Our Bessie Part 7

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 un.o.btrusive 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 antic.i.p.ation; 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 b.u.t.tonholes.

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 gra.s.shopper 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.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE KENTISH LANES.

Bessie did not make any answer for a minute or two, but her eyes were a little dim as she heard Hatty sob.

"I must not break the bruised reed," she said to herself. "Hatty's world is a very little one; she is not strong enough to come out of herself, and take wider views; when she loves people, she loves them somehow in herself; she can't understand the freedom of an affection that can be happy in the absence of its object. I am not like Hatty; but then our natures are different, and I must not judge her. What can I say that will help her?"