“I do not know,” returned Mrs. Sefton, in a troubled voice. “Dr. Milton assures me that there is nothing radically wrong with her health, only want of tone and a severe cold; but I cannot feel comfortable about her. She is losing appetite and flesh, and her spirits are so variable. She is not happy, Bessie, and she cannot always hide her feelings from her mother. Richard says that we can do nothing; but how are we to go on like this?”
Bessie hardly knew what to answer; she was full of sympathy for the anxious mother; she knew Edna was her one thought in life, and that no happiness was possible to her if her child suffered. They were in the King’s Road now, and the brightly lighted shop-windows almost dazzled Bessie. On the opposite side she could see a dark line that was evidently the sea; a dull, heavy surging of waves broke on her ear; now and then the splash of the white surf was clearly visible.
“Edna is young,” she said vaguely; but, after all, there was scant consolation in this truism, for the young suffer very keenly; a sense of impatience, of injustice, aggravates their pain. The old accept their sorrows more meekly; their reason comes to their aid. “Man is born to trouble,” they say, and the philosophy enables them to endure at least with some show of dignity.
“Yes, she is young; perhaps she may be consoled,” replied Mrs. Sefton, with another sigh; and then the carriage stopped. “Our rooms are on the first floor,” observed Mrs. Sefton, as they stood in the large, brilliantly lighted hall, and she conducted Bessie up the staircase and down a narrow corridor, and then into a long, well-furnished drawing-room, where they found Edna.
She was sitting on a low chair, looking at the fire, but she sprang up and welcomed Bessie warmly.
“My dear little Daisy, how delighted I am to see you!” she said, with something of her old animation. “Mamma, is it not delicious to have her again? Sit down there; you look tired and cold, and I mean to wait on you. Mamma, the tea is all ready, and I am going to pour it out. Take off your warm jacket, Bessie; oh, and your bonnet too; and then you will look more like yourself.”
Bessie did as she was bidden, but her eyes followed Edna’s graceful figure. How delicate she looked—far, far too pretty! She was almost dazzling to-night. The ruby velveteen set off her fair hair and white skin; her face was flushed, and her eyes were too bright; and as she moved about Bessie heard her cough once or twice—a hard, dry cough. But there seemed nothing wrong with Edna’s spirits to-night. She was evidently overjoyed to have her friend with her again; she talked and laughed after her old fashion.
“You will be sure to like this place, Bessie,” she said. “The shops are delightful, and it is so amusing to see the people; and the sea is magnificent. I have my ponies here, so we can have plenty of drives; and there are some people that we know at the Bedford. We don’t intend to mope, mamma and I; we are going to the grand bazaar at the Pavilion, and there are some first-rate concerts. But you shall be as quiet as you like,” with a sudden change of tone, as Bessie looked grave; “your only duty will be to talk to me. Now I will show you your room, and you shall unpack and get ready for dinner.”
Bessie was not sorry to be left alone in her comfortable room. When she had finished her unpacking, she put on her best cashmere dress, with its soft white frilling, and fastened a few white flowers at her throat. Then she sat down before the fire, and had a quiet quarter of an hour before Edna came in search of her and carried her off.
All the evening Edna was as merry as possible. She played several of her favorite pieces, and even sung a little; only as the evening drew to its close she began to have a white, exhausted look; but she followed Bessie into her room, and sat down on the rug, with the evident intention of having a talk.