On an east-windy Friday afternoon Valetta and Fergus were in a crowning
state of ecstasy. Rigdum Funnidos was in a hutch in the small garden
under the cliff, Begum and two small gray kittens were in a basket under
the kitchen stairs, Aga was purring under everybody’s feet, Cocky was
turning out the guard upon his perch--in short, Il Lido was made as like
Silverfold as circumstances would permit. Aunt Ada with Miss Vincent was
sitting on the sofa in the drawing-room, with a newly-worked cosy,
like a giant’s fez, over the teapot, and Valetta’s crewel cushion fully
displayed. She was patiently enduring a rush in and out of the room of
both children and Quiz once every minute, and had only requested that
it should not be more than once, and that the door should neither be
slammed nor left open.
Macrae and the Silverfold carriage were actually gone to the station,
and, oh! oh! oh! here it really was with papa on the box, and heaps
of luggage, and here were Primrose and Gillian and mamma and Mrs.
Halfpenny, all emerging one after another, and Primrose, looking--oh
dear! more like a schoolroom than a nursery girl--such a great piece of
black leg below the little crimson skirt; but the dear little face as
plump as ever.
That was the first apparent fact after the disengaging from the general
embrace, when all had subsided into different seats, and Aunt Jane, who
had appeared from somewhere in her little round sealskin hat, had begun
to pour out the tea. The first sentence that emerged from the melee of
greetings and intelligence was--
‘Fly met her mother at the station; how well she looks!’
‘Then Victoria came down with you?’
‘Yes; I am glad we went to her. I really do like her very much.’
Then Primrose and Valetta varied the scene by each laying a kitten in
their mother’s lap; and Begum, jumping after her progeny, brushed Lady
Merrifield’s face with her bushy tail, interrupting the information
about names.
‘Come, children,’ said Sir Jasper, ‘that’s enough; take away the cats.’
It was kindly said, but it was plain that liberties with mamma would not
continue before him.
‘The Whites?’ was Gillian’s question, as she pressed up to Aunt Jane.
‘Poor Mrs. White died the night before last,’ was the return. ‘I have
just come from Kally. She is in a stunned state now--actually too busy
to think and feel, for the funeral must be to-morrow.’
Sir Jasper heard, and came to ask further questions.
‘She saw Alexis,’ went on Miss Mohun. ‘They dressed him in his own
clothes, and she seemed greatly satisfied when he came to sit by her,
and had forgotten all that went before. However, the end came very
suddenly at last, and all those poor children show their southern nature
in tremendous outbursts of grief--all except Kalliope, who seems not
to venture on giving way, will not talk, or be comforted, and is, as it
were, dried up for the present. The big brothers give way quite as
much as the children, in gusts, that is to say. Poor Alexis reproaches
himself with having hastened it, and I am afraid his brother does not
spare him. But Mr. White has bought his discharge.’
‘You don’t mean it.’
‘Yes; whether it was the contrast between Alexis’s air of refinement
and his private soldier’s turn-out, or the poor fellow’s patience and
submission, or the brother’s horrid behaviour to him, Mr. White has
taken him up, and bought him out.’
‘All because of Richard’s brutal speech. That is good! Though I confess
I should have let the lad have at least a year’s discipline for his own
good, since he had put himself into it; but I can’t be sorry. There is
something engaging about the boy.’
‘And Mr. White is the right man to dispose of them.’
No more passed, for here were the children eager and important, doing
the honours of the new house, and intensely happy at the sense of home,
which with them depended more on persons than on place.
One schoolroom again,’ said Mysie. ‘One again with Val and Prim and Miss
Vincent. Oh, it is happiness!’
Even Mrs. Halfpenny was a delightful sight, perhaps the more so that her
rightful dominion was over; the nursery was no more, and she was only to
preside in the workroom, be generally useful, wait on my lady, and look
after Primrose as far as was needful.
The bustle and excitement of settling in prevented much thought of the
Whites, even from Gillian, during that evening and the next morning; and
she was ashamed of her own oblivion of her friend in the new current of
ideas, when she found that her father meant to attend the funeral out of
respect to his old fellow-soldier.
Rockquay had outgrown its churchyard, and had a cemetery half a mile
off, so that people had to go in carriages. Mr. White had made himself
responsible for expenses, and thus things were not so utterly dreary
as poverty might have made them. It was a dreary, gusty March day,
with driving rushes of rain, which had played wildly with Gillian’s
waterproof while she was getting such blossoms and evergreen leaves as
her aunt’s garden afforded, not out of love for the poor Queen of
the White Ants herself, but thinking the attention might gratify the
daughters; and her elders moralised a little on the use and abuse of
wreaths, and how the manifestation of tender affection and respect had
in many cases been imitated in empty and expensive compliment.
‘The world spoils everything with its coarse finger,’ said Lady
Merrifield.
‘I hope the custom will not be exaggerated altogether out of fashion,’
said Jane. ‘It is a real comfort to poor little children at funerals
to have one to carry, and it is as Mrs. Gaskell’s Margaret said of
mourning, something to prevent settling to doing nothing but crying;
besides that afterwards there is a wholesome sweetness in thus keeping
up the memory.’
Sir Jasper shared a carriage with Mr. White, and returned somewhat wet
and very cold, and saying that it had been sadly bleak and wretched for
the poor young people, who stood trembling, so far as he could see; and
he was anxious to know how the poor girls were after it. It had seemed
to him as if Kalliope could scarcely stand. He proved to be right.
Kalliope had said nothing, not wept demonstratively, perhaps not at all;
but when the carriage stopped at the door, she proved to be sunk back in
her corner in a dead faint. She was very long in reviving, and no sooner
tried to move than she swooned again, and this time it lasted so
long that the doctor was sent for. Miss Mohun arrived just as he had
partially restored her, and they had a conversation.
‘They must get that poor girl to bed as soon as it is possible to
undress her,’ he said. ‘I have seen that she must break down sooner or
later, and I’m afraid she is in for a serious illness; but as yet there
is no knowing.’
Nursing was not among Jane’s accomplishments, except of her sister Ada’s
chronic, though not severe ailments; but she fetched Mrs. Halfpenny as
the most effective person within reach, trusting to that good woman’s
Scotch height, strong arms, great decision, and the tenderness which
real illness always elicited.
Nor was she wrong. Not only did Mrs. Halfpenny get the half-unconscious
girl into bed, but she stayed till evening, and then came back to snatch
a meal and say--
‘My leddy, if you have no objection, I will sit up with that puir
lassie the night. They are all men-folk or bairns there, except the
lodger-lady, who is worn out with helping the mother, and they want some
one with a head on her shoulders.’
Lady Merrifield consented with all her heart; but the Sunday morning’s
report was no better, when Mrs. Halfpenny came home to dress Primrose,
and see her lady.
‘That eldest brother, set him up, the idle loon, was off by the mail
train that night, and naething wad serve him but to come in and bid
good-bye to his sister just as I had gotten her off into something more
like a sleep. It startled her up, and she went off her head again, poor
dearie, and began to talk about prison and disgrace, and what not, till
she fainted again; and when she came to, I was fain to call the other
lad to pacify her, for I could see the trouble in her puir een, though
she could scarce win breath to speak.’
‘Is Alexis there?’
‘Surely he is, my leddy; he’s no the lad to leave his sister in sic a
strait. It was all I could do to gar him lie down when she dozed off
again, but there’s sair stress setting in for all of them, puir things.
I have sent the little laddie off to beg the doctor to look in as soon
as he can, for I am much mistaken if there be not fever coming on.’
‘Indeed! And what can those poor children do?’
‘That’s what I’m thinking, my leddy. And since ‘tis your pleasure that
the nursery be done awa’ wi’, and I have not ta’en any fresh work, I
should like weel to see the puir lassie through wi’ it. Ye’ll no mind
that Captain White and my puir Halfpenny listed the same time, and
always forgathered as became douce lads. The twa of them got their
stripes thegither, and when Halfpenny got his sunstroke in that weary
march, ‘twas White who gave him his last sup of water, and brought me
his bit Bible. So I’d be fain to tend his daughter in her sickness,
if you could spare me, my leddy, and I’d aye rin home to dress Missie
Primrose and pit her to bed, and see to matters here.’
‘There’s no better nurse in the world, dear old Halfpenny,’ said Lady
Merrifield, with tears in her eyes. ‘I do feel most thankful to you for
proposing it. Never mind about Primrose, only you must have your meals
and a good rest here, and not knock yourself up.’
Mrs. Halfpenny smiled grimly at the notion of her being sooner knocked
up than a steam-engine. Dr. Dagger entirely confirmed her opinion that
poor Kalliope was likely to have a serious illness, low nervous fever,
and failing action of the heart, no doubt from the severe strain that
she had undergone, more or less, for many months, and latterly fearfully
enhanced by her mother’s illness, and the shock and suspense about
Alexis, all borne under the necessity of external composure and
calmness, so that even Mrs. Lee had never entirely understood how much
it cost her. The doctor did not apprehend extreme danger to one young
and healthy, but he thought much would depend on good nursing, and on
absolute protection from any sort of excitement, so that such care as
Mrs. Halfpenny’s was invaluable, since she was well known to be a dove
to a patient, but a dragon to all outsiders.
Every one around grieved at having done so little to lighten these
burthens, and having even increased them, her brother Alexis above all;
but on the other hand, he was the only person who was of any use to her,
or was suffered to approach her, since his touch and voice calmed the
recurring distress, lest he were still in prison and danger.
Alexis went back dutifully on the Monday morning to his post at the
works. The young man was much changed by his fortnight’s experiences, or
rather he had been cured of a temporary fit of distraction, and returned
to his better self. How many discussions his friends held about him
cannot be recorded, but after a conversation with Mr. Flight, with whom
he was really more unreserved than any other being except Kalliope, this
was the understanding at which Miss Mohun and Lady Merrifield arrived as
to his nature and character.
Refined, studious, and sensitive, thoroughly religious-minded, and of a
high tone of thought, his aspirations had been blighted by his father’s
death, his brother’s selfishness, and his mother’s favouritism. In
a brave spirit of self-abnegation, he had turned to the uncongenial
employment set before him for the sake of his family, and which
was rendered specially trying by the dislike of his fellows to ‘the
gentleman cove,’ and the jealousy of the Stebbings. Alike for his
religious and his refined habits he had suffered patiently, as Mr.
Flight had always known more or less, and now bore testimony. The
curate, who had opened to him the first door of hope and comfort, had
in these weeks begun to see that the apparent fitfulness of his kindness
had been unsettling.
Then came the brief dream of felicity excited by Gillian and the
darkness of its extinction, just as Frank Stebbing’s failure and
the near approach of Mr. White had made the malice of his immediate
superiors render his situation more intolerable than ever. There was the
added sting of self-reproach for his presumption towards Gillian, and
the neglect caused by his fit of low spirits. Such a sensitive being,
in early youth, wearied and goaded on all sides, might probably have
persevered through the darkness till daylight came; but the catastrophe,
the dismissal, and the perception that he could only defend himself at
the expense of his idol’s little brother, all exaggerated by youthful
imagination, were too much for his balance of judgment, and he fled
without giving himself time to realise how much worse he made it for
those he left behind him.
Of course he perceived it all now, and the more bitterly from his
sister’s wanderings, but the morbid exaggeration was gone. The actual
taste of a recruit’s life had shown him that there were worse things
than employment at the quarries with his home awaiting him, and his cell
had been a place of thought and recovery of his senses. He had never
seriously expected conviction, and Sir Jasper’s visit had given him a
spring of hopeful resignation, in which thoughts stirred of doing his
duty, and winning his way after his father’s example, and taking the
trials of his military life as the just cross of his wrong-doing in
entering it.
His liberation and Mr. White’s kindness had not altered this frame. He
was too unhappy to feel his residence in the great house anything but a
restraint; he could not help believing that he had hastened his
mother’s death, and could only bow his head meekly under his brother’s
reproaches, alike for that and for his folly and imprudence and the
disgrace he had brought on the family.
‘And now you’ll, be currying favour and cutting out every one else,’ had
been a sting which added fresh force to Alexis’s desire to escape from
his kinsman’s house to sleep at home as soon as his brother had gone;
and Richard had seen enough of Sir Jasper and of Mr. White to be anxious
to return to his office at Leeds as soon as possible, and to regulate
his affairs beyond their reach.
Alexis knew that he had avoided a duty in not working out his three
months’ term, and likewise that his earnings were necessary to the
family all the more for his sister being laid aside. He knew that he
hardly deserved to resume his post, and he merely asked permission so to
do, and it was granted at once, but curtly and coldly.
Mr. Flight had asked if he had not found the going among the other
clerks very trying.
‘I had other things to think of,’ said Alexis sadly, then recalling
himself. ‘Yes; Jones did sneer a little, but the others stopped that.
They knew I was down, you see.’
‘And you mean to go on?’
‘If I may. That, and for my sister to get better, is all I can dare to
hope. My madness and selfishness have shown me unworthy of all that I
once dreamt of.’
In that resolution it was assuredly best to leave him, only giving him
such encouragement and sympathy as might prevent that more dangerous
reaction of giving up all better things; and Sir Jasper impressed on
Mr. Flight, the only friend who could have aided him in fulfilling his
former aspirations, that Mr. White had in a manner purchased the
youth by buying his discharge, and that interference would not only be
inexpedient, but unjust. The young clergyman chafed a little over not
being allowed to atone for his neglect; but Sir Jasper was not a person
to be easily gainsayed. Nor could there be any doubt that Mr. White was
a good man, though in general so much inclined to reserve his hand that
his actions were apt to take people by surprise at last, as they had
never guessed his intentions, and he had a way of sucking people’s
brains without in the least letting them know what use he meant to
make of their information. The measures he was taking for the temporal,
intellectual, and spiritual welfare of the people at the works would
hardly have been known except for the murmurs of Mrs. Stebbing,
although, without their knowing what he was about with them, Mr.
Stebbing himself, Mr. Hablot, Miss Mohun, to say nothing of Alexis, the
foremen and the men and their wives, had given him the groundwork of his
reforms. Meantime, he came daily to inquire for Kalliope, and lavished
on her all that could be an alleviation, greatly offending Mrs.
Halfpenny by continually proffering the services of a hospital nurse.
‘A silly tawpie that would be mair trouble than half a dozen sick,’ as
she chose to declare.
She was a born autocrat, and ruled as absolutely in No. l as in her
nursery, ordering off the three young ones to their schools, in spite
of Maura’s remonstrances and appeals to Lady Merrifield, who agreed with
nurse that the girl was much better away and occupied than where she
could be of very little use.
Indeed, Mrs. Halfpenny banished every one from the room except Mrs. Lee
and Alexis, whom she would allow to take her place, while she stalked
to Il Lido for her meals, and the duties she would not drop. As to rest,
she always, in times of sickness, seemed to be made of cast iron, and if
she ever slept at all, it was in a chair, while Alexis sat by his sister
in the evening.
The fever never ran very high, but constant vigilance was wanted from
the extreme exhaustion and faintness. There was no violent delirium,
but more of delusion and distress; nor was it easy to tell when she
was conscious or otherwise, for she hardly spoke, and as yet the doctor
forbade any attempt to rouse her more than was absolutely needful. They
were only to give nourishment, watch her, and be patient.
A few months ago Gillian would have fussed herself into a frantic state
of anxiety and self-reproach, but her parents, when her mother had once
heard as much outpouring as she thought expedient, would not permit what
Sir Jasper called ‘perpetual harping.’
‘You have to do your duties all the same, and not worry your mother and
all the family with your feelings,’ he said. She thought it very unkind,
and went away crying.
‘Nobody could hinder her from thinking about Kalliope,’ she said to
herself, and think she did at her prayers, and when the bulletins came
in, but the embargo on discussion prevented her from being so absolutely
engrossed, as in weaker hands she might have been, and there was a great
deal going on to claim her attention. For one thing, the results of the
Cambridge Examination showed that while Emma Norton and a few others had
passed triumphantly, she had failed, and conscience carried her back
to last autumn’s disinclination to do just what Aunt Jane especially
recommended.
She cried bitterly over the failure, for she had a feeling that success
there would redeem her somewhat in her parents’ eyes; but here again she
experienced the healing kindness of her father. He would not say that
he should not have been much pleased by her success, but he said
failure that taught her to do her best without perverseness was really a
benefit; and as arithmetic and mathematics had been her weakest points,
he would work at them with her and Mysie for an hour every morning.
It was somewhat formidable, but the girls soon found that what their
father demanded was application, and that inattention displeased
him much more than stupidity. His smile, though rare, was one of the
sweetest things in the world, and his approbation was delightful, and
gave a stimulus to the entire day’s doings. Mysie was more than ever in
dread of being handed over to the Rotherwoods, though her love for poor
Fly and pity for her solitude were so strong. She would have been much
relieved if she had known what had passed; when the offer was seriously
made, Lord Rotherwood insisted that his wife should do it.
‘Then they will believe in it,’ he said.
‘I do not know why you should say that,’ she returned, always dutifully
blinding herself to that which all their intimates knew perfectly well.
However, perhaps from having a station and dignity of her own, together
with great simplicity, Lady Merrifield had from her first arrival got
on so well with her hostess as not quite to enter into Jane’s sarcastic
descriptions of her efforts at cordiality; and it was with real warmth
that Lady Rotherwood begged for Mysie as a permanent companion and
adopted sister to Phyllis, who was to be taken back to London after
Easter, and in the meantime spent every possible moment with her
cousins.
Tears at the unkindness to lonely Fly came into Lady Merrifield’s eyes
as she said--
‘I cannot do it, Victoria; I do not think I ought to give away my child,
even if I could.’
‘It is not only our feelings,’ added Sir Jasper, ‘but it is our duty to
bring up our own child in her natural station; and though we know she
would learn nothing but good in your family, I cannot think it well that
a girl should acquire habits, and be used to society ways and of life
beyond those which she can expect to continue.’
They both cried out at this, Lord Rotherwood with a halting declaration
of perfect equality, which his lady seconded, with a dexterous reference
to connections.
‘We will not put it on rank then,’ said Sir Jasper, ‘but on wealth. With
you, Maria must become accustomed to much that she could not continue,
and had better not become natural to her. I know there are great
advantages to manners and general cultivation in being with you, and we
shall be most thankful to let her pay long visits, and be as much with
Phyllis as is consistent with feeling her home with us, but I cannot
think it right to do more.’
‘But with introductions,’ pleaded Lady Rotherwood, ‘she might marry
well. With her family and connections, she would be a match for any
one.’
‘I hope so,’ said Sir Jasper; ‘but at the same time it would not be well
for her to look on such a marriage as the means of continuing the habits
that would have become second nature.’
‘Poor Mysie,’ exclaimed Lord Rotherwood, bursting out laughing at the
idea, and at Lady Merrifield’s look as she murmured, ‘My Mysie!’
‘You misunderstand me,’ said the Marchioness composedly. ‘I was as far
as possible from proposing marriage as a speculation for her.’
‘I know you were,’ said Sir Jasper. ‘I know you would deal by Maria as
by your own daughter, and I am very grateful to you, Lady Rotherwood,
but I can only come back to my old decision, that as Providence did not
place her in your rank of life, she had better not become so accustomed
to it as to render her own distasteful to her.’
‘Exactly what I expected,’ said Lord Rotherwood.
‘Yes,’ returned his wife, with an effort of generosity; ‘and I believe
you are right, Jasper, though I am sorry for my little solitary girl,
and I never saw a friend so perfectly suitable for her as your Mysie.’
‘They may be friends still,’ said Lord Rotherwood, ‘and we will be
grateful to you whenever you can spare her to us.’
‘Perhaps,’ added Sir Jasper, ‘all the more helpful friends for seeing
different phases of life.’
‘And, said his wife, with one of her warm impulses, ‘I do thank you,
Victoria, for so loving my Mysie.’
‘As if any one could help it, after last winter,’ said that lady, and an
impromptu kiss passed between the two mothers, much to the astonishment
of the Marquis, who had never seen his lady so moved towards any one.
The Merrifields were somewhat on the world, for Sir Jasper, on going
to Silverfold and corresponding with the trustees of the landlord, had
found that the place could not be put in a state either of repair or
sanitation, such as he approved, without more expense than either he
or the trustees thought advisable, and he decided on giving it up, and
remaining at Il Lido till he could find something more suitable.
The children, who had been there during the special homemaking age,
bewailed the decision, and were likely always to look back on Silverfold
as a sort of Paradise; but the elder ones had been used to changes from
infancy, and had never settled down, and their mother said that place
was little to her as long as she had her Jasper by her side, and as to
the abstract idea of home as a locality, that would always be to her
under the tulip-tree and by the pond at the Old Court at Beechcroft,
just as her abstract idea of church was in the old family pew, with the
carved oak panels, before the restoration, in which she had been the
most eager of all.
Thus a fortnight passed, and then the fever was decidedly wearing
off, but returning at night. Kalliope still lay weak, languid, silent,
fainting at any attempt to move her, not apparently able to think enough
to ask how time passed, or to be uneasy about anything, simply accepting
the cares given to her, and lying still. One morning, however, Alexis
arrived in great distress to speak to Sir Jasper, not that his sister
was worse, as he explained, but Richard had been selling the house. The
younger ones at home had never troubled themselves as to whose property
the three houses in Ivinghoe Terrace were. Perhaps Kalliope knew, but
she could not be asked; but the fact was that Captain White had been so
lost sight of, that he had not known that this inheritance had fallen to
him under the will of his grandfather, who was imbecile at the time of
his flight. On his deathbed, the Captain had left the little he owned to
his wife, and she had died intestate, as Richard had ascertained before
leaving home, so that he, as eldest son, was heir to the ground. He had
written to Kalliope, a letter which Alexis had opened, informing her
that he had arranged to sell the houses to a Mr. Gudgeon, letting to
him their own till the completion of the legal business necessary,
and therefore desiring his brothers and sisters to move out with their
lodgers, if not by Lady Day itself, thus giving only a week’s spare
notice, at latest by Old Lady Day.
‘Is he not aware of your sister’s state?’
‘I do not imagine that he has read the letter that I wrote to him. He
was very much displeased with me, and somewhat disposed to be angry at
my sister’s fainting, and to think that we were all trying to work on
his feelings. He used to be rather fond of Maura, so I told her to write
to him, but he has taken no notice, and he can have no conception of
Kalliope’s condition, or he would not have addressed his letter to her.
I came to ask if you would kindly write to him how impossible it is to
move her.’
‘You had better get a certificate from Dr. Dagger. Either I or Lady
Merrifield will meet him, and see to that. That will serve both to stay
him and the purchaser.’
‘That is another misfortune. This Gudgeon is the chief officer, or
whatever they call it, of the Salvation Army. I knew they had been
looking out for a place for a barracks, and could not get one because
almost everything belongs to Lord Rotherwood or to Mr. White.’
Sir Jasper could only reply that he would see what could be done in the
matter, and that, at any rate, Kalliope should not be disturbed.
Accordingly Lady Merrifield repaired to Ivinghoe Terrace for the
doctor’s visit, and obtained from him the requisite certificate that the
patient could not be removed at present. He gave it, saying, however,
to Lady Merrifield’s surprise, that though he did not think it would
be possible to remove her in a week’s time, yet after that he fully
believed that she would have more chance of recovering favourably if she
could be taken out of the small room and the warm atmosphere beneath the
cliffs--though of course all must depend on her state at the time.
Meantime there was a council of the gentlemen about outbidding the
Salvation Army. Lord Rotherwood was spending already as much as he could
afford, in the days of agricultural depression, on the improvements
planned with Mr. White. That individual was too good a man of business
to fall, as he said, into the trap, and make a present to that scamp
Richard of more than the worth of the houses, and only Mr. Flight was
ready to go to any cost to keep off the Salvation Army; but the answer
was curt. Richard knew he had no chance with Mr. White, and did not care
to keep terms with him.
‘Mr. Richard White begs to acknowledge the obliging offer of the Rev.
Augustine Flight, and regrets that arrangements have so far progressed
with Mr. Gudgeon that he cannot avail himself of it.’
Was this really regret or was the measure out of spite? Only the
widest charity could accept the former suggestion, and even Sir Jasper
Merrifield’s brief and severe letter and Dr. Dagger’s certificate did
not prevent a letter to Alexis, warning him not to make their sister’s
illness a pretext for unreasonable delay.
What was to be done? Kalliope was still unfit to be consulted or even
informed, and she had been hitherto so entirely the real head and
manager of the family that Alexis did not like to make any decision
without her; and even the acceptance of the St. Wulstan’s choristership
for Theodore had been put off for her to make it, look to his outfit,
and all that only the woman of the family could do for them.
And here they were at a loss for a roof over their heads, and nowhere
to bestow the battered old furniture, of which Richard magnanimously
renounced his sixth share; while she who had hitherto toiled, thought,
managed, and contrived for all the other four, without care of their
own, still lay on her bed, sensible indeed and no longer feverish, but
with the perilous failure of heart, renewed by any kind of exertion or
excitement, a sudden movement, or a startling sound in the street; and
Mrs. Halfpenny, guarding her as ferociously as ever, and looking capable
of murdering any one of her substitutes if they durst hint a word of
their perplexities. Happily she asked no questions; she was content when
allowed to be kissed by the others, and to see they were well. Nature
was enforcing repose, and so far “her senses was all as in a dream bound
up.” Alexis remembered that it had been somewhat thus at Leeds, when,
after nursing all the rest, she had succumbed to the epidemic; but
then the mother had been able to watch over her, and had been a more
effective parent to the rest than she had since become.
The first practical proposal was Mrs. Lee’s. They thought of reversing
the present position, and taking a small house where their present hosts
might become their lodgers. Moreover, Miss Mohun clenched the affair
about Theodore, and overcame Alexis’s scruples, while Lady Merrifield,
having once or twice looked in, and been smiled at and thanked by
Kalliope, undertook to prepare her for his farewell.
Alexis and Maura both declared that she would instantly jump up, and
want to begin looking over his socks; but she got no further than--
‘Dear boy! It is the sort of thing I always wished for him. People are
very good! But his things--’
‘Oh yes, dearie, ye need not fash yourself. I’ve mended them as I sat by
you, and packed them all. Lie still. They are all right.’
There was an atmosphere of the Royal Wardours about Mrs. Halfpenny,
which was at once congenial and commanding; and Kalliope’s mind at once
relinquished the burthen of socks, shirts, and even the elbows of
the outgrown jacket, nor did any of the family ever know how the
deficiencies had been supplied.
And when Theodore, well admonished, came softly and timidly for the
parting kiss, his face quivering all over with the effort at
self-control, she lay and smiled; but with a great crystal tear on each
dark eyelash, and her thin transparent fingers softly stroked his
cheeks, as the low weak voice said--
‘Be a good boy, dear--speak truth. Praise God well. Write; I’ll write
when I am better.’
It was the first time she had spoken of being better, and they told
Theodore to take comfort from it when all the other three walked him up
to the station.