GORTNACLOUGH AND BERRYHILL.
And now at last we will get to Castle Richmond, at which place,
seeing that it gives the title to our novel, we ought to have arrived
long since.
As had been before arranged, the two Miss Fitzgeralds did call at
Desmond Court early on the following day, and were delighted at being
informed by Lady Desmond that Clara had changed her mind, and would,
if they would now allow her, stay the night at Castle Richmond.
"The truth was, she did not like to leave me," said the countess,
whispering prettily into the ear of the eldest of the two girls; "but
I am delighted that she should have an opportunity of getting out of
this dull place for a few hours. It was so good of you to think of
her."
Miss Fitzgerald made some civil answer, and away they all went.
Herbert was on horseback, and remained some minutes after them to
discuss her own difficulties with the countess, and to say a few
words about that Clady boiler that would not boil. Clara on this
subject had opened her heart to him, and he had resolved that the
boiler should be made to boil. So he said that he would go over and
look at it, resolving also to send that which would be much more
efficacious than himself, namely, the necessary means and workmen
for bringing about so desirable a result. And then he rode after the
girls, and caught the car just as it reached Gortnaclough.
How they all spent their day at the soup kitchen, which however,
though so called, partook quite as much of the character of a
bake-house; how they studied the art of making yellow Indian meal
into puddings; how the girls wanted to add milk and sugar, not
understanding at first the deep principles of political economy,
which soon taught them not to waste on the comforts of a few that
which was so necessary for the life of many; how the poor women
brought in their sick ailing children, accepting the proffered food,
but bitterly complaining of it as they took it,--complaining of it
because they wanted money, with which they still thought that they
could buy potatoes--all this need not here or now be described. Our
present business is to get them all back to Castle Richmond.
There had been some talk of their dining at Gortnaclough, because it
was known that the ladies at Desmond Court dined early; but now that
Clara was to return to Castle Richmond, that idea was given up, and
they all got back to the house in time for the family dinner.
"Mamma," said Emmeline, walking first into the drawing-room, "Lady
Clara has come back with us after all, and is going to stay here
to-night; we are so glad."
Lady Fitzgerald got up from her sofa, and welcomed her young guest
with a kiss.
"It is very good of you to come," she said; "very good indeed. You
won't find it dull, I hope, because I know you are thinking about the
same thing as these children."
Lady Clara muttered some sort of indistinct little protest as to the
impossibility of being dull with her present friends.
"Oh, she's as full of corn meal and pints of soup as any one," said
Emmeline; "and knows exactly how much turf it takes to boil fifteen
stone of pudding; don't you, Clara? But come up-stairs, for we
haven't long, and I know you are frozen. You must dress with us,
dear; for there will be no fire in your own room, as we didn't expect
you."
"I wish we could get them to like it," said Clara, standing with one
foot on the fender, in the middle of the process of dressing, so as
to warm her toes; and her friend Emmeline was standing by her, with
her arm round her waist.
"I don't think we shall ever do that," said Mary, who was sitting
at the glass brushing her hair; "it's so cold, and heavy, and
uncomfortable when they get it."
"You see," said Emmeline, "though they did only have potatoes before,
they always had them quite warm; and though a dinner of potatoes
seems very poor, they did have it altogether, in their own houses,
you know; and I think the very cooking it was some comfort to them."
"And I suppose they couldn't be taught to cook this themselves, so as
to make it comfortable in their own cabins?" said Clara,
despondingly.
"Herbert says it's impossible," said Mary.
"And I'm sure he knows," said Clara.
"They would waste more than they would eat," said Emmeline. "Besides,
it is so hard to cook it as it should be cooked; sometimes it seems
impossible to make it soft."
"So it does," said Clara, sadly; "but if we could only have it hot
for them when they come for it, wouldn't that be better?"
"The great thing is to have it for them at all," said Mary the wise
(for she had been studying the matter more deeply than her friend);
"there are so many who as yet get none."
"Herbert says that the millers will grind up the husks and all at the
mills, so as to make the most of it; that's what makes it so hard to
cook," said Emmeline.
"How very wrong of them!" protested Clara; "but isn't Herbert going
to have a mill put up of his own?"
And so they went on, till I fear they kept the Castle Richmond dinner
waiting for full fifteen minutes.
Castle Richmond, too, would have been a dull house, as Lady
Fitzgerald had intimated, had it not been that there was a common
subject of such vital interest to the whole party. On that subject
they were all intent, and on that subject they talked the whole
evening, planning, preparing, and laying out schemes; devising how
their money might be made to go furthest; discussing deep questions
of political economy, and making, no doubt, many errors in their
discussions.
Lady Fitzgerald took a part in all this, and so occasionally did Sir
Thomas. Indeed, on this evening he was more active than was usual
with him. He got up from his arm-chair, and came to the table, in
order that he might pore over the map of the estate with them; for
they were dividing the property into districts, and seeing how best
the poor might be visited in their own localities.
And then, as he did so, he became liberal. Liberal, indeed, he always
was; but now he made offers of assistance more than his son had dared
to ask; and they were all busy, contented, and in a great degree
joyous--joyous, though their work arose from the contiguity of such
infinite misery. But what can ever be more joyous than efforts made
for lessening misery?
During all this time Miss Letty was fast asleep in her own arm-chair.
But let no one on that account accuse her of a hard heart; for she
had nearly walked her old legs off that day in going about from cabin
to cabin round the demesne.
"But we must consult Somers about that mill," said Sir Thomas.
"Oh, of course," said Herbert; "I know how to talk Somers over."
This was added _sotto voce_ to his mother and the girls. Now Mr.
Somers was the agent on the estate.
This mill was to be at Berryhill, a spot also on Sir Thomas's
property, but in a different direction from Gortnaclough. There was
there what the Americans would call a water privilege, a stream to
which some fall of land just there gave power enough to turn a mill;
and was now a question how they might utilize that power.
During the day just past Clara had been with them, but they were now
talking of what they would do when she would have left them. This
created some little feeling of awkwardness, for Clara had put her
whole heart into the work at Gortnaclough, and it was evident that
she would have been so delighted to continue with them.
"But why on earth need you go home to-morrow, Lady Clara?" said
Herbert.
"Oh, I must; mamma expects me, you know."
"Of course we should send word. Indeed, I must send to Clady
to-morrow, and the man must pass by Desmond Court gate."
"Oh, yes, Clara; and you can write a line. It would be such a pity
that you should not see all about the mill, now that we have talked
it over together. Do tell her to stay, mamma."
"I am sure I wish she would," said Lady Fitzgerald. "Could not Lady
Desmond manage to spare you for one day?"
"She is all alone, you know," said Clara, whose heart, however, was
bent on accepting the invitation.
"Perhaps she would come over and join us," said Lady Fitzgerald,
feeling, however, that the subject was not without danger. Sending a
carriage for a young girl like Lady Clara did very well, but it might
not answer if she were to offer to send for the Countess of Desmond.
"Oh, mamma never goes out."
"I'm quite sure she'd like you to stay," said Herbert. "After you
were all gone yesterday, she said how delighted she was to have you
go away for a little time. And she did say she thought you could not
go to a better place than Castle Richmond."
"I am sure that was very kind of her," said Lady Fitzgerald.
"Did she?" said Clara, longingly.
And so after a while it was settled that she should send a line to
her mother, saying that she had been persuaded to stay over one other
night, and that she should accompany them to inspect the site of this
embryo mill at Berryhill.
"And I will write a line to the countess," said Lady Fitzgerald,
"telling her how impossible it was for you to hold your own intention
when we were all attacking you on the other side."
And so the matter was settled.
On the following day they were to leave home almost immediately after
breakfast; and on this occasion Miss Letty insisted on going with
them.
"There's a seat on the car, I know, Herbert," she said; "for you mean
to ride; and I'm just as much interested about the mill as any of
you."
"I'm afraid the day would be too long for you, Aunt Letty," said
Mary: "we shall stay there, you know, till after four."
"Not a bit too long. When I'm tired I shall go into Mrs. Townsend's;
the glebe is not ten minutes' drive from Berryhill."
The Rev. Æneas Townsend was the rector of the parish, and he, as
well as his wife, were fast friends of Aunt Letty. As we get on in
the story we shall, I trust, become acquainted with the Rev. Æneas
Townsend and his wife. It was ultimately found that there was no
getting rid of Aunt Letty, and so the party was made up.
They were all standing about the hall after breakfast, looking up
their shawls and cloaks and coats, and Herbert was in the act of
taking special and very suspicious care of Lady Clara's throat, when
there came a ring at the door. The visitor, whoever he might be, was
not kept long waiting, for one servant was in the hall, and another
just outside the front door with the car, and a third holding
Herbert's horse.
"I wish to see Sir Thomas," said a man's voice as soon as the door
was opened; and the man entered the hall, and then seeing that it was
full of ladies, retreated again into the doorway. He was an elderly
man, dressed almost more than well, for there was about him a slight
affectation of dandyism; and though he had for the moment been
abashed, there was about him also a slight swagger. "Good morning,
ladies," he said, re-entering again, and bowing to young Herbert, who
stood looking at him; "I believe Sir Thomas is at home; would you
send your servant in to say that a gentleman wants to see him for a
minute or so, on very particular business? I am a little in a hurry
like."
The door of the drawing-room was ajar, so that Lady Fitzgerald, who
was sitting there tranquilly in her own seat, could hear the voice.
And she did hear it, and knew that some stranger had come to trouble
her husband. But she did not come forth; why should she? was not
Herbert there--if, indeed, even Herbert could be of any service?
"Shall I take your card in to Sir Thomas, sir?" said one of the
servants, coming forward.
"Card!" said Mollett senior out loud; "well, if it is necessary,
I believe I have a card." And he took from his pocket a greasy
pocket-book, and extracted from it a piece of pasteboard on which
his name was written. "There; give that to Sir Thomas. I don't think
there's much doubt but that he'll see me." And then, uninvited, he
sat himself down in one of the hall chairs.
Sir Thomas's study, the room in which he himself sat, and in which
indeed he might almost be said to live at present,--for on many days
he only came out to dine, and then again to go to bed,--was at some
little distance to the back of the house, and was approached by
a passage from the hall. While the servant was gone, the ladies
finished their wrapping, and got up on the car.
"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Clara, laughing, "I shan't be able to
breathe with all that on me."
"Look at Mary and Emmeline," said he; "they have got twice as much.
You don't know how cold it is."
"You had better have the fur close to your body," said Aunt Letty;
"look here;" and she showed that her gloves were lined with fur, and
her boots, and that she had gotten some nondescript furry article of
attire stuck in underneath the body of her dress.
"But you must let me have them a little looser, Mr. Fitzgerald," said
Clara; "there, that will do," and then they all got upon the car
and started. Herbert was perhaps two minutes after them before he
mounted; but when he left the hall the man was still sitting there;
for the servant had not yet come back from his father's room.
But the clatter of his horse's hoofs was still distinct enough at
the hall door when the servant did come back, and in a serious tone
desired the stranger to follow him. "Sir Thomas will see you," said
the servant, putting some stress on the word will.
"Oh, I did not doubt that the least in the world," said Mr. Mollett,
as he followed the man along the passage.
The morning was very cold. There had been rainy weather, but it now
appeared to be a settled frost. The roads were rough and hard, and
the man who was driving them said a word now and again to his young
master as to the expediency of getting frost nails put into the
horse's shoes. "I'd better go gently, Mr. Herbert; it may be he might
come down at some of these pitches." So they did go gently, and at
last arrived safely at Berryhill.
And very busy they were there all day. The inspection of the site
for the mill was not their only employment. Here also was an
establishment for distributing food, and a crowd of poor half-fed
wretches were there to meet them. Not that at that time things
were so bad as they became afterwards. Men were not dying on the
road-side, nor as yet had the apathy of want produced its terrible
cure for the agony of hunger. The time had not yet come when the
famished living skeletons might be seen to reject the food which
could no longer serve to prolong their lives.
Though this had not come as yet, the complaints of the women
with their throngs of children were bitter enough; and it was
heart-breaking too to hear the men declare that they had worked like
horses, and that it was hard upon them now to see their children
starve like dogs. For in this earlier part of the famine the people
did not seem to realize the fact that this scarcity and want had come
from God. Though they saw the potatoes rotting in their own gardens,
under their own eyes, they still seemed to think that the rich men of
the land could stay the famine if they would; that the fault was with
them; that the famine could be put down if the rich would but stir
themselves to do it. Before it was over they were well aware that no
human power could suffice to put it down. Nay, more than that; they
had almost begun to doubt the power of God to bring back better days.
They strove, and toiled, and planned, and hoped at Berryhill that
day. And infinite was the good that was done by such efforts as
these. That they could not hinder God's work we all know; but much
they did do to lessen the sufferings around, and many were the lives
that were thus saved.
They were all standing behind the counter of a small store that had
been hired in the village--the three girls at least, for Aunt Letty
had already gone to the glebe, and Herbert was still down at the
"water privilege," talking to a millwright and a carpenter. This was
a place at which Indian corn flour, that which after a while was
generally termed "meal" in those famine days, was sold to the poor.
At this period much of it was absolutely given away. This plan,
however, was soon found to be injurious; for hundreds would get it
who were not absolutely in want, and would then sell it;--for the
famine by no means improved the morals of the people.
And therefore it was found better to sell the flour; to sell it at a
cheap rate, considerably less sometimes than the cost price; and to
put the means of buying it into the hands of the people by giving
them work, and paying them wages. Towards the end of these times,
when the full weight of the blow was understood, and the subject had
been in some sort studied, the general rule was thus to sell the meal
at its true price, hindering the exorbitant profit of hucksters by
the use of large stores, and to require that all those who could
not buy it should seek the means of living within the walls of
workhouses. The regular established workhouses,--unions as they were
called,--were not as yet numerous, but supernumerary houses were
provided in every town, and were crowded from the cellars to the
roofs.
It need hardly be explained that no general rule could be established
and acted upon at once. The numbers to be dealt with were so great,
that the exceptions to all rules were overwhelming. But such and
such like were the efforts made, and these efforts ultimately were
successful.
The three girls were standing behind the counter of a little store
which Sir Thomas had hired at Berryhill, when a woman came into the
place with two children in her arms and followed by four others of
different ages. She was a gaunt tall creature, with sunken cheeks and
hollow eyes, and her clothes hung about her in unintelligible rags.
There was a crowd before the counter, for those who had been answered
or served stood staring at the three ladies, and could hardly be got
to go away; but this woman pressed her way through, pushing some and
using harsh language to others, till she stood immediately opposite
to Clara.
"Look at that, madam," she cried, undoing an old handkerchief which
she held in her hand, and displaying the contents on the counter; "is
that what the likes of you calls food for poor people? is that fit
'ating to give to children? Would any av ye put such stuff as that
into the stomachs of your own bairns?" and she pointed to the mess
which lay revealed upon the handkerchief.
The food, as food, was not nice to look at; and could not have been
nice to eat, or probably easy of digestion when eaten.
"Feel of that." And the woman rubbed her forefinger among it to show
that it was rough and hard, and that the particles were as sharp as
though sand had been mixed with it. The stuff was half-boiled Indian
meal, which had been improperly subjected at first to the full heat
of boiling water; and in its present state was bad food either for
children or grown people. "Feel of that," said the woman; "would you
like to be 'ating that yourself now?"
"I don't think you have cooked it quite enough," said Clara, looking
into the woman's face, half with fear and half with pity, and
putting, as she spoke, her pretty delicate finger down into the nasty
daubed mess of parboiled yellow flour.
"Cooked it!" said the woman scornfully. "All the cooking on 'arth
wouldn't make food of that fit for a Christian--feel of the roughness
of it"--and she turned to another woman who stood near her; "would
you like to be putting sharp points like that into your children's
bellies?"
It was quite true that the grains of it were hard and sharp, so as to
give one an idea that it would make good eating neither for women nor
children. The millers and dealers, who of course made their profits
in these times, did frequently grind up the whole corn without
separating the grain from the husks, and the shell of a grain of
Indian corn does not, when ground, become soft flour. This woman had
reason for her complaints, as had many thousands reason for similar
complaints.
"Don't be throubling the ladies, Kitty," said an old man standing by;
"sure and weren't you glad enough to be getting it."
"She'd be axing the ladies to go home wid her and cook it for her
after giving it her," said another.
"Who says it war guv' me?" said the angry mother. "Didn't I buy it,
here at this counter, with Mike's own hard-'arned money? and it's
chaiting us they are. Give me back my money." And she looked at Clara
as though she meant to attack her across the counter.
"Mr. Fitzgerald is going to put up a mill of his own, and then the
corn will be better ground," said Emmeline Fitzgerald, deprecating
the woman's wrath.
"Put up a mill!" said the woman, still in scorn. "Are you going to
give me back my money; or food that my poor bairns can ate?"
This individual little difficulty was ended by a donation to the
angry woman of another lot of meal, in taking away which she was
careful not to leave behind her the mess which she had brought in her
handkerchief. But she expressed no thanks on being so treated.
The hardest burden which had to be borne by those who exerted
themselves at this period was the ingratitude of the poor for whom
they worked;--or rather I should say thanklessness. To call them
ungrateful would imply too deep a reproach, for their convictions
were that they were being ill used by the upper classes. When they
received bad meal which they could not cook, and even in their
extreme hunger could hardly eat half-cooked; when they were desired
to leave their cabins and gardens, and flock into the wretched
barracks which were prepared for them; when they saw their children
wasting away under a suddenly altered system of diet, it would have
been unreasonable to expect that they should have been grateful.
Grateful for what? Had they not at any rate a right to claim life,
to demand food that should keep them and their young ones alive? But
not the less was it a hard task for delicate women to work hard, and
to feel that all their work was unappreciated by those whom they so
thoroughly commiserated, whose sufferings they were so anxious to
relieve.
It was almost dark before they left Berryhill, and then they had to
go out of their way to pick up Aunt Letty at Mr. Townsend's house.
"Don't go in whatever you do, girls," said Herbert; "we should never
get away."
"Indeed we won't unpack ourselves again before we get home; will we,
Clara?"
"Oh, I hope not. I'm very nice now, and so warm. But, Mr. Fitzgerald,
is not Mrs. Townsend very queer?"
"Very queer indeed. But you mustn't say a word about her before Aunt
Letty. They are sworn brothers-in-arms."
"I won't of course. But, Mr. Fitzgerald, she's very good, is she
not?"
"Yes, in her way. Only it's a pity she's so prejudiced."
"You mean about religion?"
"I mean about everything. If she wears a bonnet on her head, she'll
think you very wicked because you wear a hat."
"Will she? what a very funny woman! But, Mr. Fitzgerald, I shan't
give up my hat, let her say what she will."
"I should rather think not."
"And Mr. Townsend? we know him a little; he's very good too, isn't
he?"
"Do you mean me to answer you truly, or to answer you according to
the good-natured idea of never saying any ill of one's neighbour?"
"Oh, both; if you can."
"Oh both; must I? Well, then, I think him good as a man, but bad as a
clergyman."
"But I thought he worked so very hard as a clergyman?"
"So he does. But if he works evil rather than good, you can't call
him a good clergyman. Mind, you would have my opinion; and if I talk
treason and heterodoxy and infidelity and papistry, you must only
take it for what it's worth."
"I'm sure you won't talk infidelity."
"Nor yet treason; and then, moreover, Mr. Townsend would be so much
better a clergyman, to my way of thinking, if he would sometimes
brush his hair, and occasionally put on a clean surplice. But,
remember, not a word of all this to Aunt Letty."
"Oh dear, no; of course not."
Mr. Townsend did come out of the house on the little sweep before
the door to help Miss Letty up on the car, though it was dark and
piercingly cold.
"Well, young ladies, and won't you come in now and warm yourselves?"
They all of course deprecated any such idea, and declared that they
were already much too late.
"Richard, mind you take care going down Ballydahan Hill," said the
parson, giving a not unnecessary caution to the servant. "I came up
it just now, and it was one sheet of ice."
"Now, Richard, do be careful," said Miss Letty.
"Never fear, miss," said Richard.
"We'll take care of you," said Herbert. "You're not frightened, Lady
Clara, are you?"
"Oh, no," said Clara; and so they started.
It was quite dark and very cold, and there was a sharp hard frost.
But the lamps of the car were lighted, and the horse seemed to be on
his mettle, for he did his work well. Ballydahan Hill was not above
a mile from the glebe, and descending that, Richard, by his young
master's orders, got down from his seat and went to the animal's
head. Herbert also himself got off, and led his horse down the hill.
At first the girls were a little inclined to be frightened, and
Miss Letty found herself obliged to remind them that they couldn't
melt the frost by screaming. But they all got safely down, and were
soon chattering as fast as though they were already safe in the
drawing-room of Castle Richmond.
They went on without any accident, till they reached a turn in the
road, about two miles from home; and there, all in a moment, quite
suddenly, when nobody was thinking about the frost or the danger,
down came the poor horse on his side, his feet having gone quite from
under him, and a dreadful cracking sound of broken timber gave notice
that a shaft was smashed. A shaft at least was smashed; if only no
other harm was done!
It can hardly be that Herbert Fitzgerald cared more for such a
stranger as Lady Clara Desmond than he did for his own sisters and
aunt; but nevertheless, it was to Lady Clara's assistance that he
first betook himself. Perhaps he had seen, or fancied that he saw,
that she had fallen with the greatest violence.
"Speak, speak," said he, as he jumped from his horse close to her
side. "Are you hurt? do speak to me." And going down on his knees on
the hard ground, he essayed to lift her in his arms.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" said she. "No; I am not hurt; at least I think
not--only just my arm a very little. Where is Emmeline? Is Emmeline
hurt?"
"No," said Emmeline, picking herself up. "But, oh dear, dear, I've
lost my muff, and I've spoiled my hat! Where are Mary and Aunt
Letty?"
After some considerable confusion it was found that nothing was much
damaged except the car, one shaft of which was broken altogether in
two. Lady Clara's arm was bruised and rather sore, but the three
other ladies had altogether escaped. The quantity of clothes that had
been wrapped round them had no doubt enabled them to fall softly.
"And what about the horse, Richard?" asked young Fitzgerald.
"He didn't come upon his knees at all at all, Master Herbert," said
Richard, scrutinizing the animal's legs with the car lamp in his
hand. "I don't think he's a taste the worse. But the car, Master
Herbert, is clane smashed."
Such being found to be undoubtedly the fact, there was nothing for
it but that the ladies should walk home. Herbert again forgot that
the age of his aunt imperatively demanded all the assistance that he
could lend her, and with many lamentations that fortune and the frost
should have used her so cruelly, he gave his arm to Clara.
"But do think of Miss Fitzgerald," said Clara, speaking gently into
his ear.
"Who? oh, my aunt. Aunt Letty never cares for anybody's arm; she
always prefers walking alone."
"Fie, Mr. Fitzgerald, fie! It is impossible to believe such an
assertion as that." And yet Clara did seem to believe it; for she
took his proffered arm without further objection.
It was half-past seven when they reached the hall door, and at that
time they had all forgotten the misfortune of the car in the fun of
the dark frosty walk home. Herbert had found a boy to lead his horse,
and Richard was of course left with the ruins in the road.
"And how's your arm now?" asked Herbert, tenderly, as they entered in
under the porch.
"Oh, it does not hurt me hardly at all. I don't mind it in the
least." And then the door was opened for them.
They all flocked into the hall, and there they were met by Lady
Fitzgerald.
"Oh, mamma," said Mary, "I know you're quite frightened out of your
life! But there's nothing the matter. The horse tumbled down; but
there's nobody hurt."
"And we had to walk home from the turn to Ballyclough," said
Emmeline. "But, oh mamma, what's the matter?" They all now looked up
at Lady Fitzgerald, and it was evident enough that something was the
matter; something to be thought of infinitely more than that accident
on the road.
"Oh, Mary, Mary, what is it?" said Aunt Letty, coming forward and
taking hold of her sister-in-law's hand. "Is my brother ill?"
"Sir Thomas is not very well, and I've been waiting for you so long.
Where's Herbert? I must speak to Herbert." And then the mother and
son left the hall together.
There was then a silence among the four ladies that were left there
standing. At first they followed each other into the drawing-room,
all wrapped up as they were and sat on chairs apart, saying nothing
to each other. At last Aunt Letty got up.
"You had better go up-stairs with Lady Clara," said she; "I will go
to your mamma."
"Oh, Aunt Letty, do send us word; pray send us word," said Emmeline.
Mary now began to cry. "I know he's very ill. I'm sure he's very ill.
Oh, what shall we do?"
"You had better go up stairs with Lady Clara," said Aunt Letty. "I
will send you up word immediately."
"Oh, don't mind me; pray don't mind me," said Clara. "Pray, pray,
don't take notice of me;" and she rushed forward, and throwing
herself on her knees before Emmeline, began to kiss her.
They remained here, heedless of Aunt Letty's advice, for some ten
minutes, and then Herbert came to them. The two girls flew at him
with questions; while Lady Clara stood by the window, anxious to
learn, but unwilling to thrust herself into their family matters.
"My father has been much troubled to-day, and is not well," said
Herbert. "But I do not think there is anything to frighten us. Come;
let us go to dinner."
The going to dinner was but a sorry farce with any of them; but
nevertheless, they went through the ceremony, each for the sake of
the others.
"Mayn't we see him?" said the girls to their mother, who did come
down into the drawing-room for one moment to speak to Clara.
"Not to-night, loves. He should not be disturbed." And so that day
came to an end; not satisfactorily.