BESSIE IS INTRODUCED TO BILL SYKES.
"Would you care to see my dogs, Miss Lambert?" asked Richard, and Bessie
only hesitated for a moment.
"Very much. That is, if it will not trouble you."
"Not in the least; they are only just outside in the stable yard. Leo,
our big mastiff, who gained the prize last year, is over at the farm. He
is a splendid fellow, but a trifle fierce to strangers. He pulled a man
down once, a tramp who was lurking about the place. Leo had got loose
somehow, and he was at his throat in a moment. The poor fellow has the
scar now; but I made it up to him, poor wretch."
"I should not care to go near Leo's kennel," returned Bessie, with a
shudder.
"Oh, it would be all right if I were with you. I should just put my hand
on your arm and say, 'A friend, Leo,' and he would be as gentle as Mac,
here. Leo is my faithful servant and guardian at the farm. I always
take him out for a walk on Sunday afternoons. Leo knows Sunday as well
as I do. Now, we must be quick, or the gong will sound. There is no need
to go through the house; this door leads to the kitchen garden, and we
can reach the stables that way." And talking in this easy, friendly
fashion, Richard quickly conducted Bessie down the trim gravel walks,
under the apple and plum trees, and then unlocking a green door in the
wall, Bessie found herself in the stable yard, where the groom was
rubbing down a fine brown mare. The mare neighed as soon as she heard
her master's voice, and Richard went up to her and petted her glossy
sides.
"That is brown Bess," he observed. "She is a skittish young thing, and
plays her pranks with every one but me; but you and I understand each
other, eh, old lady?" And the mare rubbed her nose against him in a
confiding manner. Bessie looked on with an earnest air of interest.
"Do you ride?" asked Richard presently.
Bessie shook her head.
"I have never been on horseback in my life; but I can imagine what a
pleasure riding must be."
"What a pity!" he returned briefly. "There is nothing like it." And so
saying, he unlatched a gate and ushered his guest into a small paved
yard, and then, opening a door, he uttered a prolonged whistle, and
yelps, and a number of dogs, small and large, rushed out upon him.
"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 fashion; 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 thrashing 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," assented 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 passed 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 sunshiny;
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 grass 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-fashioned little
person.
The Athertons were really nice girls, although they talked slang like
their brothers, and conformed to all the foolish fashions 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 pass," observed Sabina sadly. "His last coach was such a
muff, 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-fashioned, 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 fashions. What a little lady Christine
would have seemed beside them! Chrissy has such pretty manners."
The dinner hour passed 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 passionately 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.
"Edna does not feel inclined to sing to-night, but if you can put up
with my deficiencies, I will try what I can do. My music is rather
old-fashioned, but I know one or two pretty ballads, if you care to hear
them."
"Thanks; I should like it very much," was all Richard said, as he opened
the piano; but his face cleared like magic. It was not the song he
wanted, but that some one should care to please him. All his life long
this had been his longing; and the cold indifference with which his
expressed wishes had always been met by his mother and Edna had chilled
his affectionate nature. Bessie had a pretty voice, though it showed
want of training, but she could sing a simple ballad with much sweetness
and feeling, and Richard, who had a fine ear for music, avowed himself
much pleased.
"You ought to have some good lessons," he said frankly. "Your voice has
great capabilities, but it has not been properly trained. I hope you do
not think my criticism rude."
"No, indeed; I am too much aware of my own faults. I have only had a few
lessons. Miss James was not much of a teacher, but I cannot help
singing somehow. Now, have I tired you, or do you want another song?"
"I want more than one," returned Richard, growing bold. Bessie's
readiness to please, her good-humored reception of his criticism,
charmed him. She was so amiable, so willing to be friendly; she was so
different from the other girls who came to The Grange. Richard had no
patience with them; their airs and graces, their evident desire for
masculine admiration disgusted and repelled him. They seemed always
seeking for him to pay them little compliments and attentions, and in
his heart he despised them.
"Thank you, my dear," observed Mrs. Sefton graciously, when Bessie had
finished. "She sings very nicely, does she not, Edna?"
"Charmingly," replied Edna; but her smile was hardly as pleased as
usual, and she bade Bessie a somewhat cold good-night when they parted
an hour later.