Mrs. Trevanion appeared at dinner as usual, coming into the drawing-room
at the last moment, to the great surprise of the gentlemen, who stared
and started as if at a ghost as she came in, their concealed alarm and
astonishment forming a strange contrast to the absolute calm of Mrs.
Lennox, the slight boyish impatience of Reginald at being kept waiting
for dinner, and the evident relief of Rosalind, who had been questioning
them all with anxious eyes. Madam was very pale; but she smiled and made
a brief apology. She took old Mr. Blake’s arm to go in to dinner, who,
though he was a man who had seen a great deal in his life, shook “like
as a leaf,” he said afterwards; but her arm was as steady as a rock, and
supported him. The doctor said to her under his breath as they sat down,
“You are doing too much. Remember, endurance is not boundless.” “Is it
not?” she said aloud, looking at him with a smile. He was a man of
composed and robust mind, but he ate no dinner that day. The dinner was
indeed a farce for most of the company. Aunt Sophy, indeed, though with
a shake of her head, and a sighing remark now and then, took full
advantage of her meal, and Reginald cleared off everything that was set
before him with the facility of his age; but the others made such
attempts as they could to deceive the calm but keen penetration of
Dorrington, who saw through all their pretences, and having served many
meals in many houses after a funeral, knew that “something” must be
“up,” more than Mr. Trevanion’s death, to account for the absence of
appetite. There was not much conversation either. Aunt Sophy, indeed, to
the relief of every one, took the position of spokeswoman. “I would not
have troubled to come down-stairs this evening, Grace,” she said. “You
always did too much. I am sure all the watching and nursing you have had
would have killed ten ordinary people; but she never spared herself, did
she, doctor? Well, it is a satisfaction now. You must feel that you
neglected nothing, and that everything that could be thought of was
done--everything! I am sure you and I, John, can bear witness to that,
that a more devoted nurse no man ever had. Poor Reginald,” she added,
putting her handkerchief to her eyes, “if he did not always seem so
grateful as he ought, you may be sure, dear, it was his illness that was
to blame, not his heart.” No one dared to make any reply to this, till
Madam herself said, after a pause, her voice sounding distinct through a
hushed atmosphere of attention, “All that is over and forgotten; there
is no blame.”
“Yes, my dear,” said innocent Sophy; “that is a most natural and
beautiful sentiment for you. But John and I can never forget how patient
you were. A king could not have been better taken care of.”
“Everybody,” said the doctor, with fervor, “knows that. I have never
known such nursing;” and in the satisfaction of saying this he managed
to dispose of the chicken on his plate. His very consumption of it was
to Madam’s credit. He could not have swallowed a morsel, but for having
had the opportunity for this ascription of praise.
“And if I were you,” said Mrs. Lennox, “I would not worry myself about
taking up everything so soon again. I am sure you must want a thorough
rest. I wish, indeed, you would just make up your mind to come home with
me, for a change would do you good. I said to poor dear Maria Heathcote,
when I left her this morning, ‘My dear, you may expect me confidently
to-night; unless my poor dear sister-in-law wants me. But dear Grace
has, of course, the first claim upon me,’ I said. And if I were you I
would not try my strength too much. You should have stayed in your room
to-night, and have had a tray with something light and trifling. You
don’t eat a morsel,” Aunt Sophy said, with true regret. “And Rosalind
and I would have come up-stairs and sat with you. I have more experience
than you have in trouble,” added the good lady with a sigh (who, indeed,
“had buried two dear husbands,” as she said), “and that has always been
my experience. You must not do too much at first. To-morrow is always a
new day.”
“To-morrow,” Mrs. Trevanion said, “there will be many things to think
of.” She lingered on the word a little, with a tremulousness which all
the men felt as if it had been a knife going into their hearts. Her
voice got more steady as she went on. “You must go back to school on
Monday, Rex,” she said; “that will be best. You must not lose any time
now, but be a man as soon as you can, for all our sakes.”
“Oh, as for being a man,” said Reginald, “that doesn’t just depend on
age, mother. My tutor would rather have me for his captain than Smith,
who is nineteen. He said so. It depends upon a fellow’s character.”
“That is what I think too,” she said, with a smile upon her boy. “And,
Sophy, if you will take Rosalind and your godchild instead of me, I
think it will do them good. I--you may suppose I have a great many
things to think of.”
“Leave them, dear, till you are stronger, that is my advice; and I know
more about trouble than you do,” Mrs. Lennox said.
Mrs. Trevanion gave a glance around her. There was a faint smile upon
her face. The three gentlemen sitting by did not know even that she
looked at them, but they felt each like a culprit, guilty and
responsible. Her eyes seemed to appeal speechlessly to earth and heaven,
yet with an almost humorous consciousness of good Mrs. Lennox’s
superiority in experience. “I should like Rosalind and Sophy to go with
you for a change,” she said, quietly. “The little ones will be best at
home. Russell is not good for Sophy, Rosalind; but for the little ones
it does not matter so much. She is very kind and careful of them. That
covers a multitude of sins. I think, for their sakes, she may stay.”
“I would not keep her, mamma. She is dangerous; she is wicked.”
“What do you mean by that, Rose? Russell! I should as soon think of
mamma going as of Russell going,” cried Rex. “She says mamma hates her,
but I say--”
“I wonder,” said Mrs. Trevanion, “that you do not find yourself above
nursery gossip, Rex, at your age. Never mind, it is a matter to be
talked of afterwards. You are not going away immediately, John?”
“Not as long as--” He paused and looked at her wistfully, with eyes that
said a thousand things. “As long as I can be of use,” he said.
“As long as-- I think I know what you mean,” Mrs. Trevanion said.
The conversation was full of these _sous-entendus_. Except Mrs. Lennox
and Rex, there was a sense of mystery and uncertainty in all the party.
Rosalind followed every speaker with her eyes, inquiring what they could
mean. Mrs. Trevanion was the most composed of the company, though
meanings were found afterwards in every word she said. The servants had
gone from the room while the latter part of this conversation went on.
After a little while she rose, and all of them with her. She called
Reginald, who followed reluctantly, feeling that he was much too
important a person to retire with the ladies. As she went out, leaning
upon his arm, she waved her hand to the other gentlemen. “Good-night,”
she said. “I don’t think I am equal to the drawing-room to-night.”
“What do you want with me, mother? It isn’t right, it isn’t, indeed, to
call me away like a child. I’m not a child; and I ought to be there to
hear what they are going to settle. Don’t you see, mamma, it’s my
concern?”
“You can go back presently, Rex; yes, my boy, it is your concern. I want
you to think so, dear. And the little ones are your concern. Being the
head of a house means a great deal. It means thinking of everything,
taking care of the brothers and sisters, not only being a person of
importance, Rex--”
“I know, I know. If this is all you wanted to say--”
“Almost all. That you must think of your duties, dear. It is unfortunate
for you, oh, very unfortunate, to be left so young; but your Uncle John
will be your true friend.”
“Well, that don’t matter much. Oh, I dare say he will be good enough.
Then you know, mammy,” said the boy condescendingly, giving her a
hurried kiss, and eager to get away, “when there’s anything very hard I
can come and talk it over with you.”
She did not make any reply, but kissed him, holding his reluctant form
close to her. He did not like to be hugged, and he wanted to be back
among the men. “One moment,” she said. “Promise me you will be very good
to the little ones, Rex.”
“Why, of course, mother,” said the boy; “you didn’t think I would beat
them, did you? Good-night.”
“Good-bye, my own boy.” He had darted from her almost before she could
withdraw her arm. She paused a moment to draw breath, and then followed
to the door of the drawing-room, where the other ladies were gone. “I
think, Sophy,” she said, “I will take your advice and go to my room; and
you must arrange with Rosalind to take her home with you, and Sophy
too.”
“That I will, with all my heart; and I don’t despair of getting you to
come. Good-night, dear. Should you like me to come and sit with you a
little when you have got to bed?”
“Not to-night,” said Mrs. Trevanion. “I am tired out. Good-night,
Rosalind. God bless you, my darling!” She held the girl in her arms, and
drew her towards the door. “I can give you no explanation about last
night, and you will hear other things. Think of me as kindly as you can,
my own, that are none of mine,” she said, bending over her with her eyes
full of tears.
“Mother,” said the girl, flinging herself into Mrs. Trevanion’s arms
with enthusiasm, “you can do no wrong.”
“God bless you, my own dear!”
This parting seemed sufficiently justified by the circumstances. The
funeral day! Could it be otherwise than that their nerves were highly
strung, and words of love and mutual support, which might have seemed
exaggerated at other times, should now have seemed natural? Rosalind,
with her heart bursting, went back to her aunt’s side, and sat down and
listened to her placid talk. She would rather have been with her
suffering mother, but for that worn-out woman there was nothing so good
as rest.
Mrs. Trevanion went back to the nursery, where her little children were
fast asleep in their cots, and Sophy preparing for bed. Sophy was still
grumbling over the fact that she had not been allowed to go down to
dessert. “Why shouldn’t I go down?” she cried, sitting on the floor,
taking off her shoes. “Oh, here’s mamma! What difference could it have
made? Grown-up people are nasty and cruel. I should not have done any
harm going down-stairs. Reggie is dining down-stairs. He is always the
one that is petted, because he is a boy, though he is only five years
older than me.”
“Hush, Miss Sophy. It was your mamma’s doing, and mammas are always
right.”
“You don’t think so, Russell. Oh, I don’t want to kiss you, mamma. It
was so unkind, and Reggie going on Monday; and I have not been down to
dessert--not for a week.”
“But I must kiss you, Sophy,” the mother said. “You are going away with
your aunt and Rosalind, on a visit. Is not that better than coming down
to dessert?”
“Oh, mamma!” The child jumped up with one shoe on, and threw herself
against her mother’s breast. “Oh, I am so glad. Aunt Sophy lets us do
whatever we please.” She gave a careless kiss in response to Mrs.
Trevanion’s embrace. “I should like to stay there forever,” Sophy said.
There was a smile on the mother’s face as she withdrew it, as there had
been a smile of strange wonder and wistfulness when she took leave of
Rex. The little ones were asleep. She went and stood for a moment
between the two white cots. Then all was done; and the hour had come to
which, without knowing what awaited her, she had looked with so much
terror on the previous night.
A dark night, with sudden blasts of rain, and a sighing wind which
moaned about the house, and gave notes of warning of the dreary wintry
weather to come. As Mrs. Lennox and Rosalind sat silent over the fire,
there suddenly seemed to come in and pervade the luxurious house a
blast, as if the night had entered bodily, a great draught of fresh,
cold, odorous, rainy air, charged with the breath of the wet fields and
earth. And then there was the muffled sound as of a closed door. “What
is that?” said Aunt Sophy, pricking up her ears, “It cannot be visitors
come so late, and on such a day as this.”
“It sounds like some one going out,” Rosalind said, with a shiver,
thinking on what she had seen last night. “Perhaps,” she added eagerly,
after a moment, with a great sense of relief, “Mr. Blake going away.”
“It will be that, of course, though I did not hear wheels; and what a
dismal night for his drive, poor old gentleman. That wind always makes
me wretched. It moans and groans like a human creature. But it is very
odd, Rosalind, that we did not hear any wheels.”
“The wind drowns other sounds,” Rosalind said.
“That must be so, I suppose. Still, I hope he doesn’t think of walking,
Rosalind; an old man of that age.”
And then once more all fell into silence in the great luxurious house.
Outside the wind blew in the faces of the wayfarers. The rain drenched
them in sudden gusts, the paths were slippery and wet, the trees
discharged sharp volleys of collected rain as the blasts blew. To
struggle across the park was no easy matter in the face of the blinding
sleet and capricious wind; and you could not hear your voice under the
trees for the din that was going on overhead.