Our Bessie Part 20

Just outside the door she met Richard; he was on his way to the drawing-room.

"I am going up to Edna," she said, as he looked at her inquiringly. "Oh, Mr. Sefton, I am so sorry for her! She is making herself and every one else miserable."

"I am more sorry for Sinclair," he returned, and his face looked very stern as he spoke. "She has treated him abominably. Wait a moment, Miss Lambert," as she seemed about to leave him; "there is no hurry, is there? and I have not spoken to you to-day. Do you think you are wise to mix yourself up in this? My mother is thinking more of Edna than of you, but you will do no good, and only make yourself miserable. Leave Edna alone to-night, and come and play to me instead."

"Mr. Sefton, I never thought you could be so selfish."

He laughed outright as Bessie said this very seriously.

"Never trust any man; we are all of us selfish. But to tell you the truth, I was not thinking of my own enjoyment at that minute. I wanted to save you an hour's unpleasantness, but I see you prefer to make yourself miserable."

"I think I do in the present instance," returned Bessie quietly.

"Very well, have your own way; but if you take my advice, you will not waste your pity upon Edna. She is flinging away her happiness with her eyes open, just to gratify her temper. You see I can speak plainly, Miss Lambert, and call things by their right names. Just out of pride and self-will, she is bidding good-bye to one of the best fellows living, and all the time she knows that he is a good fellow. She won't find another Neville Sinclair, I tell her."

"No; and it is just because she is doing it herself that I am sorry for her," replied Bessie. "Please don't keep me, Mr. Sefton; you do not understand--how can you? If he had died, if anything else had separated them, it would be so much easier to bear, but to do it herself, and then to be so sorry for it afterward--oh, how miserable that must be!" and Bessie's voice became a little unsteady as she hastily bade him good night.

CHAPTER XVI.

A NOTE FROM HATTY.

Bessie knew that she would find Edna in her mother's dressing room--a large, comfortable room, much used by both mother and daughter when they were tired or indisposed. Mrs. Sefton generally used it as a morning-room, and it was fitted up somewhat luxuriously.

Bessie found Edna lying on a couch in her white tea-gown, with a novel in her hand. The pink shade of the lamp threw a rosy glow over everything, and at first sight Bessie thought she looked much as usual; her first words, too, were said in her ordinary tone.

"So you have found your way up at last," she exclaimed, throwing down her book with an air of disgust and weariness; "my head ached this afternoon, and so mamma thought I had better stay here quietly."

"Is your head better now?"

"Yes, thanks; only this book is so stupid. I think novels are stupid nowadays; the heroes are so gaudy, and the heroines have not a spark of spirit. You may talk to me instead, if you like. What have you been doing with yourself all day?"

Bessie was dumb with amazement. Was this pride or was Edna acting a part, and pretending not to care? She could break her lover's heart one minute and talk of novels the next. Bessie's simplicity was at fault; she could make nothing of this.

"Why are you looking at me in that way?" asked Edna fretfully, on receiving no answer; and as she raised herself on the cus.h.i.+ons, Bessie could see her face more plainly. It looked very pale, and her eyes were painfully bright, and then she gave a hard little laugh that had no mirth in it. "So mamma or Richard has been talking to you! What a transparent little creature you are, Bessie! You are dreadfully shocked, are you not, that I have sent Neville about his business?"

"Oh, Edna, please don't talk about it in that way."

"If I talk about it at all it must be in my own way. If Neville thought I could not live without him, he finds himself mistaken now. I am not the sort of girl who could put up with tyranny; other people may submit to be ordered about and treated like a child, but I am not one of them."

"Edna, surely you consider that you owe a duty to the man you have promised to marry."

"I owe him none--I will never owe him any duty." And here Edna's manner became excited. "It is mamma I ought to obey, and I will not always yield to her; but I have never given Neville the right to lecture and control me; no man shall--no man!" angrily.

"Edna, how can you bear to part with Mr. Sinclair, when he is so good and loves you so much?"

"I can bear it very well. I can do without him," she replied obstinately; "at least I have regained my liberty, and become my own mistress."

"Will that console you for making him miserable? Oh, Edna, if you had only seen his face when I gave him your message, I am sure you must have relented. He has gone away unhappy, and you let him go."

"Yes, I let him go. How dare he come down here to spy on my movements?

Captain Grant, indeed! But it is all of a piece; his jealously is unbearable. I will no longer put up with it. Why do you talk about it, Bessie? You do not know Mr. Neville--Mr. Sinclair, I mean. He is a stranger to you; he has given me plenty to bear during our engagement.

He has a difficult nature, it does not suit mine; I must be treated wholly or not at all."

"Will you not let your mother explain this to him and send for him to come back?" But Edna drew herself up so haughtily that Bessie did not proceed.

"I will never call him back, if I wanted him ever so; but I am not likely to want him, he has made me too miserable. No one shall speak to him; it is my affair, and no one has any right to meddle. Mamma takes his part, and Richard, too. Every one is against me, but they cannot influence me," finished Edna proudly.

"Mrs. Sefton was right; I can do no good," thought Bessie sorrowfully; "it seems as though some demon of pride has taken possession of the girl. Mr. Sinclair is nothing to her to-night; she is only conscious of her own proud, injured feelings." And Bessie showed her wisdom by ceasing to argue the point; she let Edna talk on without checking her, until she had exhausted herself, and then she rose and bade her good night.

Edna seemed taken aback.

"You are going to leave me, Bessie?"

"Yes, it is very late; and your mother will be coming up directly. I can do you no good; no one could to-night. I shall go and pray for you instead."

"You will pray for me! May I ask why?"

"I will not even tell you that to-night; it would be no use, the evil spirits will not let you listen, Edna; they have stopped your ears too; to-night you are in their power, you have placed yourself at their mercy; no one can help you except One, and you will not even ask Him."

"You are very incomprehensible, Bessie."

"Yes, I dare say I seem so, but perhaps one day you may understand better. You want us not to think you unhappy, and you are utterly miserable. I never could pretend things, even when I was a child. I must say everything out. I think you are unhappy now, and that you will be more unhappy to-morrow; and when you begin to realize your unhappiness, you will begin to look for a remedy. Good-night, dear Edna.

Don't be angry at my plain speaking, for I really want to do you good."

Edna made no answer, and yielded her cheek coldly to Bessie's kiss. If something wet touched her face she took no apparent notice, but Bessie could not restrain her tears as she left the room.

"Oh, why, why were people so mad and wicked? How could any one calling herself by the sacred name of Christian suffer herself to be overmastered by these bitter and angry pa.s.sions? It is just temper; Mrs.

Sefton is right," thought Bessie; and her mind was so oppressed by the thought of Edna's wretchedness that it was long before she could compose herself to sleep.

But she rose at her usual early hour, and wrote out of the fullness of her heart to her mother, not mentioning any facts, but relieving her overwrought feelings by loving words that were very sweet to her mother.

"I think it is good to go away sometimes from one's belongings," wrote Bessie; "absence makes one realize one's blessings more. I don't think I ever felt more thankful that I had such a mother than last night, when Edna was talking in a way that troubled me."

When Bessie went downstairs after finis.h.i.+ng her letter, she was much surprised to see Edna in her usual place pouring out the coffee. She looked a little pale and heavy-eyed; but no one could have detected from her manner that there was anything much amiss. A slight restlessness, however, an eagerness for occupation and amus.e.m.e.nt, and a shade of impatience when any one opposed her, spoke of inward irritability. Now and then, too, there was a sharpness in her voice that betrayed nervous tension; but none dared to express sympathy by look or word. Once when she announced her intention of joining Bessie and Richard in their ride, and her mother asked her if she were not too tired, she turned on her almost fiercely.

"I tired, mamma! What an absurd idea; as though riding ever tired me! I am not an old woman yet. Bessie," turning to her, "the Athertons are coming this afternoon, and I have written to the Powers to join them. We must have a good practice, because we have to go to the Badderleys'

to-morrow, and Major Sullivan will be my partner; he is our best player, and we have Captain Grant and Mrs. Matchett against us."

It was so in everything. Edna seemed bent all that day on tiring herself out. She rode at a pace that morning that left the others far behind, but Richard took no notice; he continued his conversation with Bessie, and left Edna to her own devices.

In the afternoon she played tennis in the same reckless fas.h.i.+on; once Bessie saw her turn very pale, and put her hand to her side, but the next minute she was playing again.

"What spirits Edna is in!" Florence said once. "Really I do not know what we shall all do next spring when she gets married, for she is the life and soul of everything;" for none of the girls had noticed that the diamond ring was missing on Edna's finger; some brilliant emerald and ruby rings had replaced it.

Edna continued in this unsatisfactory state for weeks and not once did she open her lips, even to her mother, on the subject of her broken engagement. Every morning she made her plans for the day. It seemed to Bessie as though air and movement were absolutely necessary to her. When the morning ride was over she would arrange to drive her mother or Bessie to some given place, and the intervening hours were always spent in tennis or archery. When the evening came she would often lie on the drawing-room couch in a state of exhaustion, until she compelled herself to some exertion.