_ CHAPTER XV. "SHE WILL NOT COME"
Bessie did not enter the drawing-room that evening; she felt that her presence would be decidedly
de trop under the circumstances. She made the pretext of fatigue the reason for retiring to her room early, and Richard accepted the excuse as though he believed in it.
"Well, I dare say you will be more comfortable," he agreed. "My mother will be sure to come up and wish you good-night. Confess now, Miss Lambert, are you not wishing yourself at home this evening?"
"No; of course not," replied Bessie briskly. "Have you not promised me another ride to-morrow?" But all the same, as she went upstairs, she thought a talk with her mother and Hatty would have been very soothing. She was sitting by her window, thinking over things in general, when there was a tap at her door, and Mrs. Sefton entered.
"Richard told me you were tired and had gone up to bed," she said, more kindly than usual. "I am so sorry, my dear, that you have had such an uncomfortable afternoon. Edna has been very naughty--very naughty indeed; but Richard and I feel very grateful to you for accompanying her."
"I thought it was the right thing to do, Mrs. Sefton."
"Yes, of course; there was nothing else to be done; but it was a foolish freak on Edna's part." Mrs. Sefton spoke in a worried voice, and her face looked tired and harassed. Bessie said as much, and she replied:
"Oh, yes; I am worried enough. I have had a fatiguing day in town, and then when Neville and I entered the house, expecting a welcome, there was Richard's moody face and your note to greet us. And now, to make things worse, Edna chooses to be offended at Neville's coming down in this way, and declares he meant to be a spy on her. She won't say a civil word to him, and yet it is for him to be displeased; but I think he would waive all that if she would only own that she has acted ungenerously to him. I must say Neville is behaving beautifully. He speaks as gently as possible; but Edna is in one of her tempers, and she will not listen to reason."
"I am sorry," replied Bessie, looking so full of sympathy that Mrs. Sefton relaxed from her usual cold dignity.
"Oh, my dear," she said, and now there were tears in her eyes, "I am afraid it is all my fault. I have indulged Edna too much, and given her her own way in everything; and now she tyrannizes over us all. If I had only acted differently." And here the poor woman sighed.
Bessie echoed the sigh, but she could think of nothing to say that could comfort Mrs. Sefton; she was evidently reaping the effects of her own injudicious weakness. She had not taught her child to practice self-discipline and self-control. Her waywardness had been fostered by indulgence, and her temper had become more faulty. "What man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?" asked the Divine Teacher; and yet there are many parents who offer these stony gifts to their children, loading them with false kindness and indulgence, leaving evil weeds unchecked, and teaching them everything but the one thing needful.
"Oh, how different from mother!" thought Bessie, when she was left alone, and recalled the time when her young will had been over strong, and there had been difficult points in her character, and yet, how sensibly and how tenderly her mother had dealt with them.
She had never been blind to one of her children's faults, and up to a certain age it had been her habit on the eve of their birthdays, to talk quietly to them, pointing out their failings and defective habits, and giving her opinion on the year's improvement. "On a birthday one ought to begin afresh," she would say, "and make a new start." How well Bessie could remember these talks, and the gentle words of praise that generally closed them. She was almost sorry when she was too grown up for them, and quiet self-examinations took the place of those fond maternal admonitions.
When Bessie joined the family at breakfast she found Mr. Sinclair helping Edna with the urn. He accosted Bessie with much friendliness, and seemed pleased to see her again. She had been prepossessed with him at their first meeting, and she thought his manner still pleasanter on this second occasion, and she was struck afresh with his air of quiet refinement. He took part in the conversation with much animation, and talked more to Richard than to any one else.
Edna did not appear to have recovered herself; she took very little notice of anybody, and received her
fiance's attention rather ungraciously. Bessie thought she looked as though she had not slept well; her eyes had a heavy look in them, as though her head ached. Bessie had her ride directly afterward, and as Richard assisted her to mount, Mr. Sinclair stood on the steps and watched them.
"What are you and Edna going to do with yourselves?" asked Richard presently.
Mr. Sinclair smiled.
"I shall do whatever Edna likes; perhaps she will drive me somewhere; she looks as though the fresh air would do her good. I shall have to go back to town this evening, so I must make the most of my day in the country."
The house was so still when they returned that Bessie thought they had started for the drive, when she ran upstairs to take off her habit. She seated herself presently by one of the drawing-room windows with her work, wondering what everyone was doing.
Her work interested her, and she was quietly enjoying herself when she heard quick footsteps in the hall outside, and a moment afterward a door slammed.
"They have come back, I suppose," thought Bessie; and she worked on, until the drawing-room door opened and Mr. Sinclair came in alone. He seemed surprised to see Bessie, but the next minute he had crossed the room hastily.
"Miss Lambert, will you do me a favor? I cannot find Mrs. Sefton, and I have no one else to ask."
"Certainly," returned Bessie, and she rose at once.
Mr. Sinclair looked pale and troubled, and his manner was extremely nervous.
"Then will you be so good as to beg Edna to come down to me for a moment; she has misunderstood--that is, I wish to speak to her--there is a slight misconception. Edna has gone to her own room."
"I will go at once," exclaimed Bessie, feeling convinced by his manner that something was very wrong. Edna must have quarrelled with him again. She ran upstairs and knocked on Edna's door, but received no answer; it was not locked, however, and after a moment's hesitation she entered.
Edna had evidently not heard her; she was standing by the window in her walking-dress. As Bessie spoke to attract her attention, she turned round and frowned angrily; something in her face made Bessie breathless with apprehension.
"What do you want?" she asked harshly.
"Mr. Sinclair sent me," pleaded Bessie; "he is very anxious to speak to you; he begs that you will come downstairs. He thinks that there is some mistake."
"No, there is no mistake," replied Edna slowly; "you may tell him so for me."
"Why not tell him yourself, Edna?"
"Because I have had enough of Mr. Sinclair's company this morning. Because nothing would induce me to speak to him again. I thought I had locked my door to prevent intrusion; but I suppose I forgot. Please give him my message that there is no mistake--oh, none at all."
Bessie hesitated, but another look at Edna's face showed her that any entreaty at this moment would be in vain, so she went out of the room without another word.
Mr. Sinclair was standing just where she had left him; he looked at her anxiously. Bessie shook her head.
"She will not come," she said sorrowfully.
"Will not? Did she give no reason--send no message?"
"Only that there was no mistake; she repeated that more than once. Perhaps she will change her mind in a little while."
But Mr. Sinclair did not seem to hear her.
"No mistake! Then she meant it--she meant it!" he muttered, and his face became quite changed. He had walked to the window, but he came back again.
"Thank you, Miss Lambert. I am very much obliged to you," he said, as though feeling he had been deficient in politeness; but before she could reply he had left the room.
The gong sounded for luncheon directly afterward, but Bessie found the dining-room empty, so she sat down to her work again, and bye and bye Dixon brought her a message that his mistress was waiting. Mrs. Sefton was in the room alone; she motioned Bessie to a seat, and began to carve the chicken before her. No one else made their appearance; but Mrs. Sefton did not apologize for their absence. She scarcely eat anything herself, and made no attempt to sustain the conversation. She looked preoccupied and troubled, and as soon as the meal was over she begged Bessie to amuse herself, as she had some important business to settle, and left the room.
Bessie passed a solitary afternoon; but though her book was interesting her attention often wandered. She was sure something was seriously wrong, and she felt vaguely unhappy on Edna's account. She could not forget Mr. Sinclair's face when she had brought him that message. It was as though he had received a blow that he scarcely knew how to bear.
Dixon brought her some tea, and told her that his mistress and Miss Edna were having theirs in the dressing-room. Later on, as she went indoors to prepare for dinner, she encountered Richard; he had just driven up to the door in his dog-cart, and Brand and Gelert were with him.
"Where is Mr. Sinclair?" she ventured to ask, as he smiled at seeing her.
"He has gone," he replied. "I have just driven him to the station. Do you know where my mother is to be found?"
"I have not seen her since luncheon," answered Bessie. "I think she is with Edna."
"Very likely. I will go and see." And Richard sprung up the staircase three steps at a time. Bessie thought he looked tired and worried, too; and to add to the general oppression, a storm seemed gathering, for the air felt unusually still and sultry.
Edna did not join them at dinner, and the meal was hardly more festive than the luncheon had been. Mrs. Sefton hardly opened her lips, and Richard only made a few general remarks.
Bessie expected that her evening would be as solitary as her afternoon, but, rather to her surprise, Mrs. Sefton beckoned her to sit down beside her.
"My dear," she said, "you are feeling very uncomfortable, I can see, and you do not like to ask questions; you think something is the matter, and you are right. Edna is making us all very unhappy. She has quarrelled with Neville, and has broken off her engagement with him, and nothing that Richard or I can say to her will induce her to listen to reason."
"Oh, Mrs. Sefton, how dreadful!"
"Yes, is it not heart-breaking? Poor Neville! and he is so devoted to her. They were to have been married next spring, but now Edna declares that nothing would induce her to marry him. She will have it that he is jealous and monopolizing, and that he distrusts her. Over and over again she told us both that she would be the slave of no man's caprice. Of course it is all her temper; she is just mad with him because he is always in the right, and she knows how ungenerously she has acted; but bye and bye she will repent, and break her heart, for she is certainly fond of him, and then it will be too late."
"And she has really sent him away?"
"Yes; she told him to go, that she never wanted to see him again; and he has gone, poor fellow! Richard drove him to the station. He says he never saw a man so terribly cut up, but he told Richard, just at the last, that perhaps it might prove the best for them in the end, that they were not suited to each other, and never had been, but that Edna had never shown him her temper quite so plainly before."
"Oh, Mrs. Sefton, how terrible it all seems! Can nothing be done?"
"Nothing," in a voice of despair. "Richard and I have talked to her for hours, but it is no use. She declares that it is a good thing she and Neville at last understand each other, that she will never repent her decision, and yet all the time she looks utterly wretched. But she will not own it; it is just her pride and her temper," finished the unhappy mother, "and I must stand by and see her sacrifice her own happiness, and say nothing."
"May I go up to her, Mrs. Sefton? Do you think she would care to see me?"
"I think she will see you now, and it is not good for her to be alone; but you will find her very hard and impracticable."
"I shall not mind that, if she will only let me be with her a little; but I cannot bear to think of her shut up with only miserable thoughts to keep her company;" and here Bessie's eyes filled with tears, for she was very sympathetic and soft-hearted.
"Then go to her, my dear, and I hope you may do her some good." And Bessie went at once.
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. _