SENT FOR.
"MOTHER, shouldn't you think Uncle Harvey and Aunt Julia would soon
be at home?"
"Really I don't know. Yes, most likely. What are you after with my
work-basket?"
"I want to find some red silk. I'm making a pin-cushion for my
Marjory."
"Well, another time you can ask my leave first. I have no red silk,
so please stop all that fumbling."
Mittie desisted immediately, as she would not have done once upon
a time.
"I do wish I had some red silk. Mother, are there any shops in East
Bourne?"
"Of course there are—heaps."
"And can I get some red silk there?"
"Of course. What a silly question!"
"And can I send my pin-cushion to Marjory by post?"
"If you choose. What are you going to ask next, I wonder?"
"I do wish we weren't going to East Bourne, mother. I don't want to be
such a great way from my Marjory."
"Really, Mittie, you are crazy about her. I am perfectly sick of the
name. A good thing we are going, I say, if it is only to get some
of that nonsense out of your head."
Mittie promptly inquired, "What nonsense?"
"You know. The sort of talk you have favoured me with lately."
"Marjory teaches me, mother."
"Yes. I wish people would mind their own business, and leave other
folks alone."
"Marjory teaches me how to be good. Don't you like me to learn to be
good?"
An embarrassing question, rather. Mrs. Trevor evaded it.
"I like you to be sensible, of course, child."
"And not good too?"
"You are perfectly demented, Mittie. What makes you ask such
ridiculous questions? Yes, I like you to be good, but I don't want
you to be always chattering about it."
"My Marjory doesn't never chatter."
"There you go again! Always that perpetual 'my Marjory.' I hate to
have a person's name drummed into my ears. If you want to make me
detest her, you are setting to work in the right way. Miss Fitzalan
is all very well, but one may have too much of a good thing."
Mittie stood near the table, her little arms folded, and her drooping
face hidden by its cloud of fair hair. She made no answer. A touch
of compunction came over Mrs. Trevor.
"Well, I dare say I can find you some red silk after all, if it's
an affair of such immense importance. Not in my work-basket. Get me
that little Indian box from the side-table."
The child obeyed silently, keeping her face turned away.
"Here, you can fish out something from this tangle. I dare say it is
not more than two or three needles-full that you want, and Miss
Fitzalan will not be critical about the colours matching. Mittie,
you goose!" at the sound of a sob. "What on earth is the matter now?"
Mittie could not have explained. She did not herself know what made
the tears come so fast. It was only a child's nameless pain at hearing
hard words spoken against one whom she loved, but a child's pain may
be very keen while it lasts. Mrs. Trevor mentally resolved to pass
no strictures on Marjory Fitzalan in the future. She never could
endure to see Mittie cry.
"Do stop, child, pray! You'll make such an object of yourself. You are
quite welcome to think what you choose of Miss Fitzalan, if it makes
you happy. I am sure I don't care. I wish Julia and Harvey would come
home, for the afternoon is perfectly endless. It is a mercy we are
going away soon. I really think I should end by a fit of melancholy
madness if this sort of thing lasted much longer. Now, Mittie, I won't
have another tear. Just think what fun you are going to have down on
the shore at East Bourne, picking up shells and digging in the sand.
Yes, of course, there is sand—and shingles and rocks too."
This proved comforting, and Mittie was wiled out of her grief. Another
hour passed, and still the absentees appeared not. Mrs. Trevor grew
vexed, counting herself ill-used. But yet another hour went by before
Slade entered the drawing-room and stood within the door.
"Somebody wanting Mr. Dalrymple, did you say?" Mrs. Trevor asked,
waking up to a consciousness of his presence, and unaware that he had
not spoken. Her faculties had been buried for the last twenty minutes
in a yellow-backed novel. "Mr. Dalrymple is out still. I cannot
understand his being so long."
"No, ma'am. There has been an accident," Slade's suppressed voice
answered.
"An accident! Not to the dog-cart?"
"Yes, ma'am. It was not far from Captain Woodthorpe's, and Mr. and
Mrs. Dalrymple have gone there. John has returned with a message.
The horses ran away down a hill into a cart. Emperor is killed,
and Prince—"
"And—and—" Mrs. Trevor could hardly speak in her impatience at his
deliberate utterance. As if the horses mattered! She was angry at his
putting them first, yet she knew that Slade was only trying to break
his news gradually. Had he worse to tell?
"And my sister? And Mr. Dalrymple?"
"Mrs. Dalrymple was thrown out, ma'am; and at first she was not
supposed to be hurt at all, but that is found to be a mistake.
John does not know particulars. He was left behind when the horses
ran away; and when he got to the spot he found Mr. Dalrymple unable
to move, and Mrs. Dalrymple sitting on Prince's head to keep
him down."
Mrs. Trevor exclaimed at this, knowing Julia's timidity with horses,
"I always did say it was insane to keep such wild creatures," she
added, with the instinctive desire to blame somebody which belongs
to many people in trouble. "Mr. Dalrymple will believe me now! Is he
very much hurt?"
"I am not sure, ma'am. Not so bad as was first thought," Slade
answered dubiously. "I believe Mr. Dalrymple was very faint, and
there's two ribs broken. But he's not, so to speak, in danger, and
John's afraid as Mrs. Dalrymple is the worst. You see my mistress kept
up, ma'am, and wouldn't give in, and nobody suspected it till, all of
a sudden, she was took bad. She was so bad, Mrs. Ogilvie couldn't
leave her to write to you, and John's brought a message asking if you
could please go?"
[Illustration: Two of the men carried Harvey, while his wife walked by
his side.]
"Yes, of course. I must go at once. Call John, if you please. I should
like to speak to him. John does not know what is wrong with Mrs.
Dalrymple, I suppose?"
"He does not precisely, ma'am." Slade's formal voice was lowered.
"He believes it to be something internal—from what Mrs. Ogilvie said—
but the doctor was in hopes."
"Poor dear Julia!" and Mrs. Trevor's eyes were filled with genuine
tears. "Is John outside?"
She followed Slade to the door in her impatience. John appeared
quickly, and he made some material additions to Slade's abstract.
He described the accident more fully, with evident appreciation of his
young mistress's courage, and he showed some natural gratification
over his own foresight in having secured by the way three able-bodied
men to go on with him to a possible scene of disaster.
Mr. Dalrymple had looked "terrible bad," John said, on their first
arrival, and Mrs. Dalrymple, seated on Prince's head, not much better.
Mrs. Dalrymple had, however, declared herself unhurt and all attention
had been directed to Mr. Dalrymple and the horses. Emperor was found
to be dying, nearly dead, and Prince also a good deal injured.
Mr. Dalrymple appeared to suffer much from being moved, and having
to be carried more than two miles on a hastily-improvised stretcher.
One of the men stayed behind in charge of the horses, two of them
carried Harvey, while his wife walked by his side, and John hastened
on to give warning at the cottage of their approach. He was in hopes
of bringing the pony-carriage to meet Mrs. Dalrymple, but Captain
Woodthorpe had gone off for a drive, happily leaving Mrs. Ogilvie
at home. She immediately despatched the gardener in quest of medical
aid, and prepared for her visitors.
Ill as Mr. Dalrymple looked when he arrived, there could be no
question that his wife looked much the worst of the two. Everybody had
been startled by her appearance.
"The colour of a table-cloth, ma'am—only a sort of yaller too," John
graphically explained. Yet she had kept up, resolutely refusing to be
cared for, and bent upon doing everything for her husband. This lasted
until the doctor came. An examination of Mr. Dalrymple resulted in the
cheerful verdict, "Two ribs broken, but no danger!" and then in a
moment, almost without warning, Julia failed. John could not tell
particulars here. He only knew that Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple were in
different rooms, that Mrs. Ogilvie could not leave Mrs. Dalrymple,
and that the doctor counted her state serious.
"Those horrible horses!" Mrs. Trevor reiterated, as a kind of vent
for her own distress. "I always did think something dreadful would
happen some day!" Then she inquired how she was to get to the cottage,
shivered at the notion of the Captain's pony-carriage which had
brought John, decided to put up at once small bag of requisites,
and asked where was Miss Rivers.
Slade believed that Miss Rivers had not returned from the village.
"As usual!" murmured Mrs. Trevor. "And what am I to do about the
child?"
She was assured that Mittie would be all right. Milton appeared on the
scene, promising to take Miss Mittie under her own wing. Also Miss
Rivers would see to everything.
"I hope to goodness she will!" sighed Mrs. Trevor, hastening towards
the stairs. "Oh, what a thing it is!"
Before leaving, she loaded Mittie with injunctions how to behave, and
how not to behave, the leading idea throughout being that she was
"not to bother" Hermione. Mittie listened with a scared face.
"No, mother. I won't bother cousin Hermione. I'll go to Marjory
for everything."
"Nonsense, child. I don't mean that, of course. Nothing would offend
Hermione more. But just keep out of her way as much as you can."
"Yes, mother. Must I keep out of everybody's way?" asked Mittie,
in a forlorn tone.
"Oh, if you are dull you can run and talk to Milton. I don't expect
to be away long."
"Will you come home to-morrow?" Mittie inquired.
"I don't know. It must depend on how your aunt is."
"John says Aunt Julia is so dreadful bad. He says perhaps she'll die."
Mittie's eyes were full of tears.
"John had no business to say anything of the sort to you. He is
a foolish fellow. You are not to listen to him, Mittie, or to talk
to the servants—except Milton and Slade. I don't believe Aunt Julia
is nearly so bad as John makes out. Mind you are a good child, and go
to bed early, and don't be dull. It won't last long." Mittie held up
her face for a kiss, trying to smile. She kept fairly bright until the
pony-chaise drove off, carrying her mother and John. Then Mittie's
self-command came to an end. She rushed away to a corner of her
mother's room, and sobbed out her little heart in a flood of lonely
tears.
But Hermione was not in the village, as Slade supposed.
She had gone that afternoon for a walk alone, towards the big house
and grounds, nearly two miles distant, where dwelt the Dalton family,
Mr. and Mrs. Dalton, and their one daughter, Anna.
She had not once seen the Daltons since that memorable afternoon when
Harvey had just returned from abroad, and the three had dropped in for
a long call. The Daltons were wealthy people. Mr. Dalton had made a
large fortune in business, and had therewith purchased the property
lying next to Westford, no long time back.
Hermione did not care much for these Daltons. She knew that her
grandfather had not liked them, and she knew also that Harvey was by
no means anxious for a closer acquaintance. There was a tinge of
commonness about their speech and their manners which grated on her,
so she could well understand Harvey's feeling; and they had few
redeeming qualities. Mr. Dalton was counted a hard landlord;
Mrs. Dalton was said to give herself airs; and Miss Dalton, though a
good woman, was an universally-acknowledged bore in society. Hermione,
however polite she might be to them in their presence, had fully
concurred in these criticisms.
It was not in the least necessary that she should undertake a four
miles' walk for the express purpose of a call on the Daltons. They had
left their cards, it was true, one day lately, when she was out, but
they would not expect to see her for a good while. Her sad loss was
still very recent, and during the life of Mr. Dalrymple calls between
Hermione and the Daltons had been carefully rendered few and far
between by his particular wish. There was no reason now for a change,
and six weeks later would have been soon enough.
Yet Hermione went, regardless of mud, saying nothing to anybody.
If she had mentioned her intention, Harvey would at once have proposed
driving round thither, that she and Julia might call together.
Hermione felt no doubt about this. However little Harvey might care
for the acquaintance, he was irreproachable in his gentlemanly
kindness to her where such matters were concerned. And she did not
wish to go with Julia. She was bent upon paying the call alone.
For the East Bourne question remained still open. Mr. Fitzalan had not
changed his mind; had not, as Hermione expected, offered after all to
take her in. She was very much hurt at what, in her heart, she called
"his unkindness;" so much so that for three whole days she had not
been to the Rectory at all.
June was passing, and, unless she meant to accompany the others,
something had to be arranged. Hermione was resolved against East
Bourne. She had said she would not go, and go she would not. The mere
fact of having once declared her will—even in a fit of passion—was
enough to make Hermione stick to her own declaration. The question of
right and wrong was subordinate to the question of having her own
way—of not being "beaten" by Mrs. Trevor.
Hermione did not see in herself the contemptibleness of this small
obstinacy—as she would have seen it in another.
She was seriously perplexed what to do. She had many acquaintances,
but not many real friends. Her aim had been, unconsciously, rather to
attract admiration than to win love; and the admiration had been hers,
but not always the love. Mr. Dalrymple had encouraged real intimacy
with very few families in the neighbourhood, and among these Hermione
could think of no one who, from one reason or another, would be just
then able to receive her.
The thought of the Daltons came up. As already said, Hermione cared
little for them. They did not suit her, and she knew they had not
suited her grandfather.
But she was bent upon some plan whereby the East Bourne trip might be
escaped. Anything rather than to have to give in. Hermione felt little
doubt of her own power to bring about an invitation to Dalton House,
if she so willed. The Daltons would be only too delighted to push
their acquaintance with the Dalrymples. As for what Harvey might
think—
"I cannot help that; I must act for myself!" Hermione said, as she set
off upon her lonely walk.