“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.”