THE DECISION
"The matter is settled," said the Reverend Stephen Lorimer, in the tones
of icy decision with which his wife was but too tragically familiar. "I
engaged Mrs. Denys to be a help to you, not exclusively to Jeanie. The
child is quite well enough to return home, and I do not feel myself
justified in incurring any further expense now that her health is quite
sufficiently restored."
"But the children were all counting on going to Stanbury Cliffs for the
Easter holidays," protested Mrs. Lorimer almost tearfully. "We cannot
disappoint them, Stephen!" Mr. Lorimer's lips closed very firmly for a
few seconds. Then, "The change home will be quite sufficient for them,"
he said. "I have given the matter my full consideration, my dear
Adelaide, and no argument of yours will now move me. Mrs. Denys and
Jeanie have been away for a month, and they must now return. It is your
turn for a change, and as soon as Eastertide is over I intend to take you
away with me for ten days or so and leave Mrs. Denys in charge of--the
bear-garden, as I fear it but too truly resembles. You are quite unfit
for the noise and racket of the holidays. And I myself have been feeling
lately the need of a little--shall I call it recreation?" Mr. Lorimer
smiled self-indulgently over the term. He liked to play with words. "I
presume you have no vital objection to accompanying me?"
"Oh, of course not. I should like it above all things," Mrs. Lorimer
hastened to assure him, "if it were not for Jeanie. I don't like the
thought of bringing her home just when her visit is beginning to do her
so much good."
"She cannot remain away for ever," said Mr. Lorimer. "Moreover, her
delicacy must have been considerably exaggerated, or such a sudden
improvement could scarcely have taken place. At all events, so it appears
to me. She must therefore return home and spend the holidays in wholesome
amusements with the other children; and when they are over, I really must
turn my serious attention to her education which has been so sadly
neglected since Christmas. Mrs. Denys is doubtless a very excellent woman
in her way, but she is not, I fear, one to whom I could safely entrust
the intellectual development of a child of Jeanie's age." He paused,
looking up with complacent enquiry at his wife's troubled face. "And now
what scruples are stirring in the mind of my spouse?" he asked, with
playful affection.
Mrs. Lorimer did not smile in answer. Her worried little face only
drew into more anxious lines. "Stephen," she said, "I do wish you
would consult Dr. Tudor before you quite decide to have Jeanie home
at present."
The Vicar's mouth turned down, and he looked for a moment so extremely
unpleasant that Mrs. Lorimer quailed. Then, "My dear," he said
deliberately, "when I decide upon a specific course of action, I carry it
through invariably. If I were not convinced that what I am about to do
were right, I should not do it. Pray let me hear no more upon the
subject! And remember, Adelaide, it is my express command that you do not
approach Dr. Tudor in this matter. He is a most interfering person, and
would welcome any excuse to obtain a footing in this house again. But now
that I have at length succeeded in shaking him off, I intend to keep him
at a distance for the future. And he is not to be called in--understand
this very clearly, if you please--except in a case of extreme urgency.
This is a distinct order, Adelaide, and I shall be severely displeased if
you fail to observe it. And now," he resumed his lighter manner again as
he rose from his chair, "I must hie me to the parish room where my good
Miss Whalley is awaiting me."
He stretched forth a firm, kind hand and patted his wife's shoulder.
"We must see what we can do to bring a little colour into those pale
cheeks," he said. "A fortnight in the Cornish Riviera perhaps. Or we
might take a peep at Shakespeare's country. But we shall see, we
shall see! I will write to Mrs. Denys and acquaint her with my
decision this evening."
He was gone, leaving Mrs. Lorimer to pace up and down his study in futile
distress of mind. Only that morning a letter from Avery had reached her,
telling her of Jeanie's continued progress, and urging her to come and
take her place for a little while. It was such a change as her tired soul
craved, but she had not dared to tell her husband so. And now, it seemed,
Jeanie's good time also was to be terminated.
There was no doubt about it. Rodding did not suit the child. She was
never well at home. The Vicarage was shut in by trees, a damp, unhealthy
place. And Dr. Tudor had told her in plain terms that Jeanie lacked the
strength to make any headway there. She was like a wilting plant in that
atmosphere. She could not thrive in it. Dry warmth was what she needed,
and it had made all the difference to her. Avery's letter had been full
of hope. She referred to Dr. Tudor's simile of the building of a
sea-wall. "We are strengthening it every day," she wrote. "In a few more
weeks it ought to be proof against any ordinary tide."
A few more weeks! Mrs. Lorimer wrung her hands. Stephen did not know,
did not realize; and she was powerless to convince him. Avery would not
convince him either. He tolerated only Avery because she was so useful.
She knew exactly the sort of letter he would write, desiring their
return; and Avery, for all her quiet strength, would have to submit. Oh,
it was cruel--cruel!
The tears were coursing down her cheeks when the door opened unexpectedly
and Olive entered. She paused at sight of her mother, looking at her with
just the Vicar's air of chill enquiry.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
Mrs. Lorimer turned hastily to the window and began to dry her eyes.
Olive went to a bookshelf and stood before it. After a moment she took
out a book and deliberately turned the leaves. Her attitude was plainly
repressive.
Finally she returned the book to the shelf and turned. "Why are you
crying, Mother?"
Mrs. Lorimer leaned her head against the window-frame with a heavy sigh.
"I am very miserable, Olive," she said, a catch in her voice.
"No one need be that," observed Olive. "Father says that misery is a sign
of mental weakness."
Mrs. Lorimer was silent.
"Don't you think you had better leave off crying and find something to
do?" suggested her daughter in her cool, young voice.
Still Mrs. Lorimer neither moved nor spoke.
Olive came a step nearer. There was obvious distaste on her face. "I
wish you would try to be a little brighter--for Father's sake," she
said. "I don't think you treat him very kindly."
It was evident that she spoke from a sense of duty. Mrs. Lorimer
straightened herself with another weary sigh.
"Run along, my dear!" she said. "I am sure you are busy."
Olive turned, half-vexed and half-relieved, and walked to the door. Her
mother watched her wistfully. It was in her mind to call her back, fold
her in her arms, and appeal for sympathy. But the severity of the child's
pose was too suggestive of the Vicar's unbending attitude towards
feminine weakness, and she restrained the impulse, knowing that she would
appeal in vain. There was infinitely more comfort to be found in the
society of Baby Phil, and, smiling wanly at the thought, she went up to
the nursery in search of it.