_ 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 cushions, 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 passions? 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 finishing 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 amusement, 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 fashion; 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.
"Oh, how stupid every one is!" she would say, jumping up in a quick, restless manner. "Ritchie, why don't you think of something amusing to do? Bessie, I hate those dreamy old ballads; do come and play some game. Mamma," she exclaimed, one evening, "we must have a regular picnic for Bessie; she has never been at a large one in her life. We will go to Ardley, and Florence shall take her violin, and Dr. Merton his cornet, and we will have a dance on the turf; it will be delightful."
Well, to please her, they talked of the picnic, and Richard good-naturedly promised to hire a wagonette for the occasion, but she had forgotten all about it the next day, and there was to be an archery meeting in the long meadow instead.
"Bessie, she is killing herself," exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, for in those days she found Bessie a great comfort. "Do you see how thin she is getting? And she eats next to nothing; she is losing her strength, and all that exercise is too much for her. The weather is too hot for those morning rides. I must speak to Richard."
"She does not really enjoy them," replied Bessie; "but I think she feels better when she is in the air, and then it is something to do. Mrs. Sefton, I want to speak to you about something else. I have been here nearly a month, and it is time for me to go home."
"You are not thinking of leaving us," interrupted Mrs. Sefton, in genuine alarm. "I cannot spare you, Bessie; I must write to your father. What would Edna do without you? My dear, I cannot let you go."
"Hatty is not well," observed Bessie anxiously. "She always flags in the warm weather. I don't believe Cliffe really suits her; but father never likes to send her away. Christine wrote to me yesterday, and she said Hatty had had one of her old fainting fits, and had been very weak ever since. I cannot be happy in leaving her any longer, though they say nothing about my coming home."
"But she has your mother and Christine. You are not really wanted," urged Mrs. Sefton rather selfishly, for she was thinking of her own and Edna's loss, and not of Bessie's anxiety.
"Hatty always wants me," returned Bessie firmly. "I think I am more to her than any one else, except mother. I have written to father this morning to ask what I had better do. I told him that I had had a long holiday, and that I was ready to come home at once if Hatty wanted me."
"Oh, very well, if you have made your plans," returned Mrs. Sefton, in rather a chilling manner; but Bessie would not let her proceed.
"Dear Mrs. Sefton," she said, much distressed at her obvious displeasure, "you must not think that I leave you willingly. I have been so happy here; it has been such a real holiday that I am afraid I am not a bit anxious to go home, but if father thinks it is my duty----"
"Your father is a sensible man. I don't believe he will recall you, anyhow. I will write to him myself, and tell him how anxious we are to keep you. That will do no harm, eh, Bessie?"
"No," hesitated the girl; "I dare say he will only think you are all too kind to me." She did not like to offend her hostess by begging her not to write. Her father knew her well enough; he would not misunderstand her. He knew her love for Hatty would never let pleasure stand in the way if she required her. "All the enjoyments in the world would not keep me from Hatty if she really needed me, and father knows that; we are both quite safe with him."
Bessie was perfectly comfortable in her own mind; she was sure of her own motives, and she had implicit faith in her father; but she would not have been quite so easy if she had known that Mrs. Sefton intended to send a little note to Hatty as well. It was only a kindly worded note, full of sympathy for Hatty's little ailments, such as any friendly stranger might write; but the closing sentence was terribly damaging to Bessie's plans.
"Please do not let your father recall Bessie unless it be absolutely necessary. We are all so fond of her, and my poor girl, who is in sad trouble just now, is dependent on her for companionship. Bessie is so happy, too, that it would be cruel to take her away. She is becoming a first-rate horsewoman under my son's tuition, and is very much liked by all our friends; indeed, every one makes much of her. If you can spare her a little longer, I shall be truly grateful, my dear Miss Lambert, for my poor child's sake."
And then followed a few kindly expressions of goodwill and sympathy.
Bessie was rather surprised to receive a letter from Christine the following morning, with a little penciled note from Hatty inside.
"Father was too busy to write," Christine said. "He had a very anxious case on hand, but he hoped Hatty was rather better that day, and he thought they could do without Bessie a little longer, as her friends seemed to need her so much. He was sorry to hear Miss Sefton had broken off her engagement; it was a very serious thing for any young lady to do, and he hoped none of his girls would act so dishonorably to any man."
Hatty's note was short and much underlined.
"DARLING BESSIE: You are not to come home on my account. Chrissy is very nice, and does everything for me, and I won't have your pleasure spoiled, and Miss Sefton's too, poor thing, just because I was stupid enough to faint. It is only the hot weather--oh, it is so hot and glaring here! Chrissy and I cannot imagine how you can ride and play tennis in such heat; but perhaps it is cooler in the country. Now, remember, I mean what I say, and that I don't want you one bit. At least that is a fib in one way, because I always want my Betty; but I am quite happy to think you are enjoying yourself, and cheering up that poor girl--she must be very miserable. Write to me soon again. I do love your letters. I always keep them under my pillow and read them in the morning. Good-bye, darling; you are my own Betty, you know.
"Your loving little
"HATTY."
"I suppose I must stop a week or ten days longer," thought Bessie, laying down her letters with rather a dissatisfied feeling. "I wish father could have written, himself, but I dare say he will in a day or two. I will try not to fidget. I will wait a little, and then write to mother and tell her how I feel about things. When she understands how difficult it is for me to get away without giving offense, she will be sure to help me, and six weeks are enough to satisfy Mrs. Sefton."
Bessie spoke of her letters at luncheon-time. Edna heard her with languid attention, but Mrs. Sefton was triumphant.
"I knew they could spare you, Bessie," she said, with a look of amusement that made Bessie feel a little small.
Richard glanced at her without speaking, and then busied himself in his carving. But that evening, as Bessie was pausing in the hall to look out at the dark clouds that were scurrying across the sky, she found Richard at her elbow.
"There is going to be a storm," he said quietly. "I have been expecting it all day. Edna is always nervous; she hates the thunder. What was that my mother was saying at luncheon, Miss Lambert? Surely you do not intend leaving us?"
"Not just yet--not for another week," returned Bessie, much surprised by the gravity of his manner. "They will want me at home after that."
"They will not want you as much as some of us do here," he returned, with much feeling. "Miss Lambert, do not go unless you are obliged. My sister needs you, and so--" He broke off abruptly, colored, and finally wished her good-night.
"I wonder why he did not finish his sentence?" thought Bessie innocently, as she went up to her room. _