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.