Mortification mingled with self-ridicule was uppermost. To be a
bridesmaid amongst the grand folks at Fairfield--could anything be more
absurdly afflicting? To be a seamstress at Madame Michaud's--the odious
idea of it! Poor Bessie, what a blessing to her was her gift of humor,
her gift for seeing the laughable side of things and people, and
especially the laughable side of herself and her trials!
Mr. Wiley was shaken off on the outskirts of the village, where a
ragged, unkempt laborer met him, and insisted on exchanging civilities
and conventional objections to the weather. "We wants a shower, parson."
"A shower! You're _wet_ enough," growled Mr. Wiley with a gaze of severe
reprobation. "And you were drunk on Sunday."
"Yes! I'se wet every day, and at my own expense, too," retorted the
delinquent with a grin.
Mr. Fairfax and Bessie walked on to the "King's Arms," and there for the
present said good-bye. Bessie ran home to tell her adventures, but on
the threshold she met a check in the shape of Jack, set to watch for her
return and tell her she was wanted. Mr. John Short was come, and was
with Mrs. Carnegie in the drawing-room.
"I say, Bessie, you are not going away, are you?" asked the boy, laying
violent hands on her when he had acquitted himself of his message.
"Biddy says you are. I say you sha'n't."
Mrs. Carnegie heard her son's unabashed voice in the hall, and opening
the door, she invited Bessie in.
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