Miss Sefton, who was patting the sleek sides of Jack and Jill, looked round carelessly.
“Mac is a good old dog, but he is not always so amiable to strangers; he has his likes and dislikes, as we humans have, only I must tell Richard that he has taken to you—he is his property. Now let us go and find mamma.” And Edna locked her arm in Bessie’s, and, followed closely by the deerhound, led her into the house.
There was no servant in attendance; a strange hush and stillness seemed to pervade the place. Bessie almost felt oppressed by it. The hall was large and dark, with a smooth, slippery floor, and was panelled in dark oak; oak settles and large carved antique cabinets were ranged round the walls. The great fireplace was filled with green boughs, and a tiger skin, with a huge grinning head and eyes, lay before it. The quiet little country girl had never seen such a hall in her life.
“Take care; our oak floors are slippery to people who are unused to them,” observed Edna. “Mamma is in the drawing-room, I suppose.” And she opened the door and ushered her companion into a handsome room, with three windows opening on to a lawn. A lady, who was sitting on a couch reading, rose as she perceived the two girls, and crossed the room with a slow, stately step.
“Mamma, I have brought Miss Lambert.”
“I am very glad to see her, Edna. My dear,” taking Bessie’s hand, and kissing her cheek, “you are very welcome for your father’s sake.”
“Thank you,” returned Bessie, with unusual shyness, for Mrs. Sefton’s stateliness rather awed her. Both her words and her manner were kind; nevertheless, Bessie found it difficult to respond; even when Mrs. Sefton had established her in the corner of the couch, and was questioning her with polite interest about her journey, she found herself answering in almost monosyllabic replies, as though she were tongue-tied.
“I cannot tell what came over me,” she wrote the next day to her mother; “I never felt so bashful and stupid in my life; and yet Mrs. Sefton was most kind and considerate, only her graciousness seemed to crush me. She is very handsome, far handsomer than her daughter, slightly stout, but such a grand looking figure; Miss Sefton and I look like pygmies beside her; but there is one thing that strikes me about her—a sort of hardness when she is not speaking. I never saw a mouth closed so tightly; and then there is no rest in her face. I could not help thinking about father’s story as I looked at her; it is not the face of a happy woman. I can imagine that disappointment in her husband has hardened her. I admire her very much; she fascinates and yet repels me, but I do not think I could love her very much. Miss Sefton does, but then her mother dotes on her.”
Bessie was devoutly wishing herself at home during that first quarter of an hour, but after a few minutes Mrs. Sefton’s questions ceased, and she touched a silver-mounted gong beside her, and almost as though by magic the door was thrown noiselessly back, and the butler entered with the tea-tray, followed by a footman in smart livery. Bessie wondered what her mother would have thought of the delicate Worcester china that was placed on a low table beside Mrs. Sefton, while a second table was quickly covered with bread and butter and dainty-looking cakes. Edna had thrown off her hat, and had coaxed Bessie to do the same; then she proceeded to wait on her guest. A little table was placed at Bessie’s elbow, and all manner of sweet cakes forced on her. The very tea had a different flavor from her mother’s tea; it was scented, fragrant, and mellow with rich country cream. Bessie sipped her tea, and crumbled her rich cake, and felt as though she were in a dream. Outside the smooth-shaven lawn stretched before the windows, there was a tennis-net up, and some balls and rackets were lying on the grass. Some comfortable wicker chairs were placed under a large elm at the bottom of the lawn.
“Do you play tennis?” asked Edna abruptly, as she noticed Bessie’s eyes were wandering to the garden.