ON THE PARADE.
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 friendship 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 Saturday 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 Saturday
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 shore; 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 appetite 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 shining 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 shingle; 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 nobly, Miss Lambert; you have made me your
debtor for life, if this be true;" and then he stopped and passed his
hand across his forehead, as though the sudden relief had bewildered
him. "Oh, thank God!" 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."
"I had no one but my mother and Edna; I should have been lonely indeed.
But now I must not keep you standing any longer; the wind is cold, and
you are beginning to look tired."
"Yes, and breakfast will be ready; I must not be late."
"Is Sefton with you?" he asked suddenly.
"No; he is at Oatlands; he is not coming until Saturday week."
"I am sorry to hear it; he would have helped me in a great difficulty.
Sefton has always been my friend. Miss Lambert, I confess I don't
clearly see my way. I can hardly present myself at Glenyan Mansions, and
yet how am I to see Edna? If we could only meet, as it were,
accidentally, it would be better for both of us."
"I see what you mean," returned Bessie, whose ready sympathy made her
quick to detect his meaning "Edna is very proud; you think it would be
wiser to leave her in ignorance of this interview. Yes, you are right;
there must be some other way;" and then, after a moment's consideration,
she added, "There is a fancy bazaar at the Pavilion this afternoon; some
friends of the Sefton's are stall-holders, and we are all going; every
one will be there; why should you not go too?"
"Thank you," was all he said; but his face brightened perceptibly, and
then in an eager tone: "What time will you go?"
"Mrs. Sefton said she should order the carriage at half-past three, so I
suppose we shall be there about a quarter to four. The Crawfords' stall
is at the end of the room, and Minnie and Eleanor Crawford are to be
dressed in sacques and hoops, with powdered hair, in the fashion of
George III.'s time. Edna is very anxious to see their stall in its first
glory, before there is a rush of buyers."
"You have made me your friend for life," he said lightly. "I must not go
any farther, for I see the windows of Glenyan Mansions;" and then he
shook hands with her, and quietly retraced his steps to his hotel.
"I wonder if mother would be shocked," thought Bessie. "I think I should
have been shocked myself under any other circumstances; but when I
thought of poor Edna, and saw him looking so pale and grave, I felt I
must help them both. Was it very forward of me? Have I betrayed Edna's
confidence? But, no; I found it all out for myself; surely, no one could
blame me for speaking the truth. If Mr. Richard were here, I would ask
him. Truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, after all. One
cannot be wrong if only one be absolutely true."
Bessie found it very difficult to preserve her ordinary demeanor that
morning. The consciousness that she had a secret oppressed her, but
neither Mrs. Sefton nor Edna seemed to notice any difference in her
manner. Edna looked languid and depressed, and seemed to have lost all
interest in the bazaar. She alarmed Bessie in the course of the morning
by saying that, after all, she did not care to mix with such a crowd.
"Oh, Edna, I shall be so disappointed if we do not go!" exclaimed
Bessie.
"My dear, I was not talking about you," replied Edna wearily. "Mamma
will go, of course, and you can accompany her; but I am sick of bazaars,
and the noise and chatter will make my head ache. You may take my purse,
Bessie, and buy something of Minnie and Eleanor;" and Edna threw down
her work and began looking over the batch of novels that her mother had
sent in from the circulating library, leaving Bessie to digest her
dismay and disappointment as well as she could.