not help it. I was so miserable
every night to think you were going away, that I could not sleep for
ever so long, and then my head ached, and I felt as though I were strung
on wires when I came down the next morning, and every time people
laughed and said pleasant things I felt just mad, and the only relief
was to show every one how disagreeable I could be."
Hatty's description of her overwrought feelings was so droll that Bessie
with some difficulty refrained from laughing outright, but she knew how
very real all this was to Hatty, so she exercised self-control, and
said, quite gravely:
"And so you wanted to make us all miserable, too. That was hardly kind,
was it, when we were all so sorry for you? I do think you have a great
deal to bear, Hatty. I don't mean because you are so weak in health;
that could be easily borne; but it must be so sad always to look on the
dark side of things. Of course, in some sense, we all project our own
shadows; but you are not content with your own proper shadow, you go
poking and peering about for imaginary ones, and so you are dark all
round."
"But your going away to Oatlands is not imaginary," returned Hatty
piteously.
"No, you foolish child. But I hope you do not grudge me a pleasant
visit. That would be a great piece of substantial selfishness on your
part, of which, I trust, my Hatty would not be capable. Supposing I gave
in to this ridiculous fancy and said, 'Hattie hates me to go away, so I
will just stop at home, and Miss Sefton shall be disappointed.' I wonder
how you would like that?"
"That would not please me, either. I am not so selfish as that. Oh,
Bessie, do tell me how I am to conquer this nervous dread of losing you.
It is not selfishness, for I do love to have treats; but when you go
away I don't seem to take any pleasure in anything; it is all so flat
and disagreeable. Sometimes I lie awake and cry when I think what I
should do if you were to die. I know how silly and morbid it is, but how
am I to help it?" And here Hatty broke down, and hid her face on
Bessie's shoulder.