_BESSIE'S PEACEMAKING._
When Bessie Fairfax returned from Castlemount she learnt for a first
piece of news that Mr. Cecil Burleigh had spent two days of her absence
at Abbotsmead, and that he had only left in the morning. To this
information her grandfather added that he had seen in his time
unsuccessful lovers, more dejected. Bessie laughed and blushed, and said
she was glad to hear he was in good spirits; and this was their first
and last allusion to the crowning episode of her visit to Brentwood. The
squire gave her one searching look, and thought it wisdom to be silent.
The green rides of the woods and glades of the park were all encumbered
with fallen leaves. The last days of autumn were flown, and winter was
come. The sound of the huntsman's horn was heard in the fields, and the
squire came out in his weather-stained scarlet coat to enjoy the sport
which was the greatest pleasure life had left for him. One fine soft
morning at the end of November the meet was at Kirkham turnpike, and
Abbotsmead entertained the gentlemen of the hunt at breakfast.
Bessie rode a little way with her grandfather, and would have ridden
farther, but he sent her back with Ranby. Mr. Cecil Burleigh had once
expressed a prejudice against foxhunting ladies, and when Mr. Fairfax
saw his granddaughter the admiration of the miscellaneous gathering, and
her acquaintance claimed by even Mr. Gifford, he adopted it. Bessie was
disappointed. She liked the exercise, the vivacity of the sport, and
Janey went so beautifully; but when her grandfather spoke she quietly
submitted. Sir Edward Lucas, though he was charmed with her figure on
horseback, was still more charmed by her obedience.
The burden of Bessie's present life threatened to be the tedium of
nothing to do. She could not read, practise her songs, and learn poetry
by heart all the hours of the day: less than three sufficed her often.
If she had been bred in a country-house, she would have possessed
numerous interests that she inevitably lacked. She was a stranger
amongst the villagers--neither old nor young knew her. There was little
suffering to engage her sympathy or poverty to invite her help. At
Kirkham there were no long-accumulated neglects to reform as there was
at Morte, and to Morte Mr. Fairfax forbade her to go. She had a liberal
allowance, and not half ways enough to spend it, so she doubled her
allowance to Miss Hague on behalf of her former pupils, Geoffry and
Frederick; Laurence paid his own.
She was not a girl of many wants, and her taste did not incline to idle
expenditure. She had seen thrift and the need of thrift in her early
home, and thought money much too valuable to be wasted in buying things
she did not require. Where she saw a necessity she was the freest of
givers, but she had experience, gained in her rides with Mr. Carnegie,
against manufacturing objects of sentimental charity.
Her resource for a little while was the study of the house and
neighborhood she lived in. There was a good deal of history connected
with Kirkham. But it was all contained in the county gazetteer; and when
Macky had instructed her in the romance of the family, and the legends
attached to the ruins by the river and the older portions of the
mansion, all was learnt that there was to know, and the sum of her
reflections announced aloud was, that Abbotsmead was a very big house
for a small family. Macky shook her head in melancholy acquiescence.
The December days were very long, and the weather wild and stormy both
by land and sea. Bessie conjectured sometimes when her uncle Frederick
would come home, but it appeared presently that he was not coming. He
wrote that he had laid up the Foam in one of the Danish ports to be
ready for the breaking up of the winter and a further exploration of the
Baltic coasts, and that he was just starting on a journey into
Russia--judging that the beauty of the North is in perfection during the
season of ice and snow.
"Just like one of Fred's whims!" said his father discontentedly. "As if
he could not have come into Woldshire and have enjoyed the hunting!
Nobody enjoyed it more than he did formerly."
He did not come, however, and Bessie was not astonished. Under other
circumstances Abbotsmead might have been a cheerful house, but it seemed
as if no one cared to make it cheerful now: if the days got over
tranquilly, that was enough. The squire and his granddaughter dined
alone day after day, Mr. Forbes relieved their monotony on Sundays, and
occasionally Mr. Oliver Smith came for a night. Society was a toil to
Mr. Fairfax. He did not find his house dull, and would have been
surprised to know that Elizabeth did. What could she want that she had
not? She had Janey to ride, and Joss, a companionable dog, to walk with;
she had her carriage, and could drive to Hartwell as often as she
pleased; and at her gates she had bright little Mrs. Stokes for company
and excellent Mrs. Forbes for counsel. Still, Bessie felt life stagnant
around her. She could not be interested in anything here without an
effort. The secret of it was her hankering after the Forest, and partly
also her longing for those children. To have those dear little boys over
from Norminster would cheer her for the whole winter; but how to compass
it? Once she thought she would bring them over without leave asked, but
when she consulted Mrs. Stokes, she was assured that it would be a
liberty the squire would never forgive.
"I am not afraid of being never forgiven," rejoined Bessie. "I shall do
some desperate act one of these days if I am kept idle. Think of the
echoes in this vast house answering only the slamming of a door! and
think of what they would have to answer if dear little unruly Justus
were in the old nursery!"
Mrs. Stokes laughed: "I am only half in sympathy with you. Why did you
discourage that fascinating Mr. Cecil Burleigh? A young lady is never
really occupied until she is in love."
Bessie colored slightly. "Well," she said, "I am in love--I am in love
with my two little boy-cousins. What do you advise? My grandfather has
never mentioned them. It seems as if it would be easier to set them
before him than to speak of them."
"I should not dare to do that. What does Mr. Laurence Fairfax say? What
does his wife say?"
"Not much. My grandfather is treating them precisely as he treated my
father and my mother--just letting them alone. And it would be so much
pleasanter if we were all friends! I call it happiness thrown away. I
have everything at Abbotsmead but that. It is not like a home, and the
only motive there was for me to try and root there is taken away since
those boys came to light."
"Your future prospects are completely changed. You bear it very well."
"It is easy to bear what I am truly thankful for. Abbotsmead is nothing
to me, but those boys ought to be brought up in familiarity with the
place and the people. I am a stranger, and I don't think I am very apt
at making humble friends. To enjoy the life one ought to begin one's
apprenticeship early. I wonder why anybody strains after rank and
riches? I find them no gain at all. I still think Mr. Carnegie the best
gentleman I know, and his wife as true a gentlewoman as any. You are
smiling at my partiality. Shall you be shocked if I add that I have met
in Woldshire grand people who, if they were not known by their titles,
would be reckoned amongst the very vulgar, and gentry of old extraction
who bear no brand of it but that disagreeable manner which is qualified
as high-bred insolence?"
Mrs. Stokes held all the conventionalities in sincere respect. She did
not understand Miss Fairfax, and asked who, then, of their acquaintance
was her pattern of a perfect lady. Bessie instanced Miss Burleigh. "Her
sweet graciousness is never at fault, because it is the flower of her
beautiful disposition," said she.
"I should never have thought of her," said Mrs. Stokes reflectively.
"She is very good. But to go back to those boys: do nothing without
first speaking to Mr. Fairfax."
Bessie demurred, and still believed her own bolder device the best, but
she allowed herself to be overruled, and watched for an opportunity of
speaking. Undoubtedly, Mr. Fairfax loved his granddaughter with more
respect for her independent will than he might have done had they been
together always. He had denied her no reasonable request yet, and he
granted her present prayer so readily that she was only sorry she had
not preferred it earlier.
"Grandpapa, you will give me a Christmas gift, will you not?" she said
one evening after dinner about a week before that festive season.
"Yes, Elizabeth. What would you like?" was his easy reply. It was a
satisfaction to hear that she had a wish.
"I should like to have my two little cousins from Norminster--Justus and
Laury. They would quite enliven us."
Mr. Fairfax was evidently taken by surprise. Still, he did not rebuke
her audacity. He was silent for a minute or two, as if reflecting, and
when he answered her it was with all the courtesy that he could have
shown towards a guest for whose desires he was bound to feel the utmost
deference. "Certainly, Elizabeth," said he. "You have a right to be
here, as I told you at your first coming, and it would be hard that I
should forbid you any visitor that would enliven you. Have the little
boys, by all means, if you wish it, and make yourself as happy as you
can."
Elizabeth thanked him warmly. "I will write to-morrow. Oh, I know they
may come--my uncle Laurence promised me," said she. "And the day before
Christmas Eve, Mrs. Betts and I will go for them. I am so glad!"
Mr. Fairfax did not check her gay exuberance, and all the house heard
what was to be with unfeigned joy. Mrs. Stokes rejoiced too, and pledged
her own sons as playfellows for the little visitors. And when the
appointed time came, Bessie did as she had said, and made a journey to
Norminster, taking Mrs. Betts with her to bring the children over. Their
father and pretty young mother consented to their going with the less
reluctance because it seemed the first step towards the re-establishment
of kindly relations with the offended squire; and Sally was sent with
them.
"Next Christmas you will come too," said Bessie, happier than any queen
in the exercise of her office as peacemaker, and important also as
being put in charge of those incomparable boys, for Sally was, of
course, under superior orders.
The first drawback to her intense delight was a whimper from Laury as he
lost sight of his mamma, and the next drawback was that Justus asked to
be taken home again the moment the train reached Mitford Junction. These
little troubles were quickly composed, however, though liable, of
course, to break out again; and Bessie felt flushed and uneasy lest the
darling boys should fail of making a pleasant first impression on
grandpapa. Alas for her disquiets! She need have felt none. Jonquil
received her at the door with a sad countenance; and Macky, as she came
forward to welcome the little gentlemen, betrayed that her temper had
been tried even to tears not very long before. Jonquil did not wait to
be inquired of respecting his master, but immediately began to say, in
reply to his young lady's look of troubled amazement, "The squire, miss,
has gone on a journey. I was to tell you that he had left you the house
to yourself."
"Gone on a journey? But he will return before night?" said Bessie.
"No, miss. We are to expect him this day week, when Mr. Laurence's
children have gone back to Norminster," explained the old servant in a
lower voice.
Bessie comprehended the whole case instantly. Macky was relieving her
pent feelings by making a fuss with the little boys, and giving Mrs.
Betts her mind on the matter. The group stood disconcerted in the hall
for several minutes, the door open and the low winter sun shining upon
them. Bessie did not speak--she could not. She gazed at the children,
pale herself and trembling all over. Justus began to ask where was
grandpapa, and Laury repeated his question like a lisping echo. There
was no answer to give them, but they were soon pacified in the old
nursery where their father had played, and were made quite happy with a
grand parade of new toys on the floor, expressly provided for the
occasion. Bed-time came early, and Bessie was relieved when it did come.
Never in the whole course of her life had she felt so hurt, so insulted,
so injured; and yet she was pained, intensely pained, for the old man
too. Perhaps he had meant her to be so, and that was her punishment.
Jonquil could give her no information as to whither his master had
gone, but he offered a conjecture that he had most probably gone up to
London.
If it was any comfort to know that the old servants of the house
sympathized with her, Bessie had that. They threw themselves heart and
soul into the work of promoting the pleasure of the little visitors.
Jonquil proved an excellent substitute for grandpapa, and Macky turned
out an inexhaustible treasury of nice harmless things to eat, of funny
rhymes to sing, and funny stories to tell in a dramatic manner. Still,
it was a holiday spoilt. It was not enjoyed in the servants' hall nor in
the housekeeper's room. No amount of Yule logs or Yule cakes could make
a merry Christmas of it that year. All the neighbors had heard with
satisfaction that Mr. Fairfax's little grandsons were to be brought to
Abbotsmead, and such as had children made a point of coming over with
them, so that the way in which Miss Fairfax's effort at peacemaking had
failed was soon generally known, and as generally disapproved. Mrs.
Stokes, that indignant young matron, qualified the squire's behavior as
"Quite abominable!" but she declared that she would not vex herself if
she were Miss Fairfax--"No, indeed!" Bessie tried hard not. She tried to
be dignified, but her disappointment was too acute, and her
grandfather's usage of her too humiliating, to be borne with her
ordinary philosophy.
She let her uncle Laurence know what had happened by letter, and on the
day fixed for the children to go home again she went with them, attended
by Mrs. Betts as before. Mr. Laurence Fairfax was half amused at the
method by which his father had evaded Bessie's bold attempt to rule him,
and his blossom of a wife was much too happy to care for the old
squire's perversity unless he cared; but they were both sorry for
Bessie.
"My grandfather lets me have everything but what I want," she said with
a tinge of rueful humor. "He surrounds me with every luxury, and denies
me the drink of cold water that I thirst for. I wish I could escape from
his tyranny. We were beginning to be friends, and this has undone it
all. A refusal would not have been half so unkind."
"There is nothing but time to trust to," said her uncle Laurence. "My
father's resentment is not active, but it lasts."
Bessie was quite alone that long evening, the last of the old year: at
Beechhurst or at Brook there was certainly a party. Nor had she any
intimation of the time of her grandfather's return beyond what Jonquil
had been able to give her a week ago. He had not written since he left,
and an accumulation of letters awaited him in his private room, Jonquil
having been unable to forward any for want of an address. The dull
routine of the house proceeded for three days more, and then the master
reappeared at luncheon without notice to anybody.
Mr. Fairfax took his seat at the table, ate hungrily, and looked so
exactly like himself, and so unconscious of having done anything to
provoke anger, to give pain or cause anxiety, that Bessie's imaginary
difficulties in anticipation of his return were instantly removed. He
made polite inquiries after Janey and Joss, and even hoped that Bessie
had been enlivened by her little cousins' visit. She would certainly not
have mentioned them if he had not, but, as he asked the question, she
was not afraid to answer him.
"Yes," said she, "children are always good company to me, especially
boys; and they behaved so nicely, though they are very high-spirited,
that I don't think they would have been inconvenient if you had stayed
at home."
"Indeed? I am glad to hear they are being well brought up," said the
squire; and then he turned to Jonquil and asked for his letters.