DICK'S GOOD NEWS.
The message which Dr. Sinclair promised the Mr. Talboys is despatched
about ten o'clock the same night by his own errand-boy, whom he has
brought with him to the Rookery and installed in the kitchen, in case
of his wanting anything from his surgery during the night, as also to
make himself useful in any way that he can in the house, all Becky's
energies being concentrated on keeping the kitchen fire in.
The message is one that brings tears of joy and thankfulness to the
eyes of the soft-hearted old gentlemen, for it tells them that their
little favourite sank into a deep sleep about seven, and that if it
continues, as Dr. Sinclair hopes and thinks it will, all danger will
be at an end.
The old gentlemen retire to their beds, therefore, in a happier frame
of mind than that in which they had left them the same morning. A
long, anxious night of watching follows, through most of which Dr.
Sinclair sits patiently, his large hand clasped tightly by Daisy's
little thin one, until he becomes too cramped almost to move, though
not all the agony in the world would have induced him to do so at the
risk of rousing his little patient.
But presently, with the dawn, comes the knowledge that the little
girl will live, for she still sleeps soundly. It is only then that
Honor (on the doctor quietly persisting in her doing so) consents to
give up her place to Molly, and with a thankful heart she goes to
take the rest which, now that the suspense is over, she is obliged to
confess that she sadly needs. As the doctor returns to his own house
that same morning, he looks in at the Rosery, and delights the two
old gentlemen with the good news he has to tell them. Not very long
afterwards the brothers walk up to the Rookery together, but
declining to stir an inch beyond the doorstep, make their inquiries
of Doris--who comes out to see them--in a hushed, low voice, and
having intrusted her with the lovely posy of spring flowers which
they have brought for Daisy, go softly down the steps and gravel-walk
on tiptoe, that no sound may reach the room above, where lies the
little sufferer.
Daisy, now having taken a turn for the better, makes rapid progress
for a little while; but once having left her bed, an intense weakness
and lassitude set in which take the united strength of the whole
family to battle against. For Daisy will not eat, unless someone
stands over her and compels her to do so. She becomes fretful too;
and being too young herself to see the necessity of trying to take
the strengthening food that is brought to her at intervals, she gets
quite cross, telling them all plainly that it is very unkind to tease
her so, and that if she likes to give the greater part of her dainty
food to Timothy (who is always in close attendance at meal-times),
she doesn't see why she shouldn't. So Mrs. Merivale implores, the
girls coax and persuade, and the doctor scolds a little sometimes,
till finding he must exert his authority, he proceeds to do so in a
manner which astonishes no one so much as the little lady herself.
The effort once made, Daisy's appetite improves little by little,
until at length she gives very practical illustration of that
sensible French proverb, "_L'appetit vient en mangeant_."
Every one (with the exception of Timothy, perhaps) is delighted with
this improvement, and it is now that Honor has reason to be so
grateful to the Mr. Talboys; for when once the little invalid is
sufficiently convalescent to take such things, jellies, both sweet
and savoury, strong soups, good old port (a hint as to which,
perhaps, Dr. Sinclair is answerable for), and, indeed, all the
nourishing things that can be thought of, are showered down upon the
household for little Daisy's benefit.
It is a subject for deep thankfulness to Mrs. Merivale and her elder
daughters that, in their days of adversity, they should have been
thrown amongst such generous, warm-hearted friends; for although no
one actually puts the thought into words, they all know full well in
their secret hearts that were it not for the generosity of their two
kind old landlords, little Daisy would never have thrown off the
terrible weakness which assailed her when the actual illness was a
thing of the past.
The day of the Messrs. Talboys' first visit to their little favourite
was an occasion to be remembered by all; so overcome with emotion
were they at first, and then so almost boyishly delighted when they
found that Daisy could manage to chat with them a little. Both the
old gentlemen's handkerchiefs did active duty for a few minutes at
first, but they soon recovered their spirits in presenting the child
with the little gifts, with which, as a matter of course, they had
come laden.
The time allowed for the first visit soon slips away, however; but it
is arranged that directly Daisy is well enough to sit up for any
length of time, the Mr. Talboys shall come to tea with her one day.
They take their departure quite satisfied therefore, looking back and
nodding and smiling so many times that Mr. Ned, who is gradually
backing towards the stairs, is only saved from shooting headlong down
by Doris, who, appearing on the scene just at the critical moment,
grasps his arms and restores his balance before he knows where he is.
From this time the days go on monotonously enough. The doctor comes
and goes, though not every day now, of course; and the two old
gentlemen trot backwards and forwards, always bringing something for
the little invalid, until her mother and sisters have to tell them
that they are fast doing their best to spoil their pet.
Household matters also go on very much as before; and now that the
greater trouble is lifted off their shoulders, the same little
everyday annoyances and vexations begin to harass and worry the girls
again. Clothes wear out, especially boots and shoes. Then Becky one
day, with her cap more awry even than usual in the excitement of the
moment, suddenly announces the startling and pleasing intelligence
that "There ain't no more coals in the cellar than what'll light the
kitchen fire to-morrow morning!"
Honor, too, begins to worry terribly about the entire cessation of
Dick's studies. Daisy (before her illness) and Bobby, she and the
other girls could very well manage between them, but Dick they feel
to be altogether beyond them; and many an hour is spent by Honor at
night, tossing and turning, and wondering what can be done for the
boy.
One Saturday, when Daisy is promoted to the sofa in the sitting-room,
and, domestic work being over for the day, the others are all seated
delightedly round her with work, books, &c., Dick suddenly bursts
into their midst, wildly waving his cap in the air.
"Hooray! hoo-ray!" he shouts. "You'll never guess what news I've
brought you, not if you guess for a hundred years! No more bothering
and thinking for you, Miss Honor, as to how you can contrive to get
your reprobate brother a decent education! Hooray!" and up goes his
cap to the ceiling, greatly to the peril of the gas globes.
When the boy can be persuaded to calm down and talk like a reasonable
being, the good news is gradually extracted from him, and proves to
be as follows:--
The night before being Friday, and therefore practice-night at St.
Luke's, Dick had been prowling round the church as usual, in the hope
of having a musical treat from the organ, which in the hands of a
promising young musician (a native of the village), pealed forth
harmonies which flew straight to Dick's music-loving soul. As he
entered the half-lighted church, and made for a secluded corner where
he was in the habit of enjoying the choir-practice unseen, he
suddenly ran full tilt against the vicar, who was emerging from the
vestry.
"Ah, my lad!" exclaimed Mr. Bolton, with a little gasp at the
collision; "have you come to listen to our practice? Perhaps you
sing yourself, do you?"
"A little, sir," answered Dick shyly, as they moved more towards the
light together; "but I am _very_ fond of it," he added with
enthusiasm.
"Why, now I see you better," exclaimed the vicar suddenly, "I am sure
I know your face! Don't you come with your sisters to church every
Sunday and sit just about there?" pointing with his stick. "Ah, I
thought so; and I have noticed how very much you seem to enjoy the
music, and that you have a fine clear voice of your own."
And then it ended in Mr. Bolton asking him how he would like to join
the choir; and afterwards, greatly to his delight, he was actually
given a stall in the chancel and allowed to follow the choir as best
he could, one of the boys good-naturedly sharing his music-books with
him. All through the practice Mr. Bolton kept a sharp look-out on
Dick, noting with what evident enjoyment the boy joined in anything
that he was familiar with, while listening with rapt attention to all
that he was not.
After it was all over he came up to the boy, who (the choir having
dispersed) was standing aloof, wondering whether he ought to thank
the vicar for his kindness, and placing his hand on his shoulder
kindly said, "I have asked Mr. St. John to stay behind after the
others have gone, I want him to try your voice;" and motioning to the
boy to wait, he disappeared into the vestry.
Mr. St. John, the organist, expressed himself delighted with Dick's
voice, and when at last after a little kind encouragement and
pressing on the part of the young man he sang with genuine feeling
and taste Handel's thrilling recitative, "There were shepherds
abiding in the field," the delight of both gentlemen knew no bounds.
After questioning the boy a little Mr. Bolton closed the interview by
telling him to come and see him on the afternoon of the next day.
"And now comes the cream of the whole thing!" cries Dick excitedly,
after having given the foregoing information in a series of short,
spasmodic sentences.
"After I had told Mr. Bolton that I most distinctly _should_ like to
join the choir, he asked me all the questions imaginable about my
education, and, oh, ever so many things that I can't remember now.
But to continue (as the books say), I let out that you were all
worrying about my schooling having to stop, and directly I said that
he quite brightened up, and told me that if I liked he thought he
could be of service to me about that. It seems, you see, that he
generally gives his chief choir-boys about four pounds a year; but
that would not be of very much use to me, he said (I thought to
myself it just _would_, though). And so he proposed that in return
for my services--my _services_, mind--he would carry on my education
with his own boy and the two pupils he has living at the vicarage.
'The more the merrier, my boy,' he said; 'and Mr. Holmes and I can as
well tackle _four_ as three youngsters like you.' Mr. St. John is to
train my voice, of course; and now, which of you girls can make a
surplice? And, oh yes, I forgot, Mr. Bolton is coming to see you
about it all to-morrow, mother. There now! don't you think I have
done a good day's work? _I_ do!" And up goes the cap to the ceiling
once more. "Ah! you little thought," he goes on, suddenly calming
down--"you little thought what I meant some time ago when I said I
had a plan in my head about something; but, honestly, you know, I
didn't expect it would turn out in this stunning fashion. What I
intended doing was to offer myself for the choir, you see, because I
guessed they paid something, though I didn't know what. And that is
the reason I have been going to the practices so much lately, trying
every time to screw up my courage to speak to Mr. Bolton. But now, I
suppose, you girls and mother will all think the education plan the
best, though I must say I think it rather hard on a fellow. But
still," he adds magnanimously, "if it takes a load off all your
shoulders, of course I shall be very glad."
It need hardly be said with what delight Dick's news is received by
every one, and as she lays her head upon her pillow that night, Honor
thinks of her brother's words, and feels that a "load" is indeed
lifted off her heavily burdened shoulders.