Bessie on Her Travels

“It’s cool this morning. Wait for open windows till you’re dressed and downstairs,” said nurse.

Bessie said no more; but she kept turning her head and listening to the sound, which seemed to her to be distinct from that of the wind, and which sounded so very much like her beloved sea.

Meanwhile, Maggie was quite taken up with asking questions; hearing how grandmamma, Aunt Annie, the boys, Jane, and Flossie, had come to Newport by last night’s boat, reaching there early in the morning, before she had been roused from that ridiculously long sleep. Nothing less than having the whole family beneath their hospitable roof, would satisfy Colonel and Mrs. Rush; and they had contrived to carry their point.

Maggie’s “heaps of happiness” were rising higher and higher. When they were ready, Jane took them downstairs; but she led them by a back corridor, and seemed to take pains to keep them away from windows and doors which opened upon the outside of the house. Certainly she and nurse acted in a rather strange and “mysterious” manner that morning. But at last she had them safely at the door of the breakfast room, where she left them.

The whole party were still seated round the table, though the meal was about over when they entered; and they were going from one to another, offering kisses, smiles, and welcomes, when Bessie’s eyes fell through the open sash of a large bow-window, drawn there by that same sound she had heard upstairs.

For an instant she stood speechless with astonishment and delight; then, stretching out her hands towards the window, with her whole face lighting up, she cried, —

“It is, it is, it is the very, very sea! my own true sea!”

Yes: there it was, the “true sea,” as she called it, or more properly the seashore she loved so much. Her friends watched her for a moment with smiling interest. They had expected to see her so pleased; and, wishing to be present when she first beheld it, Mrs. Rush had so arranged that she and Maggie should be on the other side of the house on the first morning, and nurse and Jane had been told to keep them as much as possible from the sight and sound of the sea.

The Colonel rose, and, taking her hand, led her out upon the broad piazza, where she might see the whole extent of land and water which the magnificent view afforded.

The house stood on very high ground, overlooking a cliff in front, which fell sheer down to the water. To the left, was a broad, sweeping curve of beach, on which the waves were breaking; the long white rollers, with their curling tops, following one another in grand procession, and making beautiful and solemn music as their march was ended. Away to the right lay a wilder, but hardly a grander, scene. Here were great, rugged rocks, among and over which dashed and foamed the waves, whose course they barred. Some were hidden beneath the surface of the water, and the feathery foam which boiled and bubbled over their jagged faces, alone told where they lay. Beyond, and far away, stretched the boundless ocean, the sea Bessie so loved; the white crests of its waves flashing and sparkling in the glorious sunshine of that bright morning; the blue and cloudless sky, overhead. And the hymn which the grand old king was sounding in Bessie’s ear, was still that she had so loved two summers ago, the chant of praise which bids all who can hear, “remember our Father who made it.”

She stood holding the Colonel’s hand, gazing and listening, as though eye and ear could not take their fill; breakfast was unheeded, and it was not till grandmamma reproachfully asked if she was to be forgotten for the sea, that Bessie could be persuaded to turn away.

Maggie, too, was delighted to be once more at the seashore; but she had not the longing for it that Bessie had, and all places were about equally pleasant to her, provided she had those she loved with her.

But now May Bessie was brought, and even the sea was for the time forgotten in the pleasure of seeing her and noticing how much she had grown and improved. When a little life is counted by months, two of these make a great difference, and it was as long as that since Maggie and Bessie had seen Mrs. Rush’s baby. She was a sweet, bright, little thing; and it might have been thought that she had seen the children every day, so speedily did she make friends with them. Indeed, Bessie was sure the baby recognized them, and intended to show she was glad to see them; and no one cared to disturb this belief, in which she took great satisfaction. It was funny to see the patronizing airs which little Annie put on towards the younger baby, and the care which she showed for her. She called her “Dolly,” and seemed to think it hard and strange that she was not allowed to pull and carry her about as she would have done a real doll. Aunt Patty, who had taken a great fancy to Mrs. Rush, had made several toys and pretty things for her baby’s use, and among them was a worsted doll, in all respects like the lost Peter Bartholomew.

May Bessie had not the same objections to this gentleman that little Annie had to hers, but opened great eyes, and cooed and crowed at him; and altogether showed more pleasure in him than in any other plaything she possessed. Not so Annie, when he was introduced to her.

“See here, baby. Who is this?” said Mrs. Bradford, wishing to see if she would recognize it, and she held up the doll before the eyes of her by no means gratified baby daughter.

The pet drew up her rose-bud of a mouth into the most comical expression of astonishment and disgust at the sight of the old object of her dislike; for, as was quite natural, she took it to be the very same Peter Bartholomew. Then, taking him from her mother’s hand, she gravely marched with him to the hearth-rug, and, tucking him beneath it, sat down upon it, saying, “Tit on Peter,” in a tone of triumph, as though she thought she had now altogether extinguished the unlucky offender. Great was her indignation when, later in the day, she was brought in from her drive, and found Peter Bartholomew No. 2 had reappeared. Finding the hearth-rug was not a safe hiding-place, she was from this time constantly contriving ways and means for putting him out of sight; but only to find that he as constantly turned up again. In vain did she throw him out of windows, and behind doors; poke him through the banisters, and let him fall in the hall below: tuck him behind sofa-cushions, and squeeze him into the smallest possible corners, with all manner of things piled on top of him: he still proved a source of trouble to her. The other children found great amusement in this, and in pretending to hunt for Peter, while they knew very well where he was.

But on the third day they really hunted in vain. Peter Bartholomew the second seemed to be as thoroughly “all don,” as his namesake who had been left on the far-away Southern railroad; and the nurses joined in the search with no better success. Annie seemed to have accomplished her object this time; and the little one herself could not be persuaded to say where she had put him. Her mother tried to make her tell; but the child seemed really to have forgotten, and the matter was allowed to rest.

However, Peter came to light at last, to light very nearly in earnest. In Mrs. Rush’s nursery was a large, open fireplace, where wood was always laid ready for lighting when a fire should be needed for the baby. One cool morning, about a week after Peter’s disappearance, May Bessie’s nurse lit the fire, when Annie, who sat upon Mammy’s knee, suddenly exclaimed, as the smoke began to curl up the chimney, —

“Oh, dear, dear! Peter ’moke.”

“You monkey,” said nurse, “I believe you’ve put him behind the wood;” and the two nurses hastened to scatter the fire, when, sure enough, Peter Bartholomew was drawn forth, slightly scorched and smelling somewhat of “’moke,” but otherwise unhurt. Annie took it hard, however, and was so grieved at his reappearance that Mrs. Rush, who was in the nursery, said he had better be put away while she stayed. Probably the lighting of the fire recalled to baby’s mind where she had put the lost Peter.

But we must go back to the first morning of their stay at Newport. The ladies were all rather tired with their journey and were disposed to rest; but the children, refreshed by a good night’s sleep, were quite ready to start out with the gentlemen for a ramble on the beach.

“Do you like this as well as Quam Beach?” asked the Colonel of Bessie, as she sat beside him on a rock, with his arm drawn close about her, as in the old days of two summers since: those days when she had come, a little Heaven-sent messenger, across his path, to guide his wandering feet into the road which leads to Eternal Life. Was it any wonder that, thinking of this, he looked down with a very tender love on the dear little one, over whose work the angels of Heaven had rejoiced?

They had both sat silent for some time, the rest of the party having wandered to a short distance, when the Colonel asked this question, —

“Do you like this as well as Quam Beach, Bessie?”

“Oh, yes, sir! better,” said Bessie. “I never did see such a lovely, lovely place as this, or feel such nice air. It’s the best place we went to in all our travels; and then we have you and most all the people we love here. I am so very contented.”

She looked so indeed, as she sat smiling and happy, looking out over the sapphire blue waters, and watching the white-capped waves which broke almost at her feet.

“Yes,” said the Colonel, smiling. “I thought it would add to your contentment to have all your people here to meet you, if I could bring it about.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, who came dancing up in time to hear these last words. “It was so very considerate of you and Aunt May. Oh! this is the very happiest world I ever lived in. I wish, I wish, I could live a thousand years in it.”

“But Maggie,” said Bessie, “then you’d be so very long away from heaven.”

“Well, yes,” said Maggie; “but then I’d hope to go to heaven after the thousand years, and I’d try to be very good all the time.”

“But long before the thousand years were past, all whom you love would have gone away to that still happier home our Lord has prepared for us,” said the Colonel, “and then you would be lonely and wish to follow, would you not, Maggie?”

“Yes,” answered Maggie, a shade of thoughtfulness coming over her sunny face. “I’m sure I would if all my dear friends went to heaven, and maybe some of them wouldn’t want to live a thousand years.”

“And it’s so hard always to be good,” said Bessie, “and sometimes even we have troubles, and are sick, even though we are so happy ’most all the time.”

“Yes,” said Maggie, “so we do. I’m not sick much ’cept when I have the earache: but maybe I’d be lame and deaf and blind and hump-backed, and all kind of things, before I was a thousand years old; and that would be horrid. I wouldn’t like to have a great many troubles either; so I guess it’s better it is fixed for me just as God chooses.”

“We may be sure of that, dear,” said the Colonel. “God knows what is best for us, and rules our lives for our good and His glory.”

“I’m not sure I mind so very much about the being naughty now and then,” said Maggie. “I know I ought to, but I’m afraid I don’t. I s’pose when I have so much to make me happy I ought to be full of remorse all the time for ever being naughty, but somehow I can’t be. And I do have afflictions sometimes. Oh!” she added, as the thought of her last severe trouble came over her, “we forgot to give Uncle Horace the things we prepared for him. You see, Uncle Horace, one day I found such a very nice proverb, ‘though lost to sight to memory dear;’ and Bessie and I thought we would like to practise it on you; so I finished up that poem I began, and Bessie drew a picture for you, and here is the poem,” and Maggie drew from her pocket the poem, nicely finished and copied out.

“Thank you very much, dear,” said the Colonel. “I am very much pleased; but I thought that the poem was lost, or that you had been robbed of it.”

“Papa got it back for me,” said Maggie.

“Yes,” said Bessie; “and I was with papa when he asked Mr. Temple for it; and I was sorry for Mr. Temple, even though he did tease you so, Maggie.”

“Why, papa didn’t scold him, did he?” asked Maggie.

“No,” answered Bessie; “he only said, ‘Mr. Temple, may I trouble you for that paper belonging to my little girl;’ but he mannered him, and I wouldn’t like papa to have such a manner to me, and Mr. Temple looked ashamed. He is a very unpleasant gentleman; but I was sorry for him.”

“But where is the picture?” asked Colonel Rush.

“Here,” said Bessie, and in her turn she produced a paper from her pocket and unfolded it before the Colonel’s eyes. “It is Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden,” she went on to say: “here they are, and there is the tree with the serpent on it, and there is another with birds and squir’ls on it. The squir’ls are eating nuts, and the birds are pecking peaches, and they are having a nice time.”

“This is very interesting,” said the Colonel, not thinking it necessary to tell her that peaches and nuts did not usually grow on the same tree; “and what is this in the corner, Bessie?”

“That is the bower they made for a home to live in,” said Bessie; “and there is Adam’s wheelbarrow and Eve’s watering-pot. I s’pose she helped Adam take care of the garden: don’t you, sir?”

“And this?” asked the Colonel, pointing to another object which he had vainly been endeavoring to make out. “It is a pigeon house, I think.”

“Oh, no, sir!” said Bessie, rather mortified. “It is a flag, the flag of England. I was going to put the ’merican flag: but I thought it would be more a compliment to you to put your own country’s; and so I did. There’s the lion;” and she pointed out something which looked rather more like a spider than a lion; feeling the while, poor little soul, rather hurt that her compliment had not been appreciated without explanation.

Now Maggie had had her doubts as to whether a flag was altogether a suitable ornament for the garden of Eden, but she had not chosen to say so to Bessie, who had taken great pains with her picture; and she watched the Colonel’s face closely to see if she could find any sign of amusement or surprise.

Not the slightest. He sat gravely smoothing down his moustache, as Bessie explained the picture to him, not a smile disturbing the lines of his face, not a twinkle breaking into those black eyes, looking only interested and pleased; and Maggie dismissed her fears and satisfied herself that the flag was not at all out of place.

“This is a compliment, indeed,” said the Colonel with the utmost gravity. “You were very, very kind to think of it, Bessie; and Adam and Eve were, as Maggie says, extremely considerate to allow the flag of my country to be planted in the garden of Eden. I must show this to Aunt May, and shall certainly keep it for May Bessie when she is old enough to understand it. But see, who is coming here?”