A HOUSE OF MOURNING.
When Honor opens her eyes again it is to find herself on her own bed,
with kind Miss Denison leaning over her, bathing her forehead and
temples with _eau de Cologne_. Molly stands on one side of the bed
at a little distance looking pale and frightened; and an elderly
gentleman is standing by the other side with his finger on Honor's
pulse. He nods across the bed to Miss Denison as the girl looks
round and then tries to sit up.
"She will do now," he says quietly, "so I will go down to Mrs.
Merivale again;" and he quietly slips out of the room, beckoning
Molly to follow him.
Honor lies quite still for a few minutes; then, slowly turning her
eyes towards her governess, she asks the question which Miss Denison
has been so dreading. Then gently and kindly she breaks the sad news
to her: tells her how Dr. Newton had said that her poor father had
been dead for more than an hour when he was called in; that it was
disease of the heart, and the shock of the bank failure had been too
much for him.
"And mother? Poor mother!" says Honor at length, when, a long and
violent fit of crying over, she leans back against her pillows, calm,
though pale and exhausted.
"She is better now, dear. We had great trouble with her at first--or
rather Lane and Doris and the doctor had, for I was with you, dear.
She went from one fit of hysterics into another; and now, of course,
she is utterly worn out. Your Aunt Sophia took her in hand directly
she came (it is really most providential that she was so near); and
then kind Mrs. Horton has been such a comfort to her. I sent in to
her, you know, and she came herself the moment she got my message."
"But how came aunt here to-night?" asks Honor, putting her hand to
her head and knitting her straight little brows. "I can't remember
clearly, but surely I spoke of _to-morrow_ morning in my telegram."
"Yes, dear; so you did. But when this happened I got Doris to write
a hasty line which I sent off with the brougham to the Pagets', and
your aunt came back in the brougham. She will be a great help to you
all till your mother has got a little over the shock; she always had
great influence over her, you know. And now, dear Honor, I shall
give you the little draught the doctor ordered for you, and then I
will leave you to sleep, for that will bring you strength to bear
your trouble better than anything else. I shall be within call, for
I have promised Doris to sleep with her to-night; so we will put the
door ajar between your rooms. Now, dear, God bless you! And you
must promise me, Honor, to be brave, and not to fret any more
to-night. You know you told me your dear father's last words to you
were of thankfulness for the comfort and help he was sure you would
be to him. And now, more than ever, you must prove that you are
worthy of the trust he placed in you--for a trust it is, dear
Honor--and one, I know, that with God's help you will faithfully
discharge. Your poor mother will need a long time to recover from so
severe a shock. And although Doris is older than you, she is younger
in ideas and character, and has not, I fear, so much common sense as
my little Honor. But now, dear child, good-night once more. I shall
not let anyone else come near you, as I am most anxious you should
get to sleep." And kissing the girl most affectionately, Miss
Denison softly leaves the room.
A little later and the house which but a short time since was the
scene of so much happiness and rejoicing is wrapped in silent gloom;
and as nature asserts its rights with the younger members of the
family, giving them temporary relief from their sorrow in blessed
sleep, older heads are resting on their pillows with wide-open,
sleepless eyes, looking vaguely into the future which has changed so
quickly from sunshine into shadow.
* * * * * * * *
Three days have passed since Mr. Merivale's death and Honor has
already taken most of the cares and responsibilities of the family
and household upon her young shoulders with a quiet dignity and
gentle patience which amaze her mother completely. The old family
solicitor, Mr. Trent, has already called several times and had long
and serious talks with Honor--Mrs. Merivale having sent down a
message to the effect that she was too completely prostrated to see
_anyone_, and would he say anything he had to say to Honor, as it
would be quite the same thing. It was doubtful whether Mr. Trent
entertained the same idea on this subject, for whereas he had before
quaked in his shoes at the bare idea of the task which lay before him
of trying to make his late client's widow understand certain facts
which he felt morally certain she was incapable of grasping, he now
found that he had a very different sort of person to deal with--one,
in fact, to use his own expression, "with her head screwed on the
right way." With a kindness and delicacy which went straight to poor
Honor's heart, he took all the arrangements for the funeral upon
himself, and proved indeed a most kind and valuable friend in more
ways than one.
"You and your aunt, my dear Miss Honor," the kind little gentleman
had said, "will have to put things clearly, so to speak, before your
mother, since she cannot see me. It will, I fear, be very difficult
to make her understand that all--literally _all_--she has now to
depend upon is £50 a year; and that is only owing to a fortunate
chance, the money having been invested in some other concern; of
course had it been placed in the bank it would have gone with the
rest. To be sure there is your own little bit of money left you by
your godmother, but that only amounts to about £20 a year. Dear me,
dear me! it is terrible; a paltry sum of £70 a year to bring up a
large family upon, and without a stick or a stone to start with!"
And now Honor is standing just where the old lawyer has left her
after the foregoing conversation, gazing dreamily into the fire.
"You and your aunt must make her understand"--those are the words
which keep repeating themselves over and over; but to a girl of
Honor's sensitive nature the task of doing so is no light one.
"Ah me!" sighs the girl as she leaves the room and slowly mounts the
stairs, "I wish Aunt Sophia were here!"
But Aunt Sophia is not there, so Honor has to open the door and go in
alone. Mrs. Merivale is seated at a little writing-table, which is
strewn with deep black-edged paper and envelopes. She is not
writing, however, but leaning back in her chair looking drearily
before her. As Honor enters she rouses herself, and wiping away the
tears which stand in her eyes she motions the girl to come and sit
beside her.
"I wanted to speak to you, dear," she says, taking Honor's hand in
her own, "and I was just going to send Lane for you. Now that I am
better you must tell me a little of what has been done. How have you
managed about the mourning?"
"Miss Renny has been here, mother, ever since--ever since it
happened, and all our dresses are nearly finished now, and I expect
yours from Mrs. Carey will be home to-night. We couldn't disturb you
the other morning about it, so aunt and I together chose a style we
thought you would like. Ours are all alike--cashmere and crêpe made
quite plainly; and yours, dear mother, will be of crêpe cloth, and of
course heavily trimmed with crêpe."
"Yes, dear; that is all quite right. Only I wish Mrs. Carey had made
all your dresses as well. Miss Renny would have made you others for
common wear afterwards, you know. But now, dear, this is what I
wanted to consult you about, you are so much more clear-headed and
sensible than Doris. About my better dresses, dear,--I mean those
that Madame Cecile will have the making of. I shall not have any
dinner dresses made at present, because I shall not be going out or
receiving for some time to come, but I was just going to write to
Cecile to ask for patterns."
"Dear mother," says Honor gently, "I am so glad you spoke to me about
this first, because it would have been so awkward if you had already
sent."
"Why awkward, dear? What do you mean, Honor?"
"Don't you remember, dear mother, the sad news poor, dear father had
before this other dreadful trouble came upon us?"
"Well, of course I do," Mrs. Merivale answers rather testily; "but I
don't really see why you should take this time to remind me of it,
and I must say, Honor, I think it very inconsiderate and unfeeling of
you to come and worry me like this, and your poor, dear father not
yet laid in his grave. I should think I have gone through grief and
trouble enough," continues Mrs. Merivale, weeping, "without my
children making things harder for me!"
"Dear mother," cries poor Honor, sobbing in concert, "pray, pray do
not think I mean to be unkind; but Mr. Trent has been talking to aunt
and to me, and it seems, dear mother, as if we shall hardly have
enough to live upon when everything is settled up."
"Hardly enough to live upon!" repeats Mrs. Merivale, sitting up and
drying her eyes. "My dear child, don't talk nonsense. As if I did
not know more about these things than you do. I know we shall have
to cut down our expenses, and diminish our household probably; do
with a servant or two less, I mean. But as for being _poor_, Honor,
you are talking ridiculous nonsense, child, as I said before. Why,
even if your father's money were all lost--which I should say is very
unlikely, people do exaggerate so,--but even if that were all gone,
there is my fortune, which if necessary we could very well manage
with somehow."
Poor Honor sighs at the hopelessness of the situation; but with a
feeling of desperation she is just about to speak when the door
opens, and to her great relief Lady Woodhouse enters the room.
"O, Sophia!" exclaims Mrs. Merivale with a little hysterical gasp, "I
_am_ so glad you have come in, my dear. Here is Honor talking the
most outrageous nonsense; trying to make out that all our property is
gone, and--well, in fact that we are as poor as church mice!"
"Well, and so you are," remarks Lady Woodhouse, sitting down and
untying her bonnet-strings with a jerk, "the child has said nothing
but the truth. I am sorry," she adds, softening a little on seeing
the cambric handkerchief drawn from her sister's pocket preparatory
to a fresh burst of grief--"I'm sorry to have to speak so plainly;
but it seems to me that poor James did his best to make you
understand the state of affairs in his conversation with you the
night of his death; and considering all he said to you then, I must
say it passes my comprehension that you can still be ignorant of your
true position. Mr. Trent begged me to speak to you on the subject,
and that is why I have come now, because I think it is so much better
than putting it off until after the funeral; for I am sure there will
be little or no time to arrange anything then. Now, Mary, be
sensible, my dear, and let us talk quietly over a comfortable cup of
tea."
Mrs. Merivale, however, is not in a humour to do anything quietly,
and Lady Woodhouse on her way to ring the bell for tea is suddenly
electrified by a sound behind her, partaking of the nature of a
scream, a gasp, and a convulsive laugh all at once. In plain words,
the trying nature of the past conversation has reduced Mrs. Merivale
to a violent fit of hysterics; and Lady Woodhouse, deeming it
advisable that she should be left alone with her sister for a time,
takes the smelling-salts from Honor's hand, and whispering "Leave her
to me, child, and I will bring her round," signs to the girl to leave
the room.
On going downstairs Honor sees Hugh Horton standing in a hesitating
sort of manner on the door-mat; a wreath of rare white flowers in one
hand, and a note in the other.
"I told William I wouldn't see anyone, Honor," he whispers, coming
forward and laying the wreath on the hall table, "but he would go off
to see if there was anyone about, and as I wanted to leave a message
from mother I was obliged to wait till he came back. How are you
all, Honor dear? No, I won't come in," he adds, as the girl silently
motions him towards the dining-room; "I won't really. I only wanted
to give you that (nodding towards the wreath), with love from us all.
And I was to tell you, Honor, that mother will come in to-night after
dinner to have a talk with Mrs. Merivale and Lady Woodhouse about a
suggestion she wants to make."
"It is very kind of her," says Honor simply. "She has been such a
comfort to us all;" and with a little stifled sob she buries her face
in the wreath which she has taken up. "White violets, how beautiful!
and the flower that father loved best. How good of you, Hugh!"
"I remembered that when mother and I were giving orders for it this
morning, and I knew you would like them. How is Molly, Honor?"
"She is a little better now, I think; but her grief has been
something terrible. Poor girl! She idolized father almost, and the
shock has been almost too much for her. She is so highly sensitive,
and she feels the loss so much, never having seen him alive again
after dinner on that dreadful evening. Doris and I were both with
him, you know; and of course it was just chance that Molly was not
there too. At first she was nearly wild with grief, then she sank
into a sort of dull apathy, taking notice of nothing and of nobody.
Miss Denny has been kindness itself to her, as she has to us all,
indeed; and to-day Molly seems more like her old self."
"I am so glad," Hugh says feelingly, "Good-bye, Honor, for the
present; let me know, mind, if there is _anything_ I can do for any
of you;" and hastily pressing the girl's hand the young man runs down
the steps and out of sight.