Bessie at the Sea-Side

A tree which had been blown down by the gale lay near the bridge, and on this nurse sat down with baby on her knee, and Bessie and Franky beside her. Franky sat on the end of the log, toward the water, where he was quite safe, if he sat still, and nurse meant to keep a close eye on him. But something happened which made her forget him for a moment or two.

"And I'll tell you Cinderella," said nurse to Bessie, as the others went off.

"I'd yather hear about when you were a little girl on your father's farm," said Bessie.

Nurse liked to talk of this, so she began to tell Bessie of the time when she was young, and lived at home in far-off England. Bessie had heard it all very often, but she liked it none the less for that. Franky sat still, now and then pulling up his line, and saying, "Not one fis!" and then throwing it out again.

Suddenly the sound of wheels was heard, and looking round, they saw Miss Adams' pony carriage, with the lady driving, and the little groom behind.

Several times since the day when Miss Adams had teased Bessie, and Bessie had called her a kitchen lady, she had shown a wish to speak to the little girl; but she could never persuade her to come near her. Once or twice, as Bessie was passing through the hall of the hotel, Miss Adams had opened her door and called to her in a coaxing voice; but Bessie always ran off as fast as possible, without waiting to answer. As Miss Adams passed, she nodded, drove on a little way, and then turned back. She pulled in her horses close to nurse and Bessie. Baby crowed and shook her little hands at the carriage. It was a pretty affair, the low basket, softly cushioned, the black ponies with their bright, glittering harness, and the jaunty groom in his neat livery; but Bessie had no wish to get in it when Miss Adams said, "Come, Bessie, jump in and take a ride."

"No, thank you, ma'am," said Bessie, drawing closer to nurse.

"Yes, come," said Miss Adams, coaxingly. "I'll give you a nice ride, and bring you back quite safe to your nurse, or take you home, as you like."

"I'd yather not," said Bessie, taking hold of nurse's dress, as if she feared Miss Adams might take her off by force.

"You don't know how pleasant it is," said Miss Adams, – "come."

"I don't want to yide," said Bessie.

All this time nurse had been looking very grim. She was quite an old woman, and had lived in the family a great many years, for she had taken care of Mrs. Bradford herself when she was a little girl. She loved her and her children dearly, and would have done anything in the world for them, and if any one brought harm or trouble to her nurslings, she ruffled up her feathers like an old hen, and thought herself at liberty to do or say anything she pleased.

"And she wouldn't be let, if she did want to," she said sharply to Miss Adams.

The young lady looked at the old woman with a sparkle in her eye.

"I'll take the baby, too, if you like," she said, mischievously; "I can drive quite well with her on my lap, and Bessie can sit beside me."

"My baby!" said nurse, who seemed to think the baby her own special property, – "my baby! Do you think I'd risk her neck in a gimcrack like that? There isn't one of them I'd trust a hand's breadth with ye, not if ye was to go down on your bended knees."

"I'm not likely to do that," said Miss Adams, turning round and driving off once more, "Well, good-by, Bessie, since you wont come."

She had gone but a short distance, when she drew in the ponies again, jumped out, tossed the reins to the groom, and ran back to the bridge. "Bessie," she said, "I want to speak to you; will you come over on the other side of the road?"

Bessie looked as shy as Maggie might have done. "No, ma'am," she answered.

"But I have something very particular to say to you, and I shall not tease or trouble you at all. Come, dear, that is a good child. If you do not, I shall think you are angry with me still."

"No, I'm not," said Bessie. "Well, I'll go."

"Not with my leave," said nurse. "If you have anything to say, just say it here, miss. You can't have anything to tell this child her old nurse can't hear."

"Yes, I have," said Miss Adams. "Come, Bessie. I shall not pull your hair. I want to speak to you very much. Don't you wish to do as you would be done by?"

"I think I'd better go; bett'n't I?" said Bessie. "I don't want her to think I'm angry yet."

"Sit ye still," said nurse, without looking at Miss Adams. "I sha'n't let ye go to have I know not what notions put into your head."

Miss Adams looked vexed, and bit her lip, then she laughed. "Now, don't be cross, nurse. I am not going to say anything to Bessie which you or her mother would not approve."

"Maybe," said nurse, dryly.

"And if Mrs. Bradford were here, I am sure she would let Bessie come."

"Maybe," said nurse again, beginning to trot baby rather harder than she liked.

Miss Adams stood tapping the toe of her gaiter with her riding whip. "I promise you," she said, "that I will let her come back to you in a moment or two, and that I will not do the least thing which could trouble or tease her."

"Promises and fair words cost nothing," said nurse.

"How dare you say that to me?" she said, losing her temper at last. "Whatever else I may have done, I have never yet broken my word! Bessie," – she said this in a softer tone, – "don't think that of me, dear. I would not say what was not true, or break a promise, for the world." Then to nurse again: "You're an obstinate old woman, and – Look at that child!"

These last words were said in a startled tone and with a frightened look.

Nurse turned her head, started up, and then stood still with fear and amazement. Finding himself unnoticed, Master Franky had concluded that he had sat quiet long enough, and slipping off his stone, he had scrambled up the bank and walked upon the bridge. About the centre of this he found a broken place in the railing through which he put the stick and line with which he was playing to fish. Putting his head through after it, he saw that it did not touch the water and that just in front of him was the projecting end of one of the logs. Here, he thought, he could fish better, and slipping through, he was now where Miss Adams told nurse to look at him, stooping over, with one fat hand grasping the railing and with the other trying to make his line touch the water. The bridge was four or five feet above the stream, and although a fall from it might not have been very dangerous for a grown person, a little child like Franky might easily have been swept away by the current, which was deepest and swiftest where he was standing.

"Don't speak," said Miss Adams, hastily, and darting round to the other side of the bridge, she walked directly into the water, and stooping down, passed under the bridge and came out under the spot where Franky stood. As she had expected, the moment he saw her, he started and fell, but Miss Adams was ready for him. She caught him in her arms, waded through the water, and placed him safe and dry on the grass.

"Oh, you naughty boy!" said nurse, the moment she had done so, "what am I to do with you now?"

"Nosin' at all; Franky dood boy. Didn't fall in water."

"And whose fault is that I should like to know," said Miss Adams, laughing and shaking her dripping skirts, "you little monkey? I do not know but I should have done better to let you fall into the water and be well frightened before I pulled you out."

"Franky not frightened; Franky brave soldier," said the child.

"You're a mischievous monkey, sir," said the young lady.

"That he is," said nurse, speaking in a very different way from that in which she had spoken before. "And where would he have been now but for you and the kind Providence which brought you here, miss? What would I have done, with the baby in my arms and he standing there? I'd never have thought of catching him that way. It was right cute of you, miss."

"I saw it was the only way," said Miss Adams. "I knew he would be off that slippery log if he was startled."

"I thank you again and again, miss," said the nurse, "and so will his mother; there's your beautiful dress all spoiled."

"Oh! that's nothing," said Miss Adams, giving her dress another shake; "it was good fun. But now, when I have saved one of your chickens from a ducking, you cannot think I would hurt the other if you let me have her for a moment."

"Surely I will," said nurse; "but you are not going to stand and talk in such a pickle as that? You'll catch your death of cold."

"No fear," said Miss Adams, "I am tough. Come now, Bessie." She held out her hand to the little girl, and now that she had saved her brother, she went with her willingly. She was not afraid of her any more, though she wondered very much what the lady could have to say to her which nurse might not hear.

"You'll excuse me for speaking as I did before, miss, but I'm an old woman, and cross sometimes, and then you see – " Nurse hesitated.

"Yes, I see. I know I deserved it all," said Miss Adams, and then she led Bessie to the other side of the road. "Suppose I lift you up here, Bessie; I can talk to you better." She lifted her up and seated her on the stone wall which ran along the road.

"Now," she said, leaning her arms upon the wall, "I want to ask you something."

"I know what you want to ask me," said Bessie, coloring.

"What is it, then?"

"You want me to say I'm sorry 'cause I said that to you the other day, and I am sorry. Mamma said it was saucy. But I didn't mean to be saucy. I didn't know how to help it, you asked me so much."

"You need not be sorry, Bessie. I deserved it, and it was not that I was going to speak about. I wanted to ask you to forgive me for being so unkind to you. Will you?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am! I did forgave you that day, and mamma told me something which made me very sorry for you."

"What was it? Would she like you to repeat it?"

"I guess she wont care. She said your father and mother died when you were a little baby, and you had a great deal of money, more than was good for you, and you had no one to tell you how to take care of it; so if you did things you ought not to, we ought to be sorry for you, and not talk much about them."

Miss Adams stood silent a moment, and then she said, slowly, —

"Yes, if my mother had lived, Bessie, I might have been different. I suppose I do many things I should not do if I had a mother to care about it; but there is no one to care, and I don't know why I should myself. I may as well take my fun."

"Miss Adams," said Bessie, "hasn't your mother gone to heaven?"

"Yes, I suppose so," said the young lady, looking a little startled, – "yes, I am sure of it. They say she was a good woman."

"Then don't she care up there?"

"I don't know. They say heaven is a happy place. I should not think my mother could be very happy even there, if she cared about me and saw me now."

"Do you mean she wouldn't like to see you do those things you say you ought not to do?"

"Yes."

"Then why don't you do things that will make her happy? I would try to, if my mother went to heaven."

"What would you do?"

"I don't know," said Bessie.

"I suppose you would not pull little girls' hair, or tease them, or behave like a kitchen lady."

"Please don't speak of that any more," said Bessie, coloring.

"And your mother thinks I have too much money; does she? Well, I do not know but I have, if having more than I know what to do with is having too much."

"Why don't you give some away?" Bessie asked.

"I do, and then am scolded for it. I drove down the other day to take some to those shipwrecked people, and the next day Mr. Howard came to me with his long face and told me I had done more harm than good; for some of them had been drinking with the money I gave them, and had a fight and no end of trouble. That is always the way. I am tired of myself, of my money, and everything else."

Bessie did not know what to make of this odd young lady, who was talking in such a strange way to her, but she could not help feeling sorry for her as she stood leaning on the wall with a tired, disappointed look on her face, and said these words in a troubled voice.

"Miss Adams," she said, "why don't you ask our Father in heaven to give you some one to take care of you and your money, and to make you – " Bessie stopped short.

"Well," said Miss Adams, smiling, "to make me what?"

"I am afraid you would not like me to say it," said Bessie, fidgeting on her hard seat. "I think I had better go to nurse."

"You shall go, but I would like to hear what you were going to say. To make me what?"

"To make you behave yourself," said Bessie, gravely, not quite sure she was doing right to say it.

But Miss Adams laughed outright, then looked grave again.

"There are plenty of people would like to take care of my money, Bessie, and there are some people who try, or think they try, to make me behave myself; but not because they care for me, only because they are shocked by the things I do. So I try to shock them more than ever."

Bessie was sure this was not right, but she did not like to tell Miss Adams so.

"But I am sorry I shocked you, Bessie, and made you think me no lady. Now tell me that you forgive me, and shake hands with me. I am going away to-morrow, and may never see you again."

Bessie put her little hand in Miss Adams', and lifted up her face to her.

"I'll kiss you now," she said, "and I'm sorry I wouldn't that day."

The young lady looked pleased, and stooping, she kissed her two or three times, then took her hand to lead her back to nurse. Nurse was just rising from her seat and looking anxiously up at the sky.

"There's a cloud coming over the sun," she said; "I'm afraid it is going to rain."

"I expect it is," said Miss Adams; "I saw there was a shower coming as I drove down the hill, but I did not think it would be here for some time yet."

Just then the boys and Jane came running up to them, Jane carrying Maggie in her arms.

"Oh, nursey!" called Maggie, "it's going to gust. We thought you would be gone home. Why, there's Miss Adams!" – and Maggie stopped. Not only she, but all the rest of the party were very much surprised to see Miss Adams standing there, and seeming so friendly with Bessie and nurse. But there was no time to say anything.

There was indeed a gust coming. The edge of a black cloud was just showing itself over the woods which had hidden it till now from nurse.

"Make haste!" cried Harry; "I never saw a cloud come up so fast."

"Quick, nurse!" said Miss Adams; "jump into the pony carriage with the little ones, and we will be home in less than no time. Quick, now!"

Nurse made no objections now to the "gimcrack." She thought of nothing but how to get her babies home before the storm should overtake them. She bundled into the carriage with baby, while Miss Adams, laughing as if she enjoyed the fun, packed in Maggie, Bessie, and Franky beside her. "Hurry up, now, Tip!" she said to the groom, and giving the ponies a crack with her whip, away they dashed down the road.

"Now, boys, try if we can outrun the clouds. See who'll be first at the bend in the road. One, two, three, and away!" and off she went, with Fred and Harry after her, while Jane stood still for a moment in amazement at the pranks of this strange young lady, and then followed as fast as her feet could carry her.

Meanwhile, on went the carriage with its precious load, nurse, as soon as they were fairly started, wishing they were all out again, and every minute begging Tip to drive carefully, and not upset them, to which he did not pay the least attention. But they reached home without accident, and found papa and Uncle John setting out to meet them.

It was growing very dark now. The black cloud had covered nearly the whole sky, and a white line was moving swiftly along the water, showing that a furious wind was sweeping over the waves. In another minute they were in the house, and right glad was the anxious mother to see her little ones.

"But where are Harry and Fred?" she said; "and how came you home in that?" looking at the carriage.

"Miss Adams sent us," said Maggie, "and the boys are coming with her."

"And she didn't let him fall in, mamma," said Bessie, "and she is all wet. But she only laughed. She's been talking to me, and I was sorry for her, and she's sorry 'cause she pulled my hair. I kissed her, so we are friends now."

"Miss Adams!" said Mrs. Bradford, in great surprise.

"Yes, ma'am, Miss Adams," said nurse, giving baby to her mother, "and surely I think she's turned over a new leaf. She's been talking to Bessie as tame as a lamb, and making friends with her, and that after me giving her a piece of my mind. And she saved that boy there (oh, you naughty fellow!) from drowning; for what could I have done?"

"Saved my boy from drowning!" said Mrs. Bradford, turning pale.

Then nurse told how Miss Adams' presence of mind had saved Franky from a fall, and probably from being carried away and drowned. Just as she finished her story, the young lady and the boys came up.

Mr. and Mrs. Bradford went out on the piazza, to meet Miss Adams, but she did not mean to come in, nor could she be persuaded to do so, though the large drops of rain were beginning to plash heavily down; nor would she listen to any thanks from Mrs. Bradford.

"But you are heated with your run," said Mrs. Bradford, "come in and have some dry clothes. You will be drenched in this pouring rain, and will take cold."

"No fear," said Miss Adams, laughing. "The second wetting will do me no harm; nothing ever hurts me. Good-by. Good-by, dear little Bessie." She stooped to kiss her, and running down the bank, snatched the reins from the groom, jumped into the carriage, and kissing her hand, drove away through all the rain.

"Strange, wild girl," said Mrs. Bradford, with a sigh, as she turned into the house.

"But there must be some good in her, mamma, when she gave up her carriage to the children, and walked or rather ran all the way here," said Harry; "and she didn't seem to think she'd done anything at all. How she did scud though! I don't like to see a woman act the way she does, and I can't quite forgive her about Carlo and Bessie; but I do think there's some good in her."

"Ah, Harry," said his mother. "There is some good in every one, if we only knew how to find it."

XXI.

THE COLONEL IN TROUBLE

"BESSIE," said Harry, as the children were at their supper, and he saw his little sister sitting with her spoon in her hand and her eyes fixed on the table as if she had forgotten the bread and butter and berries before her, – "Bessie, what are you thinking of."

"Of Miss Adams," said the little girl.

"Nurse said she was talking to you ever so long," said Fred; "what was she saying?"

"I don't think she meant me to talk about it," said Bessie; "she didn't want nurse to hear, and so I shall only tell mamma and Maggie. You know I must tell mamma everything, and I couldn't help telling my own Maggie."

"She is a queer dick," said Fred, "pulling your hair, and tormenting you out of your life one time, and telling you secrets another. The idea of a grown woman telling secrets to a little snip like you!"

"No snip about it!" said Maggie; "and if I was everybody, I'd tell Bessie every one of my secrets."

"That's right, Maggie. You always stand up for Bessie and fight her battles; don't you?"

"But, Bessie," said Harry, "did Miss Adams tell you you mustn't repeat what she said?"

"No," said Bessie.

"Then there's no harm in telling."

"Oh, Harry!" said Fred. "If Bessie knows Miss Adams don't want her to talk about it, she ought not to tell any more than if she had promised; ought she, father?"

"Certainly not," said Mr. Bradford; "it would be unkind as well as dishonorable."

"Yes," said Maggie; "it is not to do to others as I would that they should do to me."

"Exactly, little woman," said her father, "and remember, dear children, that is a very safe rule to be guided by, when we do not feel sure whether a thing is fair or not."

"Bessie," said Fred, "tell us what ails the colonel. I suppose you know, for all the grown-uppers seem to be telling you their secrets."

"Why, that's not a secret! His leg is cut off."

"Don't think I don't know that. I mean, what makes him so grumpy? He isn't like the same fellow he was when he first came down here."

"Fred," said Bessie, giving him a reproving look, "you're not polite at all to talk that way about my soldier. He's not a fellow, only boys are fellows, and he's a big gentleman. And he's not that other thing you called him, – I sha'n't say it, because it is a very ugly word."

"And it's saucy to say it about the colonel," said Maggie.

"I don't care," said Fred. "It's true; isn't it, Hal? He used to be the best company in the world, – always ready to tell us boys stories by the hour, and full of his fun and jokes. But for the last few days he has been as solemn as an owl, with no fun to be had out of him, and if one can get him to talk, it always seems as if he were thinking of something else. He's as cross as a bear too. Now don't fire up, Bess; it's so. Starr, his man, says he was never half so impatient or hard to please all the time he was sick as he has been for the last ten days."

"Fred," said Mrs. Bradford, "you should not talk to a servant of his master's faults."

"He didn't, mother," said Harry, – "at least, not in a way you would think wrong. The colonel was dreadfully dull and out of sorts the other day, though he declared that nothing ailed him, and seemed quite provoked that we should ask, though any one could see with half an eye that something was the matter. Starr was hanging round, bringing him this and that, books and newspapers, coaxing him to have something to eat or drink. At last he asked him if there was nothing he could do for him, and the colonel thundered at him and said, 'Yes, leave me alone.' Then he got himself up on his crutches and went off, and would not let Starr help him. The man looked as if he had lost every friend he had in the world. So Fred told him he didn't believe the colonel meant anything. Starr said he was sure he did not, for he was the best master that ever lived. But he was troubled about it, for he was sure that something was wrong with him. Fred said perhaps his wounds pained him worse; but Starr said no, the wounds were doing nicely, and the colonel was not a man to make a fuss about them if they did pain him, for all the time he was suffering so dreadfully that no one thought he could live, he never heard a complaint or a groan from him. And it was then he said the colonel was far harder to please, and more impatient than when he was so ill."

"Maybe he wants to get back to his regiment," said Fred.

"No, it is not that, – at least, Mrs. Rush says it is not; for this morning, when I was standing in the hall, the doctor came out of the room with Mrs. Rush, and he said her husband had something on his mind, and asked if he were fretting to be with his regiment. And she said, 'Oh, no, the colonel never frets himself about that which cannot be.'"

"Didn't she tell him what it was?" asked Fred.

"No, but I guess she, too, thinks there's something wrong with him, for the doctor told her she must not let anything worry him, and she did not say a word. And when he went, and she turned to go back to her room, her face was so very sad."

"She's just the sweetest little woman that ever was made," said Fred, who was a great admirer of Mrs. Rush, "and I don't know what he can have to make him fret. I should think he had everything a man could want."

"Except the one great thing," said Grandpapa Duncan, in a low voice to himself.

Mr. Bradford, who had been listening to what his children were saying, but had not spoken, now walked out on the piazza, where he stood watching the clearing away of the storm. In a moment or two Bessie followed him, and silently held out her arms to him to be taken up.

"Papa," she said, as he lifted her, "do you think my soldier has a trouble in his mind?"

"I think he has."

"Wont you help him, papa?" said Bessie, who, like most little children, thought her father able to help and comfort every one.

"I could only show him where he could find help, my darling, and I do not think he cares to have me tell him."