THE FIRST SUNDAY AT THE GRANGE.
The unfortunate dispute between Edna and her brother had taken place on
Saturday evening, and as Bessie went up to her room that night she made
up her mind that the first Sunday at Oatlands would be a failure, as far
as enjoyment was concerned.
"I never can be happy myself unless I see others happy round me,"
thought Bessie, rather mournfully; "and Edna has taken this
disappointment so badly that I am afraid she will make us all suffer for
it." But in this opinion she was wrong. Her acquaintance with Edna had
been brief, and she had no suspicion of the intense pride that blended
with Edna's wilfulness, nor of the tenacity, strange in such a bright
young creature, that could quietly maintain its purpose under a
careless, light-hearted exterior.
Edna had evidently been ashamed of her outburst of temper on the
previous evening, for she came down on Sunday morning looking a little
pale and subdued, and very gentle in her manner to her mother and
Bessie. She seemed to ignore Richard; beyond a cold good morning she
did not vouchsafe him a word or a look; and as all his overtures toward
reconciliation were passed over in chilling silence, he soon left her to
herself.
They all went to church together, and as they walked through the lanes
Edna seemed to recover her buoyancy. She laughed and chatted with her
mother, and made sprightly speeches in her usual way; and no one could
have judged from her manner that there was a spot of bitterness under
the smooth surface--an angry consciousness that Richard had dared to
cross her will.
Ah, well! there are many beside Edna who enter God's house with their
darling sin hugged close to their bosom, fondled and cherished. Truly we
may say we are miserable sinners, and that there is no health in us, for
the black plague spot is often hidden under the white vesture,
undetected by human insight, but clearly legible to the "Eye that seeth
not as man seeth."
Once Bessie looked up from her hymn-book as Edna's clear, high notes
reached her ear. Edna seemed singing with all her heart:
"Oh, Paradise! Oh, Paradise!
Who does not crave for rest?"
Her brown eyes were soft with feeling, there was a sweet, almost
angelic look upon her face; a passing emotion possessed her. Alas, that
such moods should be transitory! And yet it has ever been so in the
world's history. Unsanctified human nature is always fickle, and the
"Hosanna" of yesterday become the "Crucify Him" of to-day.
After their early luncheon, Edna asked Bessie if she would go with her
to see the Athertons.
"Mamma indulges in a nap on Sunday afternoons," she explained, "and as I
am not fond of my own company, I run in and have a chat with the girls."
"If you would excuse me," returned Bessie, looking rather uncomfortable,
"I would so much rather stay at home. You see, I have been accustomed to
spend Sunday very quietly. We have never paid visits as some people do.
Church and Sunday-school and a little sacred music and reading, and the
day soon passes. If you do not mind, I would rather sit in the garden,
or take a stroll through those lovely lanes, than go to the Athertons'."
Edna looked exceedingly amused at this speech, and at Bessie's hot
cheeks.
"My dear Daisy, don't look so perturbed. This is Liberty Hall, and our
guests always do exactly as they please. I would not interfere with your
little prudish ways for the world. I do not require your company in the
least. You may retire to your own room and read the 'Pilgrim's
Progress,' with the blinds down, if you please, and mamma and I will not
say a word. There's Blair's 'Sermons' in the attic, and Hervey's
'Meditations Among the Tombs.' They are a bit dusty, perhaps, but you
won't object to that, for they are full of wholesome and cheerful
reading."
"Thank you," returned Bessie, undisturbed by this light banter. "But I
brought a book from home, in which I am much interested--'Bishop
Hannington's Life'--and as you are so good as to spare me, I mean to
explore some of those shady lanes; they are so nice and quiet."
Edna was about to make another mischievous rejoinder, but as she looked
at Bessie she refrained. Bessie's contented, gentle expression, the
quiet dignity that seemed to invest her girlishness, closed Edna's
mouth.
"She is a good little thing, and I won't tease her," she thought. And
she refrained with much magnanimity from one of her droll speeches when
Maud Atherton asked where Miss Lambert was.
"She preferred taking a walk," returned Edna; which was the truth, but
not the whole truth, for, as she said to herself, "those girls shall not
have the chance of laughing at my dear little Bessie." And she cleverly
changed the conversation to a safer topic; for she was quite a
diplomatist in her small way.
"Edna is really very good-natured," thought Bessie gratefully, as she
sauntered happily through the leafy lanes.
How delicious the air felt! It was June, and yet there was still the
crispness of the spring. She felt as though she and the birds had this
beautiful world to themselves, and the twitterings and rustlings in the
thicket were the only sounds that broke the Sabbath stillness.
Bessie had just turned into a sunny bit of road when an abject-looking
white dog with a black patch over his eye suddenly wriggled himself
through a half-closed gate.
"Why, I do believe that is Bill Sykes," thought Bessie, as the creature
stood looking at her. "Bill, what are you doing so far from home?" Bill
wagged his tail feebly in a deprecating manner. "Why don't you walk like
a gentleman?" continued Bessie, and, to her great amusement, the dog
rose solemnly on his hind legs and commenced stalking down the lane.
Bessie burst into a laugh that was echoed by another voice.
"Well done, old Bill." And, looking up, Bessie saw Richard Sefton
leaning on the gate, with his dogs round him. "Don't move, Miss
Lambert," he continued hastily; "stand where you are till I join you."
And as Bessie looked rather surprised at this peremptory speech, he
walked quickly to her side and put his hand on her shoulder. "A friend,
Leo. Excuse my unceremoniousness, Miss Lambert, but Leo needs an
introduction;" and at his words a huge mastiff, who had been eyeing
Bessie in a dubious manner, walked quietly up to her.
"Will it be safe for me to pat him?" asked Bessie, as she looked at the
big tawny head and heavy jowl of the magnificent beast; but the brown
sunken eyes had a friendly expression in them.
"Oh, yes, Leo will be as quiet as a lamb; and what is more, he will
never forget you. You may go within the reach of his chain any day, and
he will behave to you like a gentleman. Leo is an aristocrat, and never
forgets _noblesse oblige_."
"He is a splendid animal," returned Bessie; and then she noticed the
other dogs. They were all there: Gelert and Brand, and Juno and her
puppies, and Spot and Tim.
"We have been for a long walk," observed Richard, as they turned their
faces homeward. "The dogs have been wild with spirits, and I had some
difficulty with them at first. You see, they make the most of their
weekly holiday."
"What do you do on a wet Sunday?" asked Bessie curiously.
"Well, I smoke a pipe with them in the stable, and so give them the
pleasure of my company. I do hate disappointing dumb animals, Miss
Lambert--they have their feelings as well as we have, and I think we
ought to behave handsomely to them. I remember when I was quite a little
fellow my mother taught me that."
"Your mother!" in some surprise, for somehow Mrs. Sefton never gave
Bessie the impression that her relations with Richard were of the
motherly sort.
"Oh, I mean my then mother," he returned hastily, as though answering
her unspoken thought. "I was very young when she died, but I have never
forgotten her. She was not a lady by birth, you know; only a farmer's or
yeoman's daughter, but there is not a lady living who is prettier or
sweeter than she was."
"I am glad you feel like that to your mother," replied Bessie, in a
sympathetic voice that seemed to ask for further confidence.
Richard Sefton had never spoken of his mother to any one before. What
could have drawn the beloved name from his lips? Was it this girl's
soothing presence, or the stillness of the hour and the quiet beauty of
the scene round him? Richard was impressionable by nature, and possibly
each of these things influenced him. It was a new pleasure to speak to a
kindly listener of the memories that lay hidden in his faithful heart.
"Yes, and yet I was a mere child when I lost her," he went on, and
there was a moved look on his face; "but I remember her as plainly as I
see you now. She was so young and pretty--every one said so. I remember
once, when I was lying in my little cot one night, too hot and feverish
to sleep, that she came up to me in her white gown--it was made of some
shining stuff, silk or satin--and she had a sparkling cross on her neck.
I remember how it flashed in my eyes as she stooped to kiss me, and how
she carried me to the window to look at the stars. 'Are they not bright,
Ritchie?' she said; 'and beyond there is the great beautiful heaven,
where my little boy will go some day;' and then she stood rocking me in
her arms. I heard her say plainly, 'Oh, that I and my little child were
there now!' And as she spoke something wet fell on my face. I have heard
since that she was not happy--not as happy as she ought to have been,
poor mother!"
"And is that all you can remember?" asked Bessie gently.
"Oh, no; I have many vague recollections of making daisy chains with my
mother on the lawn; of a great yellow cowslip ball flung to me in the
orchard; of a Sunday afternoon, when some pictures of Samuel, and David
and Goliath, were shown me; and many other little incidents. Children do
remember, whatever grown-up people say."
"I think it would be terrible to lose one's mother, especially when one
is a child," observed Bessie, in a feeling voice.
"I have found it so, I assure you," replied Richard gravely. "My
stepmother was young, and did not understand children--boys especially.
I seemed somewhat in the way to every one but my father. A lonely
childhood is a sad thing; no success nor happiness in after life seems
to make up for it."
"I understand what you mean; father always says children claim happiness
as a right."
"It is most certainly their prerogative; but I fear I am boring you with
my reminiscences."
"Not at all; you are giving me a great pleasure, Mr. Sefton. I do like
knowing about people--their real selves, I mean, not their outside; it
is so much more interesting than any book. I think, as a rule, people
shut themselves up too much, and so they exclude light and sympathy."
"One longs for sympathy sometimes," said Richard; but he turned away his
face as he spoke.
"Yes; every one needs it, and most of us get it," replied Bessie,
feeling very sorry for the young man in her heart. He was too manly and
too generous to complain openly of his stepmother's treatment, but
Bessie understood it all as well as though he had spoken.
"In a large family there is no complaint to be made on this score. When
I have a grievance there is always mother or Hatty, or Christine and
father. We take all our big things to father. Oh, at home, no one is
left out in the cold."
"I think your home must be a happy one, Miss Lambert--but here we are at
The Grange. I must bid you good-bye for the present, for I have an
errand in the village."
But Richard did not explain that his errand was to sit with a crippled
lad, whose life of suffering debarred him from all pleasure. If there
were one person in the world whom Bob Rollton adored it was "the young
squire."
"He is a real gentleman, he is," Bob would say; "and not one of your
make-believe gentry. It is all along of him and Spot and the little 'un,
Tim, that I don't hate Sundays; but he comes reg'lar, does the squire;
and he brings some rare good books with him; and Tim curls himself up on
my blanket, and Spot sits on the window-sill, making believe to listen,
and we have a good old time."
Other people beside Bob could have cited instances of the young squire's
thoughtfulness and active benevolence; but Richard Sefton was one who
did good by stealth, and almost as though he were ashamed of it, and
neither his stepmother nor Edna guessed how much he was beloved in the
village.
Mrs. Sefton was one of those people who never believed in virtue, unless
it had the special hall-mark that conventionality stamps upon it, and
Richard's simple charities, his small self-denials, would have appeared
despicable in her eyes. She herself gave largely to the poor at
Christmas; blankets and clothing by the bale found their way to the East
End. The vicar of Melton called her "The benevolent Mrs. Sefton," but
she and Edna never entered a cottage, never sat beside a sick bed, nor
smoothed a dying pillow. Edna would have been horrified at such a
suggestion. What had her bright youth to do with disease, dirt and
misery? "Don't tell me about it," was her usual cry, when any one
volunteered to relate some piteous story. That such things should be
allowed in a world governed by a merciful Providence was incredible,
terrible, but that she should be brought into contact with it was an
offence to her ladylike judgment.
Many a girl has thought like Edna Sefton, and yet a royal princess could
enter a squalid cottage, and take the starving babe to her bosom; and
from that day to this Princess Alice has been a type of loving
womanhood.
Edna had not returned from the Athertons when Bessie entered the house,
so she went alone to the evening service. As the service was at
half-past six, an informal meal was served at a quarter past eight, to
allow the servants to attend church. Bessie was rather surprised at this
mark of thoughtfulness, but she found out afterward that Richard had
induced his stepmother, with some difficulty, to give up the ceremonious
late dinner. She urged as an objection that neither she nor Edna ever
attended the evening service; but he overruled this, and carried his
point.
Just before service commenced, Bessie was surprised to see him enter the
church. She had no idea that he would come, but he told her afterward
that it was his usual practice.
Just as they were starting for the homeward walk they were joined by a
cousin of the Athertons. Bessie had seen her the previous day. She was a
fair, interesting-looking girl, dressed in deep mourning. Her name was
Grace Donnerton. Richard seemed to know her well. He had evidently
waited for her to overtake them, and they all walked on happily
together.
Bessie was much taken with her. She was the daughter of a clergyman, who
had a large parish in Leeds, and she interested Bessie very much in her
account of her own and her sister's work. They had lately lost their
mother, and it was surprising to hear of the way in which these young
creatures helped their father in his good work.
"When any one is ill, we generally help in nursing them," Grace had
said, quite simply. "There are so many of us that we can easily be
spared, and we are so fond of our poor people. We have all attended
ambulance lectures, and Lizzie, that is my eldest sister, is now
training for a year at a hospital. She is very strong, and so fond of
nursing, and she hopes to be very useful when she comes home. There are
five of us, and we take turns in being papa's housekeeper. Emma, who is
very clever, manages the mother's meeting, and the rest of us do
district work."
Bessie was so interested by all this that she was sorry when the walk
drew to a close. After they had said good-bye to Miss Donnerton, Bessie
said "What a nice girl! I am sure I should like to know more of her."
"Yes; I knew she would be your sort; that is why I waited for her,"
replied Richard, as he opened the gate.
Bessie wondered over this speech as she ran up to her room. "My sort!
what could he have meant by that?" she said to herself. "I only wish I
were like Miss Donnerton, for I am sure she is sweet and good. Well, it
has been a lovely day. I have not wished myself at home once. Now I must
devote myself to Edna."
Edna looked a little tired and bored, and Bessie did not find it easy
to interest her. She appeared to be quite indifferent to Miss
Donnerton's merits.
"Oh, Grace! so you like her, do you? Well, I must confess she is too
good for me. I never found her say anything interesting yet, but then I
did not talk to her about poor people," and Edna sneered slightly in a
ladylike way. "I think all the girls were relieved when she went to
church, for we could not get her to talk about anything."
Yes, Edna was decidedly impracticable that evening. She would not be
induced to play or sing; she was not in the humor for sacred music; no,
she did not want to read; and everything was slow and stupid.
Bessie coaxed her into the garden at last, and the soft evening air
refreshed her in spite of herself.
"Don't you ever feel _ennuyee_ and horrid?" she asked, in a sort of
apologetic manner, presently.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so; at least, I don't quite know what you mean,"
returned Bessie; but she was not thinking of the question. The stars
were glittering overhead, and Richard Sefton's words recurred to her.
How clearly she could see it all! The little lonely boy in his cot, the
young mother coming up to soothe him. She could picture her so plainly
in the white shining gown and the sparkling cross, with the tears
falling on the child's face. "Oh, that I and my little child were there
now!" Oh, how sad it all sounded; and she had gone, and not taken the
boy with her. "Poor Mr. Sefton!" thought Bessie, as she recalled the
sad, quiet tones and the moved look on Richard's face.