FACING THE FUTURE.
The day of the funeral has come and gone. The last fond look has
been taken, and the last kiss given to the calm, placid face, so soon
to be hidden from sight. And now the mortal remains of the fond
husband, loving father, and kind master have been carried from the
once happy home, and, followed by a large number of sympathetic
friends and acquaintances, in addition to the little train of
mourners, are laid in their last resting-place.
The blinds are once more drawn up, and the winter sunlight streams
into the dining-room, where are assembled Lady Woodhouse, Miss
Denison, Doris, and Honor, with Mr. Trent and the old head clerk, Mr.
Hobson, who is visibly overcome by the sadness of the occasion.
"It is no use," remarks Mr. Trent, moving some papers about, and
seeming chiefly to address himself to the old man seated opposite
him. "It will be no use going through my late client's will,
although it was properly drawn up and witnessed only a few months
back."
"Not the least in the world," asserts Mr. Hobson, taking off his
spectacles and carefully polishing them up.
"Therefore," continues Mr. Trent slowly, "we may dispense with the
usual forms and give our attention, Mr. Hobson, to settling the
future affairs of Mrs. Merivale and these poor young ladies here. I
have looked through Mr. Merivale's papers, and I find that there will
be absolutely nothing but your own little property, Miss Honor, and
the small portion of your mother's fortune, which is safely invested.
The two together will amount to £70 per annum, and that, I regret to
say, is absolutely all." With that the old gentleman looks kindly,
and with eyes not altogether free from dimness, at the two orphan
daughters of his late client, and for a few moments there is a dead
silence in the room, broken by Honor, who presently asks:
"But, Mr. Trent, ought we to keep this--I mean, ought we not to give
up _everything_ in such a case as this?"
Lady Woodhouse gasps, and is about to pour forth a torrent of
remonstrances, when Mr. Trent, also looking slightly taken aback,
replies:
"My dear young lady, just consider a moment. You have a perfect
right to this money, and, pardon me if I ask, what would you propose
to do without it? You cannot even realize what a paltry sum it is
when house-rent, food, and clothing, to say nothing if any other
expenses have to come out of it. You are doing as much as it is
possible to do; indeed more than some persons would do; and I can
assure you, Miss Honor, that there is not one among the unfortunate
sufferers in this collapse who will not be satisfied with the course
that is being taken."
Honor sighs and brushes away a tear. "I was thinking," she says, "of
some of the last words my dear father ever spoke. He said he would
give the very coat from off his back if that would be of any use."
"_If_ it would be of any use," repeated the old gentleman kindly;
"but would it, my dear? would it? You must not allow your proper
judgment to be run away with by your feeling--through an exaggerated
feeling--of justice."
"Exactly what I was going to observe," says Lady Woodhouse with a
jerk of her bonnet-strings. "You are your father's child all over,
Honor; and I will say this of you: you are conscientious almost to a
fault, and so was he, poor man. You can, I am sure, take the £70 a
year with a clear conscience; so for goodness' sake let us hear no
more about it. You have yet to learn what a mere drop in the ocean
it will be when you come to try living on it--and that at once. Now
do, girls, let us be plain and business-like, and give up talking
nonsense. I have only an hour before I must return to the Pagets',
and I have promised to have a cup of tea with your mother before I
go, so that we can make our final arrangements for the journey
to-morrow. Now, I understand that there is a certain amount of
furniture in the house which belongs to your mother. I'm afraid it's
not much; but still it is better than nothing. Where is it?"
"There is some in the school-room," answer the girls together, "and
the rest is in the nurseries." And Honor adds despondently:
"I'm afraid there are not more than two beds."
"Well--now this is what I want you to do, Honor. Mr. Trent, I
understand, has most kindly invited you and Miss Denison, while she
is with you, to go and stay with him and Mrs. Trent for a little
while. Now I want you while you are there to make out a list of what
else is absolutely necessary in the way of furniture and send it to
me. Mr. Hobson, it appears, has very kindly been looking at the
advertisements of houses, and he tells me he has brought one or two
to show you, which might, perhaps, be worth answering. He will, I
feel sure, give you all the advice and help that he can in this
matter. I am thankful, too, that good Miss Denison will be with you
a little while longer, for I know what a comfort she will be to you;
and if you are in any doubt or perplexity on any point you must go to
her, Honor; she will give you the best and wisest advice."
"I shall indeed look forward to being of some use to Honor while I am
with her," says Miss Denison; "and you may rest assured, dear Lady
Woodhouse, that I shall do all in my power to help her and the rest
of my young charges in settling and arranging all that has to be
done."
"You are a good, kind creature," exclaims Lady Woodhouse impulsively,
"and these girls ought to be grateful to you for the way in which you
have brought them up. I always told my sister that if any of them
turned out well she would have you to thank for it. Now, Honor, I
must go. See that your mother and the two girls are ready when I
call in the morning. You know Mr. Paget cannot bear to have his
horses kept waiting a moment; and I'm sure _I_ don't want to be the
cause of their taking cold. You will have all the rest of the
packing to see to with Lane after we have gone."
"O, our packing will not take long," replies Honor, "with Miss Denny
and Lane to help us."
"Not take long, child! Why, what can you be thinking about? Your
mother's wardrobe will be something to get together and pack."
"O, I didn't think of packing anything of mother's excepting what she
will be requiring now. I mean," adds Honor with a little tightening
of her lips, "that I do not think it would be right to keep any of
mother's handsome dresses, and certainly not her jewels. Doris and I
have, of course, very little in that way; but," with a little
threatening look at her sister, "I shall expect her to do as I do,
and give up _everything_ that is of value."
Doris does not look highly pleased at this proposition, but she says:
"Of course, Honor," meekly enough, though she is immensely relieved
at her aunt's next words:
"What you say about the jewels is quite right, Honor,--that is to
say, your mother's; in fact we have already talked over the subject
together. Little personal gifts, and indeed any jewellery your
mother had before she was married, she will, however, keep," adds
Aunt Sophia rather decidedly. "And Doris and you must keep the
little trinkets you have; which are, I suppose, most of them birthday
presents. You say yourself they are not worth speaking of. As to
the dresses, you are really quite quixotic, Honor; no one would
expect such a sacrifice; and when you all go out of mourning it is
more than probable that you will feel very thankful that you have
taken my advice. Now I really must go, or I shall be late." And
shaking hands with Miss Denison and the two gentlemen, Lady Woodhouse
leaves the room.
Those left behind immediately enter on a discussion touching the
question of the new house. Mr. Hobson has cut out one or two
advertisements which on consideration are not found to be
particularly _un_suitable, which, perhaps, is something, in the
matter of house-hunting! One of them states that there is a
nine-roomed house to let--good drainage, large garden, hen-house, and
pig-sty. Low rent to careful tenant.--Apply to Messrs. E. & B.
Talboys, care of Messrs. Gilmore, solicitors, High Street, Edendale
Village, &c.
Taking it altogether, this sounds hopeful. So Honor sits down, and
with Mr. Hobson's assistance answers the advertisement, while Doris
and Miss Denison leave the room with Mr. Trent, whom Mrs. Merivale is
now equal to seeing "just for a few minutes," prior to her departure
with her sister next day for London. For the rest of that day and
all the morning of the next Honor and Miss Denison are engaged in
packing and directing all that is theirs to take, and with the
assistance of Lane and of the school-room maid (who has begged with
tears to be allowed to remain with the family, at any rate until they
are settled in the new house) they get through a great deal. And
when at last they have watched the departure of the carriage
containing Mrs. Merivale, Lady Woodhouse, Doris, and Daisy to the
station, they enter the house again, to see if all is in order for
the sale which is so soon to follow their own departure, with that
feeling of blank melancholy attendant on that much-to-be-pitied
condition of having "nothing to do." Dick and Bobby are already
established next door with their good friends the Hortons--Molly to
follow later, according to the kind suggestion made a few days before
by Mrs. Horton; and there they are to remain until the family plans
shall be more settled.
While Miss Denison and Honor are making a last pilgrimage round the
house, Molly stands disconsolately at the dining-room window pressing
her little _retroussé_ nose against the pane. Suddenly she sees a
telegraph-boy running up the steps, and her nerves being all unstrung
by recent grief and sorrow Molly rushes with pale affrighted face to
the door, fearful of more trouble to come perhaps, to take the
message from the boy. She gives a little sigh of relief, however, as
she glances at the direction and sees her governess's name upon it,
and her long legs soon carry her upstairs to her mother's boudoir,
where Honor and Miss Denison are. As Miss Denison reads the telegram
her face changes, and in a voice trembling with agitation she says:
"My poor girls! I shall have to leave you directly after all. This
is from Frank's mother saying that he is dangerously ill, and that I
must get there without a moment's delay. O, how unfortunate, to be
sure! I cannot bear to leave you all alone at such a sad time; and
nothing but this would induce me to do so. But you see, Honor--you
see--how imperative it is. Indeed I fear even now that I may be too
late;" and thinking of her own trouble for the first time Miss
Denison breaks utterly down, and with her pupils' arms round her,
their tears mingling with hers, she sobs uncontrollably for a few
seconds.
Active steps have to be taken, however, and in less than an hour the
remaining occupants of the house have left it for ever, and Honor and
Molly are standing on the platform at the station by the locked door
of the compartment in which Miss Denison is seated, looking down upon
them with wet and sorrowful eyes. One last hand-clasp and a
half-stifled sob, and the train moving slowly from the platform
leaves the two girls standing, hand in hand, desolate and alone.