Читать книгу Our Bessie - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 5

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It was extremely tiresome!

It was vexatious; it was altogether annoying!

Most people under similar circumstances would have used stronger expressions, would have bemoaned themselves loudly, or at least inwardly, with all the pathos of self-pity.

To be nearly at the end of one’s journey, almost within sight and sound of home fires and home welcomes, and then to be snowed up, walled, imprisoned, kept in durance vile in an unexpected snowdrift—well, most human beings, unless gifted with angelic patience, and armed with special and peculiar fortitude, would have uttered a few groans under such depressing circumstances.

Fortunately, Bessie Lambert was not easily depressed. She was a cheerful young person, an optimist by nature; and, thanks to a healthy organization, good digestion, and wholesome views of duty, was not given to mental nightmares, nor to cry out before she was hurt.

Bessie would have thought it faint-hearted to shrink at every little molehill of difficulty; she had plenty of what the boys call pluck (no word is more eloquent than that), and a fund of quiet humor that tided her safely over many a slough of despond. If any one could have read Bessie’s thoughts a few minutes after the laboring engine had ceased to work, they would have been as follows, with little staccato movements and pauses:

“What an adventure! How Tom would laugh, and Katie too! Katie is always longing for something to happen to her; but it would be more enjoyable if I had some one with me to share it, and if I were sure father and mother would not be anxious. An empty second-class compartment is not a particularly comfortable place on a cold afternoon. I wonder how it would be if all the passengers were to get out and warm themselves with a good game of snowballing. There is not much room, though; we should have to play it in a single file, or by turns. Supposing that, instead of that, the nice, white-haired old gentleman who got in at the last station were to assemble us all in the third-class carriage and tell us a story about Siberia; that would be nice and exciting. Tom would suggest a ghost story, a good creepy one; but that would be too dismal. The hot-water tin is getting cold, but I have got a rug, I am thankful to say, so I shall not freeze for the next two hours. If I had only a book, or could go to sleep—oh!” in a tone of relief, as the guard’s face was suddenly thrust in at the open window.

“I beg your pardon, miss; I hope I did not startle you; but there is a young lady in the first-class compartment who, I take it, would be the better for a bit of company; and as I saw you were alone, I thought you might not object to change your carriage.”

“No, indeed; I shall be delighted to have a companion,” returned Bessie briskly. “How long do you think we shall be detained here, guard?”

“There is no knowing, miss; but one of our men is working his way back to the signals. We have not come more than three miles since we left Cleveley. It is only a bit of a drift that the snow-plow will soon clear, and it will be a matter of two or three hours, I dare say; but it has left off snowing now.”

“Will they telegraph to Cliffe the reason of the delay?” asked Bessie, a little anxiously.

“Oh, yes, they will do that right enough; you needn’t be uneasy. The other young lady is in a bit of a fuss, too, but I told her there was no danger. Give a good jump, miss; there, now you are all right. I will take care of your things. Follow me, please; it is only a step or so.”

“This is more of an adventure than ever,” thought Bessie, as she followed the big, burly guard. “What a kind man he is! Perhaps he has daughters of his own.” And she thanked him so warmly and so prettily as he almost lifted her into the carriage, that he muttered, as he turned away:

“That’s a nice, pleasant little woman. I like that sort.”

The first-class compartment felt warm and snug. Its only tenant was a fair, pretty-looking girl, dressed very handsomely in a mantle trimmed with costly fur, and a fur-lined rug over her knees.

“Oh, thank you! How good of you to come!” she exclaimed eagerly; and Bessie saw at once that she had been crying. “I was feeling so frightened and miserable all by myself. I got it into my head that another train would run into us, and I was quite in a panic until the guard assured me there was no danger. He told me that there was another young lady alone, and that he would bring her to me.”

“Yes, that was so nice of him; and of course it is pleasanter to be able to speak to somebody,” returned Bessie cheerfully; “and it is so much warmer here.”

“Take some of my rug; I do not need it all myself; and we may as well be as comfortable as we can, under the miserable circumstances.”

“Well, do you know I think it might be worse?”

“Worse! how can you talk so?” with a shudder.

“Why, it can hardly be a great hardship to sit for another two hours in this nice warm carriage, with this beautiful rug to cover us. It certainly was a little dull and cold in the other compartment, and I longed to get out and have a game of snowballing to warm myself.” But here her companion gave a little laugh.

“What a funny idea! How could you think of such a thing?” And here she looked, for the first time, rather scrutinizingly at Bessie. Oh, yes, she was a lady—she spoke nicely and had good manners; but how very shabbily she was dressed—at least, not shabbily; that was not the right word—inexpensively would have been the correct term.

Bessie’s brown tweed had evidently seen more seasons than one; her jacket fitted the trim figure, but was not made in the last fashion; and the brown velvet on her hat was decidedly worn. How was the young lady to know that Bessie was wearing her oldest things from a sense of economy, and that her new jacket and best hat—a very pretty one—were in the neat black box in the luggage-van?

Certainly the two girls were complete opposites. Bessie, who, as her brother Tom often told her, was no beauty, was, notwithstanding, a bright, pleasant-looking girl, with soft gray eyes that could express a great deal of quiet sympathy on occasions, or could light up with fun. People who loved her always said Bessie’s face was better than a beautiful one, for it told nothing but the truth about itself. It did not say, “Come, admire me,” as some faces say, but, “Come, trust me if you can.”

The fashionably dressed young stranger had a very different type of face. In the first place, it was undeniably pretty; no one ever thought of contradicting that fact, though a few people might have thought it a peculiar style of beauty, for she had dark-brown eyes and fair hair—rather an uncommon combination.

She was small, too, and very pale, and yet not fragile-looking; on the contrary, she had a clear look of health, but there was a petulant curve about the mouth that spoke of quick temper, and the whole face seemed capable of great mobility, quick changes of feeling that were perfectly transparent.

Bessie was quite aware that her new acquaintance was taking stock of her; she was quietly amused, but she took no apparent notice.

“Is Cliffe-on-Sea your destination?” she asked presently.

“No; is it yours?” with a quick note of alarm in her voice. “Oh, I am so sorry!” as Bessie nodded. “I hoped we should have travelled together to London. I do dislike travelling alone, but my friend was too ill to accompany me, and I did not want to stay at Islip another day; it was such a stupid place, so dull; so I said I must come, and this is the result.”

“And you are going to London? Why, your journey is but just beginning. Cliffe-on-Sea is where I live, and we cannot be more than two miles off. Oh, what will you do if we are detained here for two or three hours?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” returned the other girl disconsolately, and her eyes filled with tears again. “It is nearly five now, and it will be too late to go on to London; but I dare not stay at a hotel by myself. What will mamma say? She will be dreadfully vexed with me for not waiting for Mrs. Moultrie—she never will let me travel alone, and I have disobeyed her.”

“That is a great pity,” returned Bessie gravely; but politeness forbade her to say more. She was old-fashioned enough to think that disobedience to parents was a heinous offence. She did not understand the present code, that allows young people to set up independent standards of duty. To her the fifth commandment was a very real commandment, and just as binding in the nineteenth century as when the young dwellers in tents first listened to it under the shadow of the awful Mount.

Bessie’s gravely disapproving look brought a mocking little smile to the other girl’s face; her quick comprehension evidently detected the rebuke, but she only answered flippantly:

“Mamma is too much used to my disobedience to give it a thought; she knows I will have my way in things, and she never minds; she is sensible enough to know grown-up girls generally have wills of their own.”

“I think I must have been brought up differently,” returned Bessie simply. “I recollect in our nursery days mother used to tell us that little bodies ought not to have grown-up wills; and when we got older, and wanted to get the reins in our own hands, as young people will, she would say, ‘Gently, gently, girls; you may be grown up, but you will never be as old as your parents—’ ” But here Bessie stopped, on seeing that her companion was struggling with suppressed merriment.

“It does sound so funny, don’t you know! Oh, I don’t mean to be rude, but are not your people just a little bit old-fashioned and behind the times? I don’t want to shock you; I am far too grateful for your company. Mamma and I thoroughly understand each other. I am very fond of her, and I am as sorry as possible to vex her by getting into this mess;” and here the girl heaved a very genuine sigh.

“And you live in London?” Bessie was politely changing the subject.

“Oh, no; but we have some friends there, and I was going to break my journey and do a little shopping. Our home is in Kent; we live at Oatlands—such a lovely, quiet little place—far too quiet for me; but since I came out mamma always spends the season in town. The Grange—that is our house—is really Richard’s—my brother’s, I mean.”

“The Grange—Oatlands? I am sure I know that name,” returned Bessie, in a puzzled tone; “and yet where could I have heard it?” She thought a moment, and then added quickly, “Your name cannot be Sefton?”

“To be sure it is,” replied the other girl, opening her brown eyes rather wildly; “Edna Sefton; but how could you have guessed it?”

“Then your mother’s name is Eleanor?”

“I begin to think this is mysterious, and that you must be a witch, or something uncanny. I know all mamma’s friends, and I am positive not one of them ever lived at Cliffe-on-Sea.”

“And you are quite sure of that? Has your mother never mentioned the name of a Dr. Lambert?”

“Dr. Lambert! No. Wait a moment, though. Mamma is very fond of talking about old days, when she was a girl, don’t you know, and there was a young doctor, very poor, I remember, but his name was Herbert.”

“My father’s name is Herbert, and he was very poor once, when he was a young man; he is not rich now. I think, many years ago, he and your mother were friends. Let me tell you all I know about it. About a year ago he asked me to post a letter for him. I remember reading aloud the address in an absent sort of way: ‘Mrs. Sefton, The Grange, Oatlands, Kent;’ and my father looked up from his writing, and said, ‘That is only a business letter, Bessie, but Mrs. Sefton and I are old correspondents. When she was Eleanor Sartoris, and I was a young fellow as poor as a church mouse, we were good friends; but she married, and then I married; but that is a lifetime ago; she was a handsome girl, though.’ ”

“Mamma is handsome now. How interesting it all is! When I get home I shall coax mamma to tell me all about it. You see, we are not strangers after all, so we can go on talking quite like old friends. You have made me forget the time. Oh dear, how dark it is getting! and the gas gives only a glimmer of light.”

“It will not be quite dark, because of the snow. Do not let us think about the time. Some of the passengers are walking about. I heard them say just now the man must have reached Cleveley, so the telegram must have gone—we shall soon have help. Of course, if the snow had not ceased falling, it would have been far more serious.”

“Yes,” returned Miss Sefton, with a shiver; “but it is far nicer to read of horrid things in a cheerful room and by a bright fire than to experience them one’s self. Somehow one never realizes them.”

“That is what father says—that young people are not really hard-hearted, only they do not realize things; their imagination just skims over the surface. I think it is my want of imagination helps me. I never will look round the corner to try and find out what disagreeable thing is coming next. One could not live so and feel cheerful.”

“Then you are one of those good people, Miss Lambert, who think it their duty to cultivate cheerfulness. I was quite surprised to see you look so tranquil, when I had been indulging in a babyish fit of crying, from sheer fright and misery; but it made me feel better only to look at you.”

“I am so glad,” was Bessie’s answer. “I remember being very much struck by a passage in an essay I once read, but I can only quote it from memory; it was to the effect that when a cheerful person enters a room it is as though fresh candles are lighted. The illustration pleases me.”

“True, it was very telling. Yes, you are cheerful, and you are very fond of talking.”

“I am afraid I am a sad chatterbox,” returned Bessie, blushing, as though she were conscious of an implied reproof.

“Oh, but I like talking people. People who hold their tongues and listen are such bores. I do detest bores. I talk a great deal myself.”

“I think I have got into the way for Hatty’s sake. Hatty is the sickly one of our flock; she has never been strong. When she was a tiny, weeny thing she was always crying and fretful. Father tells us that she cannot help it, but he never says so to her; he laughs and calls her ‘Little Miss Much-Afraid.’ Hatty is full of fear. She cannot see a mouse, as I tell her, without looking round the corner for pussy’s claws.”

“Is Hatty your only sister, Miss Lambert?”

“Oh, no; there are three more. I am the eldest—‘Mother’s crutch,’ as they call me. We are such a family for giving each other funny names. Tom comes next. I am three-and-twenty—quite an old person, as Tom says—and he is one-and-twenty. He is at Oxford; he wants to be a barrister. Christine comes next to Tom—she is nineteen, and so pretty; and then poor Hatty—‘sour seventeen,’ as Tom called her on her last birthday; and then the two children, Ella and Katie; though Ella is nearly sixteen, and Katie fourteen, but they are only school-girls.”

“What a large family!” observed Miss Sefton, stifling a little yawn. “Now, mamma has only got me, for we don’t count Richard.”

“Not count your brother?”

“Oh, Richard is my step-brother; he was papa’s son, you know; that makes a difference. Papa died when I was quite a little girl, so you see what I mean by saying mamma has only got me.”

“But she has your brother, too,” observed Bessie, somewhat puzzled by this.

“Oh, yes, of course.” But Miss Sefton’s tone was enigmatical, and she somewhat hastily changed the subject by saying, plaintively, “Oh, dear, do please tell me, Miss Lambert, what you think I ought to do when we reach Cliffe, if we ever do reach it. Shall I telegraph to my friends in London, and go to a hotel? Perhaps you could recommend me one, or——”

“No; you shall come home with me,” returned Bessie, moved to this sudden inspiration by the weary look in Miss Sefton’s face. “We are not strangers; my father and your mother were friends; that is sufficient introduction. Mother is the kindest woman in the world—every one says so. We are not rich people, but we can make you comfortable. To be sure, there is not a spare room; our house is not large, and there are so many of us; but you shall have my room, and I will have half of Chrissy’s bed. You are too young”—and here Bessie was going to add “too pretty,” only she checked herself——“to go alone to a hotel. Mother would be dreadfully shocked at the idea.”

“You are very kind—too kind; but your people might object,” hesitated Miss Sefton.

“Mother never objects to anything we do; at least, I might turn it the other way about, and say we never propose anything to which she is likely to object. When my mother knows all about it, she will give you a hearty welcome.”

“If you are quite sure of that, I will accept your invitation thankfully, for I am tired to death. You are goodness itself to me, but I shall not like turning you out of your room.”

“Nonsense. Chriss and I will think it a bit of fun—oh, you don’t know us yet. So little happens in our lives that your coming will be quite an event; so that is settled.” And Bessie extended a plump little hand in token of her good will, which Miss Sefton cordially grasped.

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