Our Bessie Part 27

Bessie had spoken out of the simplicity of her honest heart; but there is a great power in earnestness, and her words were not to fall to the ground. In spite of Edna's faults, many and glaring as they were, she was very susceptible to good influences; her affection for Neville Sinclair proved this, as well as her friends.h.i.+p with Bessie; underneath the leaven of selfishness and self-will engendered by a false education there was a large margin of generosity and truth; if she were quick to sin, she was also quick to repent.

Edna did not again allude to the subject of her unhappiness; there were no more fireside confidences with Bessie, but for two or three days she was very quiet and thoughtful, and there were no excited moods of merriment to jar on Bessie. She was gentle and affectionate in her manner to her mother, and this unusual docility seemed to add to Mrs.

Sefton's uneasiness.

Bessie did not feel comfortable in her mind about Edna; the old spring and elasticity seemed gone forever; there was manifest effort in everything she did through the day, and yet she never rested willingly.

She laid out plans for every hour, she made appointments with her friends; every day there was driving, shopping, tea-drinking, often a concert or recitation to finish off the evening; but now and then, in the midst of a lively conversation, there would be the look of utter exhaustion on her face, and when her friends had left she would throw herself on the couch as though all strength had gone. On these occasions, when she was spent and weary, it was not always easy to control her irritability. Mrs. Sefton was not a judicious woman, and, in spite of her devotion to her daughter, she often showed a want of tact and a lack of wisdom that galled Edna's jaded spirits. She was always urging Edna to seek new distractions, or appealing to her sense of vanity.

"Mamma thinks a new dress or ornament can make any girl happy," she said one day, with a curl of her lip; "but she is mistaken; I don't care about them now."

One afternoon Mrs. Sefton had been lunching with a friend, and when she returned she brought Edna a present; it was a pin brooch set with brilliants, a most costly toy, and Edna had admired it in an idle moment; but as she opened the little case there was no pleased expression on her face.

"Oh, mamma, why have you bought this?" she asked, in a dissatisfied voice.

"You admired it so much, my darling, and so I thought I would please myself by giving you this surprise."

"It is very pretty," holding it out for Bessie's inspection; "but I have more ornaments than I know how to use now. I am sorry you bought it, mamma; it must have cost so much money."

"Do you think I begrudge you anything?" replied Mrs. Sefton, who was much chagrined by this reception of her gift.

Edna looked up at this moment, and saw the disappointed look on her mother's face. Her better feelings were touched, and she threw her arms round her neck.

"Mother dear, why will you load me so with things?" she remonstrated.

"You give me everything, and I do nothing for you in return; please don't give me anything more for a long time. I am horribly discontented, nothing seems to give me pleasure; even this beautiful pin is wasted on me."

"Don't talk so, Edna," returned her mother, with the tears in her eyes; "if you knew how it troubled me to hear you. There is nothing that I would not do to make you happy, but if you talk in that way you take all the spirit out of me."

"Then I won't talk so any more," replied Edna, repentantly; and she fastened the brilliant pin in some lace she wore, and begged them both to admire it; and she was very affectionate to her mother all that evening, and seemed bent on making her smile.

Mrs. Sefton looked almost happy that night; she thought Edna looked better and more like herself, and she had not coughed once, and no one knew that as the girl took off her trinket that night she suddenly hid her face in her hands and wept.

"It is all no use, mother," she sobbed; "no money can buy me content nor make me good and happy; if I were only like Bessie--Bessie is worthy of him, but I never was--I never was!"

When Bessie had been with her friends more than a week she began to wonder that there was no news of Richard, and one day she asked Edna if he were all alone at The Grange.

"Yes, I believe so," was the careless answer; "but Richard is a regular old bachelor, and he will not be dull."

"But he comes to see you sometimes?"

"He has not been yet, but that is mamma's fault, and not Ritchie's; he wrote on Wednesday to say he was coming from Sat.u.r.day to Monday, but mamma said she wanted the room for Miss Shelton, and after all, she did not come; so it was a pity Richard should be disappointed; and now Miss Shelton may come next week, and there is no room for him again. Mamma has just written to say that she cannot possibly have him until Sat.u.r.day week."

Bessie felt a pang of disappointment; she was going home on the Thursday, and would just miss him. What a pity! He had been so kind and friendly to her during her visit at The Grange, and she would have liked to have seen him. She wondered vaguely if he would be disappointed too when he heard that she had gone. It was thoughtless of Mrs. Sefton to invite Miss Shelton, but most likely she had done it on purpose to keep her stepson away. Edna had told her rather sorrowfully the other day that her mother did not understand Richard any better.

"He is never at his ease with her, and so he never appears to advantage in her presence," she said. "Poor Ritchie! I am afraid he has a dull life at The Grange!"

Bessie was afraid so too, but she dared not say so; she could only appeal to Edna's generosity, and beg her to consider that she owed a duty to her brother. But she could not say much on this point. A girl cannot well enter the lists on a young man's behalf; however sensible and free from nonsense she may be, she is bound by a sense of conventionality; and though in her heart Bessie was very sorry for Richard, very much interested in his behalf, she felt her pity must be kept to herself.

Bessie was not ashamed to own her disappointment, and she was human enough to bear a grudge against the offending Miss Shelton, who proved to be an old governess of Edna's, and a most worthy woman.

In consequence of Edna's temporary indisposition, which made her languid in the morning, the family breakfast was unusually late, and was rarely ready before ten. It was Bessie's habit, therefore, to go out, after an early cup of cocoa, for an hour's solitary walk; she enjoyed this more than any other part of the day. The Parade was almost deserted at the time, and she met few people. She loved to stroll down to the beach and watch the waves rolling on the sh.o.r.e; the cold, fresh air invigorated her, and her old color returned. Her mother would have been at rest about her if she could have seen the girl's strong, elastic step, or noticed how the sea breezes had brought back her fresh color. Bessie would return from these morning walks with refreshed spirits and vigorous, youthful appet.i.te that Edna good-naturedly quizzed.

"You would be hungry, too, if you had swallowed those delicious sea breezes," Bessie would answer, nothing daunted by these remarks, and she persevered in these early strolls.

The morning after their little conversation about Richard, Bessie went out as usual. There had been rain during the night, and the seats on the Parade were soaking, but the sun was s.h.i.+ning now, and the little pools in the road were sparkling in the warm sunlight, and the sea looked clear and blue.

"What a delicious morning," thought Bessie, as she walked on briskly.

"There is rather a strong wind, though. Oh, that gentleman has lost his hat!" The gentleman in question had been leaning on the railings, looking down on some boys playing on the s.h.i.+ngle; but as his hat took to itself wings, and rolled playfully down the Parade, after the manner of hats, he followed it in quick pursuit. Happily, it rolled almost to Bessie's feet, and she captured it.

"Thank you so much," observed the young man, gratefully; but as Bessie held it to him with a smile, they mutually started, and a simultaneous exclamation rose to their lips.

"Mr. Sinclair!"

"Miss Lambert!" and then rather awkwardly they shook hands. "Who would have thought of seeing you here?" went on Mr. Sinclair, rather nervously, as he brushed the wet from his hat. "But of course one meets every one at Brighton, so I ought not to be surprised. I only came down last night, and I have already exchanged greetings with half a dozen acquaintances. Have you been here long?"

"About ten days. I am staying with the Sefton's at Glenyan Mansions.

Mrs. Sefton and Edna are both here."

"Edna here?" and then he bit his lip, and a dark flush crossed his face.

"I hope Miss Sefton is quite well," he continued coldly.

"Indeed she is not," returned Bessie bluntly. But this sudden encounter had taken her by surprise, and she hardly knew what she was saying. "She is very far from well. Oh, quite ill, I should say; though she will have it that there is nothing the matter. But she is so changed that she is hardly like the same girl. Oh, no; she is perfectly different; not like Edna at all, and----"

"What has been the matter with her?" he asked abruptly; but he turned his face away as he put the question. They were both standing by the railings, and now he crossed his arms upon them, leaning heavily against them, so that Bessie could not see his face. There was no one in sight, except the boys playing beneath them, and an old man hobbling on crutches. "What has been the matter with her?" he repeated, as Bessie hesitated.

"She caught cold, and could not shake it off, and so her mother got frightened about her, and brought her here. But it does not seem to do her much good. It is her spirits, I think, for she has lost all her fun, and she is not at all like the old Edna, and it grieves me to see her,"

stammered Bessie, confused at having said so much, and yet not willing to be silent. "What can I say? What ought I to do for them both?" she thought, in much distress.

"There has never been anything wrong with her spirits before," replied Mr. Sinclair, in rather an incredulous tone. But Bessie had caught sight of his face; it was quite pale now, and he was pulling his mustache nervously, and she was not a bit deceived by his voice. "Do you mean that she is not happy? I hope--that is--I trust nothing has occurred to trouble her."

"Nothing fresh. Oh, Mr. Sinclair!" and here Bessie burst out, regardless of conventionality, of probable consequences, of everything but her honest heart. "Why do you not understand what it is that ails Edna? If you do not know, no one can--no one--no one;" and then, frightened at her own audacity, Bessie colored up to her forehead and walked on; but Mr. Sinclair was by her side the next moment.

"Don't go, Miss Lambert. Please do not leave me yet. Tell me plainly what it is you mean. You are Edna's friend, and I know you will be true to her. You have a good heart. I see in your eyes that you are sorry for me; do not be afraid to speak out. Why am I to know what is the matter with Edna?"

"That is a strange question for you to ask; surely you know Edna well enough to be aware how deeply she can repent of her faults!"

"Do you mean--speak plainly, I beseech you; do you--can you mean that Edna repents of her cruel treatment of me?"

"Repents! Of course she has repented. Mr. Sinclair, you were very wrong to leave her. Why did you take her at her word? It was all temper; her pride was piqued because she believed herself distrusted. I know Edna so well; in spite of her faults, she is true and generous. When she loves, she loves once and forever; if she sent you away, she has been sorry for it ever since. What must you think of me for telling you this? I am so ignorant of the world, most likely I have acted foolishly, but it seems to me that truth is everything."

"I think that you have acted n.o.bly, Miss Lambert; you have made me your debtor for life, if this be true;" and then he stopped and pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead, as though the sudden relief had bewildered him. "Oh, thank G.o.d!" she heard him say, as though to himself.

"It is true."

"I will believe it; I can trust you; my good angel brought me out this morning. The last seven months have not been the happiest time in my existence. I had my own trouble to bear, and then my mother fell ill. I thought I should have lost her, but I was spared that; still, her life hangs on a thread. I am afraid from your deep mourning that you have been in trouble, too, Miss Lambert."

"I have lost a dear sister."

"That is sad; but you have other sisters left to comfort you."

"Yes; three."