SOMETHING WRONG
MR. WELLS was not entirely himself next morning, when he appeared for
his inevitable call, hardly "offended" in the strict sense of the word,
but overwhelmingly grave and punctiliously polite. Instead of wheeling
Euphrasia, as usual, into the next room, he allowed her to walk there,
with help from his arm. And then remarked—
"You are getting on well. We did not fix your day for going home. You
wish to be off as early as possible."
Mrs. Johnston, overhearing this, took herself off with great celerity,
to escape the need of pressing for a longer stay.
Euphrasia's glance was apologetic, almost to the extent of begging
pardon. "I ought to go."
"To-morrow is too soon. Monday, if you like. I should have preferred
another week's delay, as a measure of precaution, but it is not
essential. To keep you here against your will is hardly fair."
"Oh, but it is not—" Euphrasia stopped.
And he went on, as if he had not heard.
"On Monday I have to travel in your direction, and, if you do not
object, I can escort you part of the way. The change of trains you
could hardly manage alone. I will see you through that, and into your
own train, after which you will only have to sit still until you get
to West Norton. Somebody must meet you there. It will not do for you
to depend upon yourself. A slight strain now would throw you back for
weeks."
"How good you are!" she said gratefully.
He put a slip of paper into her hand with unmoved countenance. "The
trains are written down, so you can tell your father when to meet you."
"But it will be a trouble—"
"Not in the least." He spoke distantly still. "I have to go on
business. This letter was lying on the hall table."
"Oh, thank you. From my mother!"
Mr. Wells made an unusually rapid exit, and Euphrasia lay musing with
the unopened envelope in her hand. "I must have said something to vex
him yesterday, but what could it have been? He has not been like this
before. How could I guess that he meant it all as a friend? Nobody told
me; and it would have been such a cool thing to take for granted! I
don't think he ought to be annoyed—if he is annoyed! I am not sure; it
is almost more like being pained or disappointed."
For ten minutes the letter in her hand was forgotten, then she turned
to it with a start of recollection—"Oh, how stupid! What is the use
of bothering myself? If he does misunderstand, I can't do anything to
alter it. Fancy forgetting to open my letter!"
Within was a blotted scrawl from Mrs. Mackenzie.
"Your father seems to think," she wrote, "that there is no need to tell
you what has happened until you come home. But I really do not see the
use of putting off, and he says I am to do just as I like. You will be
coming back soon now, I suppose, and then of course you would have to
know."
Was this the dreaded failure and loss of all, which Euphrasia had so
dwelt upon during the first weeks of her imprisonment?
She had not thought much of the matter lately, her mind having been
full of other subjects; and the forgetfulness occurred to her as
curious, even while she eagerly glanced on to see what was wrong.
"Only think—is it not terrible?—the Landors have lost nearly everything
that they have! Positively almost everything! All Mrs. Landor's money
is gone, and the estate must be sold, and nothing will be left. I never
understand business affairs properly, but the Company has failed in
which her money was first made—at least, in which her father's money
was made, which comes to the same thing. And now it is all gone in
one smash. She has had difficulties the last few years—so we are told
now—though nobody knew, except of course her husband. But things might
have come right in time, if it had not been for this failure, which
takes everybody by surprise, the Landors themselves as much as anybody.
They will have nothing left, beyond Mr. Landor's stipend of £85 a year.
Fancy having to live on that, after what Mrs. Landor has always been
accustomed to!
"Nothing could be more sad. I have cried half the time since first I
heard what had happened. Mrs. Landor is very cheerful, but she doesn't
in the least know what it all means. How should she? She has never
wanted anything that she could not get. I cannot imagine what they are
to do. It is not like young people beginning life, but at their age, it
is melancholy!
"Your father is a great deal better since this has happened. It seems
odd, but having to think so much about the Landors has quite roused him
up and made a different man of him. Dr. North said yesterday to me that
really there is not much amiss with him, if only he could believe it!
A change somewhere might do him good because it would mean something
fresh to think about, but this trouble of the Landors seems to have had
the same effect: if only it will last."
In answer to the above, Euphrasia, wrote, after long cogitation:—
"DEAR MOTHER—I can hardly believe what you have told me about Mr. and
Mrs. Landor; it is so very dreadful! I am not writing to them now,
because I hope to see them so soon. This is just a line to say that I
am arranging to come home on Monday.
"I did not tell you before that I had a fall down several steps, the
very day that I came here, and hurt my knee. It was not worth while to
make you all anxious, and nothing could be done except to keep the knee
perfectly still. The doctor says it will be all right in time, if I am
careful for a while, and it is a great deal better already, only I am
not allowed to use it much yet. He is—the doctor, I mean—a cousin of
the Johnstons, so his visits will be no expense to us, as he has only
come as a friend. I did not know this till a day or two ago, and I have
been rather afraid about the bill.
"Part of the time here was rather dull because I have been able to go
nowhere. I shall be so glad to see you all again. Mrs. Johnston is
kind, but I have found Letitia much less of a friend than I expected.
I would not have stayed so long only I could not travel till Mr. Wells
gave me leave.
"I am enclosing a paper of trains for Monday. Mr. Wells has to go that
way, as it happens, and he will see me into my train at the Junction.
He has been very good and kind to me. I do hope you will know him some
day.
"Would my father or somebody meet me at our station because I shall
want a little help in getting out of the train? Please give love to
everybody, and believe me ever,—Your affectionate child,
"EUPHRASIA."
"I knew it! I was sure something was wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie,
on receipt of this letter. "She has not been like herself all through.
Poor dear child!—just hiding from us how bad she was! I hope it does
not mean a lame knee for life. That sort of injury is so troublesome."
"I trust not, indeed, my dear!"
"Of course, the doctor would say the best he could to her, but I know
what knees are! Well, I felt perfectly sure all along that things were
not right; and you see it has been just as I expected!"
Colin Mackenzie might have assured his wife that she usually did feel
sure of things not being "right," and that he did not find her by any
means an invariably true prophetess. But he wisely forbore from so
useless an effort.
"It may be that things have been more 'right' than they seem," he
suggested, mindful of his visit to the Rectory. "I do not think we can
always judge. Euphrasia has shown a brave spirit, dear child!—saying
nothing about it all these weeks! I will meet her at the Junction and
bring her home. She cannot be fit for travelling alone. That old doctor
must be an uncommonly kind man!"
Only, as we know, the doctor was by no means old!
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