A DREARY HOMECOMING.
TO the end of their lives Ronald and Vivian never forgot that journey
home. For one thing, they had never travelled in the dark before, and
everything looked strange and unreal.
Aunt Dora came down into the hall before they left, to kiss them and
say good-bye; but her face was so white and drawn that Vivian almost
shrank from her in fear, and the hopes that Ronald would have expressed
for his little cousin’s recovery died away on his lips. It was such a
contrast to the bright, happy woman who had been like a playmate to
them ever since they arrived.
They drove through the lighted streets in silence, for Dr Armitage was
deep in thought, thinking about the sorrow that was threatening his
favourite sister, and wondering if Sir Antony Jones, whose experience
in such cases was very great, could possibly give her a ray of hope. At
Victoria he bought the boys a handful of illustrated papers; but the
light in the carriage was so uncertain that they soon stopped looking
at them, and sat back in their corners, staring into the shadowy
darkness as it rushed past.
Ronald’s mind was full of problems which he could not solve, the
problems of life and death, which are so mysterious that in the face
of them the oldest and wisest among us are but children, and can only
trust where we cannot see; while Vivian was slowly fighting his way to
a decision, which was very real and tangible, but which seemed so far
above what his courage could attain to that as yet it was only a dream.
‘Here we are, boys; gather up your things. It is a cold night, and I do
not want to keep Black and the horse waiting.’
Both boys started at their father’s words, and jumped up so quickly
that they were flung against each other as the train drew up with a
jerk at the well-known little station, and old Timms the porter came
along the platform swinging his lamp, and crying out ‘Sitt-ingham,
Sitt-ingham!’ at the top of his familiar voice.
He stopped when he came to their carriage and opened the door.
Apparently they were the only passengers who were going to alight.
‘Well, young gentlemen,’ he said heartily, lifting out the rugs, ‘and
how have you enjoyed yourselves up in London? And how did you leave
Miss Dora—I beg her pardon, Mrs Osbourne? The other name always comes
most familiar to me; ’twas the name we knew her by when she used to
come and help the missus to nurse the little ones the year they were
all down wi’ the fever. Maria often says that if it hadn’t been Miss
Dora’s soups and puddings Belinda wouldn’t have been alive to-day.’
‘Then Maria must think of Miss Dora to-night, Timms,’ said the doctor
sadly, ‘for she is in great trouble. Her little girl, her only
daughter, is very ill—almost hopelessly so, it seems to me. I have just
been up to see her, and have left my wife there.’
‘Eh, but I’m sorry to hear you say so, sir; very sorry!’ said the
old man, shouldering the portmanteau, and turning through the little
white gate to where the carriage was standing; ‘and so will Maria be
when she hears. The only little lass, say you? But that is a heavy
sorrow. It seems to me, sir, it’s always the best beloved that’s took
first. Though we’ll hope that the little miss may be spared yet awhile.
Children get over a lot.’
‘I hope so, I’m sure. Good-night, Timms. Remember me to Maria.’
‘Good-night, sir, and maybe you’ll let us know what news they be in the
morning, sir.’
Ronald and Vivian had already taken their seats, and it did not seem
long until the carriage turned in at the lodge gates, and soon it
drew up at the front door. A bright fire was blazing in the hall, and
Lucy, little Dorothy’s nurse, was waiting to help them off with their
coats and see that everything was comfortable. But, oh, what a lonely
homecoming it seemed without mother’s cheery voice and bright face!
Even father seemed to notice the silence, for after having hurriedly
glanced at one or two notes which were lying on his desk waiting for
him, he turned to the maid. ‘Where is Dorothy, nurse?’ he asked. ‘If
she is awake we will have her down. The little lady must act mother for
us to-night.—Mustn’t she, boys?’
‘Oh yes, father, do have her down,’ they both cried eagerly. ‘We were
afraid she might be asleep, but it would seem so much more “homey” if
she were here.’
‘I’m afraid she is asleep, sir,’ said Lucy. ‘I put her in her crib just
before the carriage came. She had been watching for it since before
six o’clock, and she got so tired she went to sleep in my arms, so I
undressed her and put her in bed.’
‘Then we must just do the best we can without her,’ said the doctor,
sitting down and beginning to pour himself out a cup of tea, while Lucy
saw to the wants of the boys before she left the room.
It was a very silent meal, and it was a relief when it was over,
although no one seemed quite to know what to do next. The doctor
sat restlessly turning over the leaves of a medical journal; the
boys wandered out into the hall, and stood looking out of the long,
low window at the end of it without speaking. The window overlooked
the road which led to the village, and from it they could see the
bright yellow light which burned over the little shop which served as
stationer’s shop and book-club, as well as post-office. They knew that
old Giles Masterton, who acted as postman, would bring up the telegram
as soon as it came; and as he always carried a lantern they would be
able to mark his progress up the road in the darkness.
Nine o’clock struck at last, and yet they waited, huddled together
behind a curtain; and when Lucy appeared and hinted at the advisability
of going to bed they looked so distressed that she had not the heart to
insist.
‘The message will come all the same as if you were up, Master Vivian,’
she said persuasively, ‘and I’m sure your father will come and tell you
what it is at once.’ But Vivian only shook his head determinedly, and
pressed his face a little closer to the pane.
‘It must come soon if it is coming at all, Lucy,’ said Ronald, ‘for the
office shuts at nine, and I think we can stay up until it comes. Father
does not seem to mind, and we could never go to sleep until we know.’
‘I’m going to stay up until it comes, no matter what any one says or
thinks, so you needn’t bother any more, Lucy,’ broke out Vivian so
fiercely that both Lucy and Ronald looked at him in surprise.
[Illustration: At last a tiny red speck appeared under the yellow lamp,
and began to move slowly up the road.
V. L. PAGE 162.]
To Ronald, in the face of the trouble that was hanging over them,
any outburst of temper seemed almost irreverent; but Lucy understood
better, and with rare tact took no notice of the angry words. Instead
of remonstrating with Vivian, as she might have done, or threatening
him with his father’s displeasure, she went quietly into the cloakroom
and took down two greatcoats.
‘Put this on, Master Ronald,’ she said; ‘and here is yours, Master
Vivian; ’tis a hard frost to-night, and this hall is as cold as can be.
‘There now,’ as the boys silently obeyed her, and buttoned up the
coats, ‘you won’t get cold with these on; and if you would like a good
hot drink of cocoa before you go to bed come into the nursery. Miss
Dorothy is sleeping so soundly you won’t wake her, and I’ll have the
kettle boiling.’
Then she left them to wait in the darkness.
At last, just as the clock was chiming the half-hour, a tiny red speck
appeared under the yellow lamp, and began to move slowly up the road.
It was old Giles’s lantern, and both boys drew a shuddering breath of
suspense. What would the news be—life or death?
They had not long to wait. Dr Armitage’s listening ears had already
caught the sound of the old postman’s limp as he came up the frosty
road, and he laid down his newspaper hastily; and, crossing the hall
without noticing the two little figures behind the curtain, he opened
the front door, letting in a gust of clear cold air as he did so, and
went down the drive to meet him.
The boys crept to the door and watched breathlessly as he tore open the
flimsy orange-coloured envelope and read its contents by the light of
old Giles’s lantern. When he had read it he crumpled it up in his hand
and came slowly back to the house.
‘What does it say, father?’ asked Ronald. But he hardly needed to ask;
he knew by the sad look on his father’s face that the message was not
one of hope.
‘Ha, my boys!’ said the doctor, starting at the sound of his eldest
son’s voice, ‘I had almost forgotten you. It is time that you were both
in bed. Come into the study, to the fire. Vivian, you look blue with
cold.’
Then, when they had followed him into the study, he sat down in his
arm-chair and drew them gently to him. ‘It is bad news, boys,’ he said
gravely, and his voice shook as he spoke. ‘Sir Antony Jones can only
say what Dr Robson and I said; I am much afraid that if dear little
Isobel is living now she will not last through the night.’
‘Oh father!’ said Ronald, the tears running down his cheeks, ‘how will
Aunt Dora bear it? She never said so, but I feel sure that Isobel was
more to her almost than Ralph or Claude. It was not that she loved them
less, but Isobel was her only little girl. Oh, just think if it had
been Dorothy!’
‘God forbid,’ said Dr Armitage involuntarily, and he pressed his arm
round the boys who were so precious to him, and there was silence for a
moment, broken only by Ronald’s sobs, for Vivian, who was generally the
more easily moved to tears, stood perfectly still and quiet.
When the doctor spoke again it was in his usual tone, though his manner
was grave and sad. ‘Well, boys, it is more than time that you were in
bed. I must write some letters, and then go down and have a look at
Widow Dallas’s grandchild. She is ill too—very ill—but I hope she will
pull through. I will look in and see you when I come back, and say
good-night if you are not asleep.’
He kissed them tenderly, whispering to them not to forget Isobel’s name
in their prayers, and then he went out, and they went slowly up to bed.
At the head of the stairs Ronald turned off, and went quietly towards
the nursery, stifling his sobs as best he could.
‘I’m going to give little Dorothy a kiss,’ he whispered. ‘I never knew
before what a blessing a little sister is. Aren’t you coming?’
But Vivian shook his head, while a curious stifled sound like a groan
broke from his lips, and he went straight along the passage to his own
room.