Jerry was sitting up in bed; he was so far better that no serious
illness was now to be feared, but he was weak and depressed, feeling
vaguely "sorry for himself," not quite sure what he wanted, nor eager to
profit by the doctor's permission to get up in the afternoon, and go
down to have tea in the drawing-room.
He glanced up listlessly as Charlotte came in.
"I have an hour still before I need to go to school," she said, "so I
have come up to you, Jerry: there is a letter about you this morning."
"About me!" Jerry exclaimed; "anything about school, do you mean? They
know I'm ill."
"No, not from school; it's from Miss Meredon, to ask how you are;
they're in London."
"How nice of her!" said Jerry, his eyes brightening. "I'm sure you must
see, Charlotte, how nice she is."
"Yes," Charlotte allowed; "she is kind and good; I'll never say she's
not. But it can't be difficult to be nice when one has everything one
wants, like her," she added, reverting to her old strain.
Jerry looked disappointed.
"I think you are rather unfair, Charlotte," he said. "If she wasn't
nice you'd say she was spoilt and selfish, and as she _is_ nice you say
it's no credit to her. How can you tell that it isn't very difficult to
be nice and kind to others when one has everything one wants oneself?
_Papa_ says it is very difficult indeed not to get spoilt when one's
like that."
"I'd like to be tried," said Charlotte.
"Besides," pursued Jerry, "do you know I'm not quite sure that she _has_
everything the way we fancied."
Charlotte looked up eagerly.
"What do you mean?" she said. "What can there be that she hasn't got?
We _know_ she's very rich and clever and pretty; that's a good deal, any
way."
"But I'm almost sure she has to be away from the people she loves most,"
said Jerry; "I know it by some things she said. And I could tell by her
ways that she's used to brothers and sisters--I fancy there's a lot of
them."
"She is rather to be pitied for that," said Charlotte half-laughingly,
"though it can't be so bad when people are rich. And then as Lady
Mildred has adopted her what can it matter?"
"I shouldn't like to be adopted away from you all, however grand and
rich I was to be," said Jerry, "and I don't believe you'd like it
either, whatever you say. You make yourself out worse than you are,
Charlotte."
"Well, read the letter," she said, and Jerry did so. As he gave it back
to Charlotte he grew rather red.
"Do you see?" he said; "they're not coming back--not till after
Christmas. Charlotte, you're sure of the German prize."
Charlotte's face lighted up.
"I did not notice that," she said; "I thought she said something about
staying a few days."
"No," said Jerry, "she says, `We shall not return to Silverthorns till
after Christmas, perhaps a few days after, and perhaps not so soon.'"
Charlotte drew a deep breath.
"I see," she said. "My composition is nearly finished. Oh, Jerry, how
I hope I shall get the prize now."
"You are sure to," he said shortly.
"Unless," Charlotte went on, "unless she possibly finishes it there, and
sends it back by post."
"Nonsense," said Jerry; "I am sure she won't. She wouldn't have time
for one thing, and--"
"What?"
"Oh, I don't think she's the sort of girl to set herself so to win a
prize when she's been so short a time at school with you all," said
Jerry.
"No; perhaps not. Of course it _can't_ matter to her as it does to me.
I dare say she's forgotten all about it now she's up in London amusing
herself," said Charlotte in a satisfied tone which Jerry found rather
provoking. "I don't mind her not trying--I mean I'm not too proud to
say I know she would have won it if she had. I shall always say so, for
she is much further on and much cleverer than any of us. And some of
them have been working very hard lately. It isn't as if I had no one
worth trying against."
Jerry said no more. He was glad for Charlotte, but he did feel it hard
that Claudia's self-sacrifice, which had been just as great and real as
if after events had not rendered it unnecessary, should remain for ever
unknown and unappreciated.
"I wonder if I shall _never_ be able to tell Charlotte," he said to
himself. "Long after, perhaps, when she's left off caring about school
things. I should like her to know some day," and his blue eyes gazed
out into the future wistfully.
"What are you thinking of, Jerry?" said Charlotte suddenly. "Why do you
look so melancholy? The doctor says you may get up this afternoon."
"I know he did," said Jerry, "but I don't think I want to. I'm too
tired," and with a little sigh of weariness he lay down again on his
pillows.
Charlotte looked at him in distress.
"Oh, dear," she said; "how unlucky that snowy day was, though I suppose
things might have turned out worse."
"Yes," replied Jerry with complacency; "I might have had rheumatic
fever, or brain fever, perhaps. But, Charlotte, it wasn't because I was
feverish that I heard those noises that night; I _know_ it wasn't. And
I don't believe papa thinks so either. It can't be true about only a
member of the family hearing it, for you see there was papa when he was
a little boy. I'd like to tell _her_, Claudia, that."
"It was very queer," said Charlotte; "you don't know how pleased I am to
have seen that part of the house, Jerry. I took a good look up the
stair to where the tower room must be: there was something melancholy
about the house, wasn't there? How awfully nice it would be with a
large family in it, and lots of running about."
"You wouldn't mind lots of brothers and sisters then," said Jerry.
"No, I'd like it; just fancy what fun we could have. But I must go,
Jerry. I will write to Miss Meredon when I come home."
"I think I'd like to write to her myself," said Jerry. "Ask mamma if I
may."
"Very well," said Charlotte, rather surprised; "I dare say mamma will be
quite pleased that you want to do it." And so Mrs Waldron was, for
Jerry's lassitude and want of energy were troubling her.
He quite brightened up over his letter.
"You won't care to see it, will you, mamma?" he asked. "You see she's
such a jolly--an understanding sort of girl; she won't bother about how
it's spelt, and all that."
"But you will send a proper message of thanks to Lady Mildred," said his
mother. "It is very good of her to take so much interest in you, and
she was very kind to you at Silverthorns."
"Not as kind as Miss Meredon was," said Jerry; "but of course I'll say
it properly, mamma."
Mrs Waldron told her husband that evening of the letter, and Jerry's
replying to it himself.
"I was glad to see him interested about it," she said; "it is so unlike
him to be so listless. How strange it seems that we should be in any
way brought in contact with Silverthorns after all these years!"
"Stranger even than you think it," he replied. "Do you know I heard
only to-day that General Osbert's eldest--or elder, he has only two--son
is dead, in consequence of a fall from his horse? He died on the 13th,
just the day Jerry was so frightened at Silverthorns. And it was when
my old uncle died that I, as a child, was so startled there."
"You won't tell Jerry? It would only deepen the impression."
"Of course not. Besides, there are so many other ways of accounting for
what he heard--his own feverish state at the time, in the first place."
"Perhaps it is on account of this news that Lady Mildred has gone up to
town just now," said Mrs Waldron.
"I hardly think so: there is still the other son, who may be married and
have children, or this one, poor fellow, may have left sons himself for
all I know. I have never kept up much knowledge of them. You see it
cannot matter to us, as it is so very improbable but that Lady Mildred
would leave all to her own people if the Osberts died out."
Mrs Waldron smiled.
"I can't see it quite that way," she said; "you _are_ half Osbert, and
then you were so associated with the place from being brought up there.
I am sure your grand-uncle would rather it had gone to you than to those
far-off cousins."
"Ah, well, it is much better not to think about it," said Mr Waldron
philosophically.
Jerry's letter took him some time; he was not satisfied with the first
production, and being a very particular, not to say "fussy," little
person, he determined to copy it out again. And he was very easily
tired still. So it was not till the next day but one that Claudia
received the answer to her letter of inquiry.
Her face lighted up with pleasure and amusement as she read it:
"My dear Miss Meredon," it began--
"I have asked Charlotte to let me write myself, to thank you for
writing about me. I am better, thank you, but I am still in bed. The
doctor says I may get up this afternoon, but I'm not sure that I'm
inclined. It is so cold and I am so tired still; I wish it was summer
again. I want to tell you that Charlotte is in very good spirits, and
she is working hard, _specially_ at German. I should like to see you
again. Perhaps some day I could go to call on you when you come back,
for I should like to thank Lady Mildred Osbert too for being so kind
to me. Papa and mamma wish me to thank her for wanting to know how I
was. I wish you a merry Christmas. I remain,--
"Yours truly,--
"G.T. Waldron."
They were at breakfast when the letter came. Lady Mildred glanced at
Claudia's smiling face.
"Home news, I suppose, to make you look so sunshiny?" she said, in the
half-teasing tone that Claudia had learnt not to mind.
"No, Aunt Mildred; it's a letter from little Gervais Waldron," she said,
and after a moment's imperceptible hesitation in which she had time to
say to herself,--"there is nothing in it which would tell his secret,"--
she handed it to Lady Mildred, who read it.
"Poor little fellow," she said, "it doesn't seem much as if he were in a
very promising way; they should send him abroad for the rest of the
winter. He looks to me just the sort of child that might be set up by
it. I think it a cruel thing to send away hopeless invalids to those
southern places, even if it prolongs their lives a little it too often
deprives them of their homes and friends at the last. But it is a very
different thing for a delicate child with no actual disease. In such a
case it may give a start for life."
Claudia listened with some surprise. Her aunt's interest in the subject
of this boy was not exactly the sort of thing that Lady Mildred's usual
ways would have led her to expect.
"I dare say it would be a very good thing--the best in the world for
him," she said. "But I am _sure_ they could not possibly afford it."
"Why? Are they so poor do you think?" said Lady Mildred quickly.
Claudia could not help laughing a very little. "Auntie," she said,
"people needn't be desperately poor not to be able to send a child
abroad for the winter. But I think the Waldrons are poorer than many
families who yet would find it very difficult to do that."
"How do you know--how can you judge? You've never been in their house?"
said Lady Mildred sharply and almost suspiciously; "and I put you on
your honour not to get intimate with the girl or with any of your
schoolfellows."
"I am not intimate with any of them, and with Charlotte Waldron perhaps
less than with any; and _of course_ I have never been at their house nor
at anybody's house without your knowing. I would never do such a thing,
dear aunt; you know I wouldn't," said Claudia gently. "But I can tell
quite well that they are poor," she went on, seeing Lady Mildred's face
clear again; "it is a sort of instinct, because you see I know so well
about it myself. Charlotte has had the same dress ever since I have
known her, and once or twice, when it had got wet or muddy, she came
with a still plainer and much older one. And--other little things that
I don't suppose most girls would notice--I have seen her look quite
troubled when her clean cuffs got inked, or when a copy-book was lost
and she had to get an extra one. She is a very, very neat and careful
girl. Some of the others call her mean--once they began doing so before
me as if they thought I would join with them in it, because they fancy I
am rich! I did feel so angry; for I know it all so well, you see, Aunt
Mildred."
"Bless the child--she talks as if she were a char woman with
half-a-dozen children," said Lady Mildred. "I suppose you think you
know a great deal more of the practical side of life than I do, my
dear?"
But though her tone was sharp, Claudia could see that she was not vexed,
but on the contrary interested, and even touched.
"I know more in some ways about being poor than you do, I think, Aunt
Mildred," she replied. "Oh, in hundreds of little ways that one would
be almost ashamed to put into words, that rich people would really not
understand! You see with my being the eldest at home, and mamma always
wanting to save papa all the worries she could, I could not but know a
great deal. But nothing is too hard when we are together. You _can't_
know, aunt, how different everything seems now that I can look forward
to staying at home, and helping them so beautifully--all thanks to you.
There were times when mamma and I used sometimes to think I should have
to go away as a teacher in some school, or as a sort of nursery
governess even. And now it is _so_ different."
"I wish it were going to be still more different," said Lady Mildred.
"I wish I could help you all more effectually; but--"
"Dear Aunt Mildred, you couldn't have helped us more effectually," said
Claudia, her eyes beaming. "We don't want to be rich, even if you had a
fortune to leave us, we couldn't wish to be happier than we shall be
when I am quite grown-up and able to begin my school, as mamma calls it.
And we are all so strong and well, if it wasn't for papa's eyes."
"Yes, that is a blessing," Lady Mildred agreed: "the Meredons are a very
sturdy race, much stronger than the Osberts. And that reminds me, I am
sorry about that little Waldron boy; I cannot forget his poor little
white face."
"I hope he will get stronger soon," said Claudia.
Lady Mildred said no more, and her niece saw little of her for the rest
of that day, for there was another long interview with Mr Miller, and
Claudia was sent out sight-seeing under the convoy of Lady Mildred's
maid.
It was some days later, Christmas Eve in fact, when the old lady said
suddenly to her young companion:
"I see no help for it, Claudia; I must go to Cannes. It is absolutely
necessary for me to see General Osbert without delay, and I cannot
expect him to come here considering that his only remaining son is
dying."
"His only other son," Claudia repeated. "Oh, Aunt Mildred, how very
sad!"
"Yes; but this they have anticipated for some time. It was John
Osbert's death that was the great blow; and very probably the shock of
it has made Frank worse. But it is very hard upon me too, though
perhaps it seems selfish to say so; for I am too old to like starting
off to the ends of the earth in this sudden fashion. For you I shall
take care that it is no disadvantage. Once out of England I may not be
in such a hurry to return. And you can have excellent lessons."
"Oh, aunt, I do hope my being with you will not make it all more
troublesome," said Claudia. "Of course I shall like going better than
anything. It is what mamma wished for me more than she could say. But,
you know, if it would be easier for you it might be arranged for me to
go to school, as mamma once thought of?"
"No," said Lady Mildred decidedly; "I shall like having you with me. It
will be an interest to me, and without it I should feel very lonely I
shall not see much of the Osberts, poor people. It is really necessity
that takes me there. I have never known much of them. I should like
you to write home and tell them of our plans. I shall add a word or two
to the letter."
"And, Aunt Mildred," said Claudia half-timidly, "may I answer Gervais's
letter? I should like to know if he is better: there is no fear of its
leading to any intimacy that you might not like, as I may not be at
Silverthorns again for a long time."
"You can write if you like," said Lady Mildred rather shortly. "I have
nothing against the Waldrons. I dare say they are very well-brought-up
young people. I only wish they did not live at that odious, gossiping
Wortherham."
Claudia looked up in surprise. She had hitherto been under the
impression that of all the families in Wortherham, the Waldrons were her
aunt's chief aversion!