Our Bessie Part 21

"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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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.

CHAPTER XVII.

"TROUBLE MAY COME TO ME ONE DAY."

Bessie had hardly fallen asleep before the storm broke. A peal of thunder crashing over the house woke her; the next minute a flash of lightning seemed to fill her room with white light.

"What a terrific clap! It must have woke Edna," she thought; and just as she was summoning up resolution to cross the dark pa.s.sage in search of her, there was a hasty tap at the door, and Edna entered, fully dressed, and with a candle in her hand.

"Edna! what does this mean? You have not been to bed at all?" exclaimed Bessie, regarding her friend with dismay. Edna's pale, disordered looks excited her alarm.

"No," she returned, in a tone of forced composure, as she put down the candle with a shaking hand; "I was too nervous to sleep. I knew the storm was coming, and I sat up and waited for it; but I could not stop by myself any longer. Did I wake you, Bessie?"

"The thunder woke me, and I thought of you. I am not a bit frightened; but one cannot sleep in such a noise. Hark at the rain; a perfect deluge! Come and lie down beside me, Edna, dear. You look quite wan and exhausted.

"I have been thinking myself stupid, but I am still too restless to lie down. I feel as though I never want to sleep again, and yet I am so tired. Ah, you don't know the feeling! One seems on wires, and all sorts of horrid, troublesome thoughts keep surging through one's brain, and there seems no rest, no peace anywhere." And she shivered, and hid her face on the pillow as another peal broke over the house.

Bessie did not speak for a minute, and then she said very tenderly:

"Edna, dear, I know all about it. I am quite sure that you are miserable; I have known it all the time. Pride does not help you a bit now; in your heart you are sorrowful and repentant. You would give all you have in the world to bring him back again."

But Edna silenced her. "Don't, Bessie, you are torturing me. I cannot bear sympathy; it seems to madden me somehow. I want people to think I don't care--that it is all nothing to me."

"Ah, but you do care, Edna."

"Yes, I know I do," in a despairing voice. "I will own, if you like, that I am very miserable, but you must not take advantage of me. I am weak to-night, and I seem to have no strength to brave it out. Don't be hard upon me, Bessie; you have never been in trouble yourself. You cannot put yourself in my place."

A great pity rose in Bessie's heart as she listened to Edna's sad voice.

"No," she said gently, "I have never known real trouble, thank G.o.d, except when Frank died. Mine has been a very happy life; but trouble may come to me one day."

"Yes, but not through your own fault," replied Edna, in the same dreary hopeless voice. "There is no trouble so hard to bear as that. To think that I might have been so happy, and that my own temper has spoiled it all. Let me tell you all about it, Bessie; it will be a relief, even though you cannot help me, for to-night the misery is more than I can bear." And here she hid her face in her hands, and gave vent to a few choking sobs.

Bessie only answered by a quiet caress or two, and after a few moments Edna recovered herself.

"I was unreasonably angry with Neville that day, but I never guessed that my pa.s.sion would overmaster me to that extent. Oh, Bessie! why, why was I never taught to control my temper? Why was my mother so cruelly kind to me? If I had been brought up differently--but no, I will only reproach myself. If Neville had been more masterful--if he had shown more spirit; but there again I am ungenerous, for nothing could exceed his gentleness; but it only exasperated me. I was bent on quarrelling with him, and I fully succeeded; and I worked myself up to such a pitch that I almost hated the sight of him. I wanted to be free--I would be free; and I told him so. I was still in the same mind when you brought me that message, but, all the same, something seemed to whisper to me that I should live to repent that day's work; but I would not listen to this inward prompting--I would be firm. Bessie, I verily believe some evil spirit dominated me--I felt so cold, so inexorable, so determined on my own undoing. For one moment I quailed, and that was when I saw Neville drive away from the house. I saw his face, and it looked so pale and sad. Something within me said, 'Call him back, and he will come even now;' but I was too proud to give the sign. I wanted to do it, but my demon would not suffer me, and in a moment he was gone. Oh, Bessie, how I suffered that night and the night after! But my pride was strong. I would not let people see how unhappy I was. But I want him back now.

There is no one in the world like Neville--so gentle, and brave, and good; but I have lost him, and I deserve to lose him, for I was never worthy of his love." And here Edna broke into bitter weeping, and for a little while there was no comforting her.