It seemed more like a dream than ever the next day.
"I can't understand how I took it so quietly," Charlotte thought to
herself as she was dressing. "I suppose I was half stunned. I feel
this morning as if I could just _scream_ with delight. To think of
_Silverthorns_ coming to be our home--our own beautiful home. And how I
have grumbled, and how jealous I have been of _her_. I don't suppose
she could ever quite understand--nobody who has never been poor
themselves can. But, oh, I shall try to be kind and sympathising to
others. It makes me feel as I used to when I was little, sometimes,
when mamma saw I was cross and discontented, and instead of speaking
sharply she would do some kind thing to make me feel happy. I wonder if
God sometimes makes people good that way? For I know _I_ haven't
deserved it, though dear papa, and mamma, and Arthur, and Jerry have.
Oh, to think I may tell Jerry!"
The telling Jerry was more easily managed than she had anticipated. The
boy's instincts were sharpened by illness, and he had never forgotten
the impression of his strange experiences at Silverthorns.
"I knew it, Charlotte," he exclaimed, his blue eyes gleaming, "I knew
it. When I was told that, about the ghost only coming to some of the
family, and I remembered papa's having heard it too, something seemed to
tell me that we _had_ to do with Silverthorns, and that more would come:
I knew it, Charlotte. And she will be so pleased--Claudia, I mean."
"You think she will be?" Charlotte said, rather surprised.
"Of course; I know she will be," he said confidently; "you'll see. And,
of course, it will be ever so much nicer for her when she's there, to
have us living near. I'll get to know her so well this winter, staying
with them at that place. Oh, I say, I'm awfully glad to think of going
there, and to know it won't cost papa and mamma anything. I do so want
to get well, Charlotte. I may say it now--I've really felt as if I
never would lately, and almost as if I didn't somehow much care."
"Jerry!" Charlotte exclaimed.
"Yes; and that's the queerest feeling of all. I suppose people have it
when they're really going to die, and that it's a good thing. It must
make it not so bad," the boy went on.
"But you don't feel that way now?" Charlotte asked anxiously.
"No, I feel quite different. It was partly, you know--" and Jerry
hesitated--"the horrible feeling of being such a worry and such an
expense to papa and mamma. I've thought often lately," and the boy
looked before him wistfully--"Charlotte," he broke off, "isn't it queer
how things bring things to your mind? There's a corner of one of the
window-panes there that's cracked; I see it every morning when I wake,
and I always wonder when it will break away, and there'll have to be a
new pane. And then some proverb about cracked things lasting the
longest comes into my mind, and I begin thinking perhaps I shall last an
awfully long time, and then I worry about what a lot I shall cost them,
and perhaps never be able to earn anything. And that's what's made me
think sometimes lately that it would be better if I died."
"But, Jerry," Charlotte repeated; she spoke very quietly, for she was
dreadfully afraid of beginning to cry; "you don't need to feel that now.
_Now_ you can try to take advantage of all your chances for getting
well without any worry to spoil it."
"Yes; that's what I'm so thankful for. Oh, I am so thankful!" he said
fervently. "And, Charlotte," he added very gravely, "there's another
thing I'm glad of, very glad of--the poor ghost will be able to rest
now."
Charlotte jumped up and clapped her hands. In her state of suppressed
excitement one mood rapidly followed another, and it was better to laugh
than to cry! But Jerry did not join in her merriment.
"Don't, Charlotte," he said, "I'm not joking. I've thought of him
lately in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep, and I have felt
so sorry for him. So sorry that if I had heard him again I would have
spoken to him, I am sure. Can you fancy anything more terrible than to
have to wander about,--never resting, with no home, and no power of
doing any good, or undoing any harm,--for years and years and years? I
think it's quite as dreadful a punishment as any one could imagine, and
I think, perhaps, if people believed in that kind of ghosts a little, it
wouldn't do them _any_ harm."
"But, supposing it's true even," said Charlotte, "the poor old thing's
at rest now."
"Yes, I think so; I do hope he'll be able to be at peace. For, after
all, he _has_ tried to tell how sorry he was, and to put things right,"
said Jerry, with a sigh of relief.
He was weak and tired all that day, but it was scarcely, perhaps, to be
wondered at. And the night following he slept soundly, and awoke
refreshed; and when Dr Lewis saw him he expressed his conviction that
the boy would be quite able to stand the journey in a week's time. And
it was with one anxiety the less on his overburdened professional
shoulders that the good doctor left the Waldrons' house that morning.
"It will save the boy, there is no doubt of it," he said to himself.
"And I know no one more deserving of good fortune than Waldron," for
Jerry's father had thought it right to take his old friend to some
extent into his confidence. "Dear me!--to think that _he_ should be the
next in the Silverthorns succession! I knew there was some connection,
but I thought it a much more remote one."
Surprises seemed to be the order of the day at Norfolk Terrace. Some
day within the week, during which, preparations for Jerry's journey went
on busily, came a letter with a foreign post-mark, addressed to
Charlotte. She started a little when she saw the writing.
"From Claudia Meredon," she half whispered to herself; "she must be
writing about Jerry, I suppose."
But when she drew out the letter she saw that it was rather a long one.
"The boys" were all about, and Charlotte knew that quiet was not to be
expected in such circumstances. So she took the letter off to her own
room to read in peace. The first few words surprised her.
"My dear Charlotte," it began,--whereas hitherto Claudia's one or two
little notes had been formally addressed to "Dear Miss Waldron,"--"Aunt
Mildred tells me I may call you by your first name as she says we must
each think of the other as a sort of cousin now, so I hope you will not
mind it. I have been longing to tell you how happy I was to hear all
that has come to pass. It is, of course, very sad for General Osbert
and his family, but they have never really seemed like relations to Aunt
Mildred, and I do not think they have ever cared much about dear
Silverthorns. It is delightful to think that it is going to be your
father's some day, and indeed it will seem like his almost at once, as
Aunt Mildred is longing for him to take charge of things. I do so want
to see you. I want to explain to you many things that I have never been
able to tell. I know you must have thought me strange and unfriendly,
and I want you to know how difficult it was. Aunt Mildred will not mind
my telling you everything now. She wants us to be friends, and this
brings me to what I want especially to write about."
And then followed a proposal which made Charlotte's face flush with
pleasure, and her eyes beam.
"Oh, how delightful it would be," she whispered. "Oh, will papa and
mamma let me?"
And scarcely waiting to finish the letter she flew to her mother in such
a state of breathless excitement that Mrs Waldron scarcely recognised
her quiet self-contained little daughter.
"It is very, very kind," she said, when she had read what Charlotte
eagerly pointed out.
"And may I go? Do you think papa would let me?" she exclaimed. "Oh,
mamma, I would work so hard at French and music. You see Claudia says I
could join in her lessons."
"We must wait till your father comes home," said Mrs Waldron. "But I
should like it for you very much indeed."
Mr Waldron had had a letter too--from Lady Mildred herself. She wrote
earnestly begging her newly acknowledged cousin to bring his daughter,
as well as Jerry, for a two or three months' visit to her at Cannes.
"I beg you not to let the expense be any difficulty," she said. "There
are long arrears due to you which I can, alas, only indirectly make up.
And I am most anxious, peculiarly so, that my dear little niece, Claudia
Meredon, should make friends with your children. She will be speaking
of this plan in more detail in her letter to your daughter."
So it was decided, and a few days later Mr Waldron, accompanied by his
two children, started for Cannes.
Jerry bore the journey fairly well, but he was very exhausted before
they got to its end, and his father was thankful that Charlotte was with
them. Some little time of anxiety about him followed, and he required
much care and nursing to bring him round, though the doctor assured them
that there was no serious cause for alarm and much for congratulation
that the move southwards had not been delayed.
"I doubt if he would have stood it a few weeks hence," said he. "He was
evidently losing instead of gaining strength every day in England. But
you will see a great change in a little while."
And in the mean time Jerry's illness had one good effect. It drew the
two girls together as nothing else could have done, and made the
Waldrons feel more quickly and thoroughly at home with Lady Mildred than
would otherwise have been the case. For her real kindness of heart came
to the front at such times, and all her stiffness and "frighteningness"
vanished.
One day--one lovely day, when it was difficult to believe it was only
February, and that up there in the north in poor, grey old England, the
rain and the fogs, or the snow, perhaps, were having it all their own
way--a little group was enjoying the sunshine on one of the pleasant
terrace walks above the sea. There was Jerry in an invalid-chair still,
but looking as if he would soon be independent of anything of the kind,
and beside him his two constant girl-attendants. Suddenly one of them
started forward.
"Claudia," she said, "I see papa; he is coming our way. Would you mind
my running to meet him? I do so want to talk to him a little. He will
so soon be going now, and I have scarcely seen him alone for so many
days."
"Of course," Claudia replied. "Jerry and I will be perfectly happy.
Don't hurry, Charlotte."
And in another minute Charlotte was beside her father, her two hands
clasped on his arm.
"Well, my gipsy?" he said.
"Oh, papa, I have so much to say to you, and you are going so soon," she
replied.
"And I have been so busy since Jerry got better that my little girl is
beginning to think I am forgetting her--is that your new trouble?
Remember, I never agreed with you in the old days, when it seemed to you
that if a good many `ifs' were realised, there would be no such thing as
a trouble left."
"Papa," said Charlotte reproachfully; "I'm not making troubles. I'm
never going to do so--it would be _too_ ungrateful. I suppose, as you
say so, they must come some time or other, but just now, with Jerry
better and all, it's difficult to think of them. _You_ haven't any,
have you, dear papa?"
"No, my dear; I have so much good to be grateful for, that, as you say,
it is difficult to think of anything but sunshine. Everything is going
on satisfactorily."
"You have seen General Osbert again, papa, since the poor son's death?"
asked Charlotte; for the younger Mr Osbert had died a few days after
the Waldrons arrived.
"Yes, poor old man; he and Lady Mildred are quite at one about
everything, and of course I am only too glad to carry out her wishes.
One thing I am glad of, and that is that I shall have plenty to do,
Charlotte. I could not have endured a life of even comparative
idleness."
"Papa dear," Charlotte went on, "it is most of all about Claudia I want
to speak to you. I cannot tell you how I feel about her. Do you know,
papa, I _could_ not have been like her if our places had been reversed?
Just think, she is really as happy for us as if we were her own family.
I don't believe it has once come into her mind, even the very least
little bit, to wish any of it were coming to them."
"She is a most sweet and noble girl," said Mr Waldron.
"And, _papa_, to think of all she has told me--of how horribly I
misunderstood her. To think how poor they are, and of her father's
blindness, and how they have struggled, and all that Claudia has done--
not that she seems to think she has ever done anything. I sometimes
can't _bear_ to think of the feelings I had," and Charlotte's honest
eyes filled with tears.
"It was not altogether your fault," said her father consolingly.
"Yes, papa; the horrid feelings were," said Charlotte firmly. "But do
you know it is Claudia's _happiness_ that makes me the most ashamed.
She does not know--you said when you first understood about her, you
remember, that it would hurt her for me to say too much about how I
misjudged her?--she does not know half, and she thinks it was all
because she dared not be frank and companionable at school. And she
says she is so happy now that we are friends that it was the only thing
wanting, and that she is the luckiest girl in the world. And after all,
papa, the happiness she is so looking forward to, of working hard and
earning, not many would think it a very delightful future, would they?
Oh, papa, she is _so_ good."
"And so she is to be envied after all. Has she not `everything' in the
best sense, gipsy dear?"
"And we will _always_ be her dearest friends, won't we, papa?
Afterwards--when--when Lady Mildred is dead, though I don't like to
speak of it, you will be rich enough to help them in many ways that they
would not mind, won't you, papa?"
Mr Waldron's eyes looked very bright as he turned to Charlotte.
"I have been saying to Lady Mildred that nothing she can ask of me would
give me greater pleasure than the being allowed now, or in the future,
to be of use to the Meredons. Even were they less to be admired and
respected than they are, it would be my place. And for Claudia herself,
I am like you, Charlotte, I can't say what I feel about her. I can only
say I am most thankful for you to have such a friend."
"I'm only dreadfully afraid, papa, that now I am learning to love her
so, I shall not see much more of her. Lady Mildred is already talking
of perhaps not returning to England all this year--of going to Germany
in the summer, and back here again next winter. She says her mind is at
peace about Silverthorns now, and that she means to have some holidays.
And I mustn't stay away from home very long, papa. Mamma could never
manage the removal to Silverthorns, to the Old Lodge, I mean, without
me," she added importantly; "though I shall be dreadfully sorry to leave
Claudia, and Lady Mildred too."
"But think how very delightful it will be to be installed at the Old
Lodge when they do come back, and to be able to give them a sort of
welcome home."
"And, papa, Claudia must always come to us for holidays even when she is
settled at her own home, unless she is with Lady Mildred. And Jerry and
I were planning we might ask one or two of the little ones to come with
her each time, so that she wouldn't feel she was leaving them all with
her mother. Though Mrs Meredon isn't quite so badly off as mamma, the
next girl is past twelve, and our little girls are _so_ tiny. But I
think we must go on to Claudia and Jerry, papa. They want to see
something of you, too, before you go. Oh, papa, _how_ lovely it is
here!"
And her eyes seemed as if they would never be tired of gazing at the
perfection of sky and sea--at the blue glory one must leave our cold
northern shores far behind ever to see.
"Yes," said Mr Waldron, "it is very, very beautiful. But there are
chilly and dull days here too, Charlotte. It is not always such
sunshine and brilliance."
"And even if it were, one would wish for home in a while," the girl
replied. "When the spring comes."
"Yes--
"`Oh, to be in England Now that April's there,'" quoted her father.
"Well, I hope we shall be all together there before April goes at any
rate."
And so saying they rejoined the others.
Charlotte's misgivings that Lady Mildred would not return home for some
length of time were realised. The old lady, who had not left England
for many years, greatly enjoyed another taste of foreign travel, of
which in her youth she had had much. Her mind was more at ease than it
had been since her husband's death as to the management of the property,
and she also felt that she was conferring real and lasting benefits on
Claudia. But some months before the two years during which her
grand-niece was to be her charge, had expired, a sort of home-sickness
came over them both.
"I think we won't spend another Christmas away from England, Claudia,"
she said rather suddenly one day. "I have a yearning to see
Silverthorns again. And I know the Waldrons will never feel thoroughly
at home till I am there myself. I must get to know Amy, and I want to
see my pet Jerry again, and Charlotte too. And you will like to feel
near your own people again, eh, my dear?"
"Yes, Aunt Mildred. It will be very nice, _very_ nice," said Claudia.
"Another Christmas if all's well--if I'm still with you all, that's to
say," pursued Lady Mildred, "we must have the house full. I must have
you all over with me. But this year of course I must devote myself more
particularly to Edward's wife and children. And in that you will be a
great help to me, you and Charlotte being already such friends."
"She says--they say," said Claudia laughing, "that I'm to spend all my
holidays there--that's to say when _you_ don't invite me. They are so
_very_ kind to me, really as if they were relations of my own. And some
people in their place, Aunt Mildred, _might_ not have been so cordial to
me. I do think it's delightful that your relations on the other side
should be so nice. How beautifully things have turned out for us ever
since that day you came down to Britton-Garnett! I do think I must have
been born under a lucky star."
And as she looked up with her sweet bright face and sunny eyes, Lady
Mildred could not help agreeing with her.
"Yes, my dear, good child," she said; "I think indeed some very
beneficent fairy godmother must have been at your christening. You have
some gifts you scarcely realise--the gift of bringing sunshine into
other lives for one."
"Auntie dear," said Claudia, almost startled, for never was woman less
demonstrative than Lady Mildred; "you are too good to me. I can do _so_
little, and everybody is so kind to me. Auntie dear," she went on
timidly; "have I really brought a little sunshine to _you_?"
Lady Mildred smiled and stroked the girl's soft hair as Claudia knelt
down beside her; and though she did not speak, her niece was more than
satisfied.
And no more was ever heard of the owls in the tower room at
Silverthorns.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.