“I care for nobody, no, not I,
And nobody cares for me.”
“What a long evening it has been!” thought Bessie, as she leaned out of the window to enjoy the sweet June air, and to admire the lawn silvered by the moonlight.
“It seems two days at least since I left Cliffe. Oh, I hope Hatty is asleep, and not fretting!”
“I wonder if I shall be happy here,” she went on. “It is all very nice—the house and the country beautiful, and Edna as delightful as possible; but there is something wanting—family union. It is so sad to hear Edna talking about her brother. He is a perfect stranger to me, and yet I took his part at once. How could the poor fellow talk and enjoy himself while Mrs. Sefton was sitting opposite to him looking like an offended tragedy queen? He had not the heart to talk; besides, he knew that in engaging that man he was going against her wishes, and so he could not feel comfortable. Edna was wrong in calling him a bear. He was not at his ease, certainly; but he anticipated all my wants, and spoke to me very nicely. But there, I must not mix myself up in family disagreements. I shall have to be civil and kind to every one; but it makes one thankful for one’s peaceful home, and the dear mother and father,” and the tears came into Bessie’s eyes as she thought of her shielded and happy life, and the love of her sisters and Tom.
“God bless them all, and make me worthy of them!” thought the girl, with a sudden rush of tenderness for the dear ones at home.
Bessie was an early riser. Dr. Lambert had always inculcated this useful and healthy habit in his children. He would inveigh bitterly against the self-indulgence of the young people of the present day, and against the modern misuse of time. “Look at the pallid, sickly complexions of some of the girls you see,” he would say. “Do they look fit to be the future mothers of Englishmen? Poor, feeble creatures, with no backbone to mention, leading unhealthy, frivolous existences. If my girls are not handsome, they shall at least be healthy; they shall learn self-control and self-guidance. Early hours will promote good appetites; plenty of exercise, fresh air and good digestion will sweeten their tempers and enliven their spirits; a clear conscience and a well-regulated mind will bring them happiness in whatever circumstances they are placed. I am not anxious for my girls to marry. I don’t mean to play minor providence in their lives, as some fathers do; but I would fit them for either position, for the dignity of marriage or for the unselfish duties of the single woman.”
Dr. Lambert loved to moralize to his womankind; he had a way of standing before the fire and haranguing his family—anything would serve as a text for his discourse. Some of his daughters certainly thrived on his homely prescriptions, but Hatty was the thorn in her father’s side, the object of his secret anxiety and most tender care—the sickly one of his domestic flock. Hatty would never do him credit, he would say sadly; no medical skill could put color into Hatty’s pale cheeks, nor cure the aches and pains and nervous fancies that harassed her youth. As Dr. Lambert watched the languid step, or dissatisfied voice, he would sigh, as though some thought oppressed him; but with all his gentleness—and he was very gentle with Hatty—he never yielded, nor suffered any one else to yield, to her wayward caprices.
“My dear,” he would say, when Bessie pleaded for some little extra indulgence for Hatty, “you must not think me hard if I say distinctly ‘No’ to your request. You may trust me; I know Hatty better than you do. Very little would make her a confirmed invalid. It is not in our power, not in the power of any man living,” continued the doctor, with emotion, “to give that poor child health; but we may help her a great deal by teaching her self-control. Half her misery proceeds from her own nervous fancies. If we can help her to overcome them, we shall do more for Hatty than if we petted and waited on her.” But Bessie had always found this wise prescription of the doctor’s a very difficult one.
Bessie always called the hour before breakfast her “golden hour,” and by her father’s advice she devoted it to some useful reading or study. In a busy house like the Lamberts’, where every one put his or her shoulder to the wheel, it was not easy to secure opportunity for quiet reading or self-improvement. There was always work to be done; long walks to be taken; the constant interruption of the two school-girls; Ella’s practicing to overlook; Katie’s French verbs to hear; besides household tasks of all kinds. In the evenings the girls played and sung to please their father, who delighted in music; sometimes, but not often, their mother read aloud to them while they worked. It was against the family rules for one to retire into a corner with a book. In such a case the unfortunate student was hunted out, teased, pursued with questions, pelted with home witticisms, until she was glad to close her book and take up her needlework, for the Lamberts were brisk talkers, and their tongues were never silent until they were asleep, and then they talked in their dreams.
When Bessie rose early, as usual, the morning after her arrival at The Grange, she sat down by the open window, and wrote a long letter to her mother and a little note to Hatty. It was an exquisite morning; the thrushes and blackbirds, the merle and the mavis of the old English poets, were singing as though their little throats would burst with the melody, and a pair of finches in the acacia were doing their best to swell the concert; the garden looked so sunny and quiet, and such a sweet breath of newly made hay came in at the open window that Bessie at last laid down her pen. The household was stirring, but the family would not be down for half an hour, so the maid had informed her when she brought Bessie the morning cup of tea. Bessie had looked rather longingly at the pretty teapot, but her father had been so strong in his denunciations against slow poison, as he called it, imbibed on waking, that she would not yield to the temptation of tasting it, and begged for a glass of milk instead. This the maid promised to bring every morning, and as Bessie ate the bread and butter and sipped the sweet country milk, yellow with cream, she thought how much good it would do Hatty. Then she put on her hat and went softly downstairs, and finding a side door open, went out into the garden.