BRIGHTER DAYS.
Two years have sped quickly, and it is once more a warm, lovely day
in June. The French windows of the Rookery sitting-room are wide
open, letting in the still, summer air, and Mrs. Merivale and Honor,
both with their work, are seated just inside, so as to get full
benefit of any little fitful breeze which may spring up, without
exposing themselves to the glare of the sunlit garden.
Yes, two years have flown since Doris left home to go abroad with her
aunt, and her mother and sister are talking over a letter which they
have received from her that morning, and which, with two others, is
lying in the former's lap.
Honor is a little taller than when we last saw her, though not much;
but her figure has filled out, making her look more womanly, though
still small and slight altogether. She has still the same quaint
little oval face, and the same steadfast, earnest look in her soft
brown eyes; but, with the exception of the two little straight lines
between her brows, the anxious, care-worn look has gone from it, and
in its place there is a happy, contented expression, which her mother
looks upon with thankfulness. The two years have also changed Mrs.
Merivale, though not perhaps so much in appearance as character.
She has to a great extent lost that fretful nervousness and
selfishness which, before her husband's death, and, indeed, for some
time after, had seemed to be growing upon her. Though still feeble
in health her disposition has grown more cheerful, and she has become
more self-reliant than of old. Honor has unconsciously taken to
consulting her more in the management of their household affairs, and
although she still takes all the active part upon herself, she often
finds her mother's advice of great value now.
To such matters as banging doors, creaking boots, loud voices, &c.,
which used formerly to "jar" upon her nerves, she has become almost
impervious, whilst to be "completely prostrated" is a calamity of
rare occurrence, excepting on occasions of real and genuine nervous
headaches.
The two years have been quiet, uneventful ones enough to the
inhabitants of Edendale. The most exciting thing that has taken
place, perhaps, being the sudden and unexpected death, while in
Africa somewhere, of Sir Charles Ferrars of Ferrars Court. But as he
had never lived at the Court for long together, and latterly not at
all, his death was not an event to stir the sympathies of the
surrounding neighbourhood greatly. Of course every one said, "How
very sad--so sudden, you know!" and then they began to speculate as
to what the heir would be like, and whether he would take possession
soon, &c. &c. But in a few days the whole affair was forgotten; and
as no heir arrived on the scene to satisfy their curiosity, they soon
forgot that there was one to speculate about.
Dr. John Sinclair is constantly to be seen at the Rookery; indeed, he
has fallen into the habit of going there, at one hour or another,
almost every day.
With the first really hot weather of the year before, Daisy's health
had flagged rather alarmingly, and the young doctor began to fear
that her illness of the previous spring had left a permanent mark
upon her. Thus had he become a constant visitor in order to watch
the child closely.
At the present time Daisy is, for her, in comparatively robust
health, but every one knows how difficult it is to get out of any
habit once taken to, whether it be good or bad, and young Dr.
Sinclair is to be seen at the Rookery almost as frequently as ever,
although there is now no special need for looking after his little
patient from a medical point of view.
Dick, now a strapping lad of fifteen, has pleased the Rev. Mr. Bolton
beyond measure during the two years he has been with him, and the
good old vicar does not know which to be most delighted with--his
beautiful voice, or the industry and perseverance which he has
displayed regarding his own studies.
Molly's pupils have so increased in number that she has for some time
past been making a nice steady little income, and she has even felt
justified in affording herself some finishing lessons from a good
master.
Mrs. Horton, always ready to do the girls any kind service now that
their mother cannot go about with them, and more especially since
their aunt left England, has taken both Honor and Molly up to London
for a few weeks' visit at different times; and the former also,
considering that it would be money well spent, has given herself the
benefit of a little "brushing up," as she calls it, in her art. Both
the girls, therefore, are able to take a better stand in their
teaching (for Honor has pupils now in addition to her own painting),
and Molly often finds herself correcting, encouraging, or
remonstrating, as the case may be, with girls a good deal older than
herself; for her fame as a musicianly teacher has spread far and
wide, and she has as many grown-up girls as pupils, who are anxious
to keep up their practice, as younger ones. Molly has three of the
Hallam children now, and a fourth is nearly ready to begin, Indeed,
were it feasible, Mrs. Hallam would like to include the baby still in
arms in her list of pupils, so anxious is she that they shall all
commence early enough and get all the benefit they can from what she
is constantly quoting to her friends as "first-class teaching, my
dear."
The Mr. Talboys look if anything younger than they did a couple of
years back. They have residing in the stables of the Rosery a
pretty, knowing-looking pony rejoicing in the name of Puck, the pet
and property of Miss Margaret Merivale. At the time previously
spoken of, when little Daisy had drooped so with the heat of the
summer, and Dr. Sinclair had been racking his brains to think what
could be done to revive the feeble strength, which at times seemed
ready to ebb away altogether, a bright idea struck him one day.
Riding!--the very thing. But how in the world could such a thing be
managed? Although the Merivales were in a very different position
now to that which they were in when they first came to the village,
they were not, he was sure, well enough off to buy and keep a pony.
"Now, if only she could ride Jack," thought the doctor to himself,
"he would, I know, be as gentle as a lamb with a child upon his back.
But, bless me! his back would be far too broad for little Daisy!
Besides, who would there be to ride with her? I don't think Jack
would care to consent to a leading rein at his age!"
But nevertheless the doctor goes on thinking and thinking (for during
the long time he has now attended the child she has become very dear
to him), until he suddenly becomes possessed of a still brighter
idea. He will go to the Mr. Talboys and talk it over with them.
One would certainly have thought, from the almost childish delight
which the generous old men expressed at this brilliant idea of their
young friend's, that it was one which would benefit themselves
greatly. But so indeed it was, for they could know no higher
privilege than to do good to others.
"My _dear_ Dr. John," they had both cried, "you could not have done
us a greater kindness than by coming to consult us about this capital
plan of yours. I think," continues Mr. Ned, "I may with truth say
that Brother Ben and myself have been worrying as to what could be
done to pick up the child's strength as much as you have, my dear
boy, and we _know_ how it has troubled you, do we not, brother?"
And so there had been no rest for anybody until a desirable animal
had been found and purchased. The old gentlemen were somewhat
particular in making their choice, and a trifle difficult to please.
Of course it was to be pretty. Not too tall, nor too small. Neither
too old nor too young. It was to be a thoroughly respectable pony,
and reliable as to temper; but while wishing it to possess a "spice
of spirit," as they expressed it, it was to be steady and
sober-minded at heart! It must be confessed that to find all these
excellent qualities possessed by one ordinary pony was rather
difficult, and, perhaps, more than ought to have been expected. But
the brothers did not want an ordinary pony! On the contrary they had
made up their minds to have an extraordinary one; and it is to be
feared that more than one horse-dealer lost his temper when, having
trotted out his best ponies before the two exacting old gentlemen,
who stood watching their paces with heads on one side, it turned out
that not one of them came up to their ideas of what a pony _ought_ to
be.
Indeed one man was overheard to say to his ostler (taking it for
granted that the Mr. Talboys were deaf as well as old) that he
"should think the old gents had better get one made to order!" which
caused Mr. Ned to wish him "good-morning."
At length, however, a desirable pony was found, and having been
presented to Daisy in due form, was installed in the comfortable
stable at the Rosery.
There being no one at home who could take out Daisy for her airings
on Puck--for the doctor said _walking_ would be of no use; she must
have a good canter every day--the young man begged that he might be
allowed to take her under his charge. He could give her a good run,
he said, every day, when going his distant rounds on Jack, and the
Rosery lying between his own house and the Rookery, he could always
call for Puck on his way for Daisy.
This arrangement met with the little girl's entire approval, in fact
she very soon confided to her dear Doctor John that there was _no
one_ else she would have trusted herself to in her first attempts at
riding.
Ere long, however, the young doctor had made a very fair little
horsewoman of Daisy, and the pair were constantly to be seen
cantering over the country together, with Rufus, the doctor's red
setter, and Vic (who condescended to be friendly under the
circumstances) at their heels.
The letters mentioned at the beginning of this chapter are, besides
the one from Doris, from Lady Woodhouse and Mr. Lancelot Ferrars, the
latter containing a formal proposal of marriage for Doris.
The two have been thrown together a great deal abroad, and Lady
Woodhouse has smiled with grim approval whenever the young fellow has
appeared, quite by accident as it were, at the same place in which
they are staying.
"Your uncle and Mr. Ferrars seem to have taken quite a fancy to each
other lately," judicially remarked Aunt Sophia, with a little, almost
imperceptible sniff, which always accompanied any attempt at acting
on her part.
"You see, Doris, it must be lonely work for a man to be travelling by
himself; though, of course, Mr. Ferrars has his profession as an
artist to attend to. But your uncle has only you and me to talk to,
so I am very glad Mr. Ferrars seeks his society for that reason; for
people may say what they like, child, but men do like talking to each
other when they get the chance better than to us women. I suppose
they think they have more brains than we," with a slight toss of her
head, "though all I can say is that if they have, they don't always
know how to use them."
So, although Lady Woodhouse saw plainly that this constant visitor
was becoming attached to her niece, she prided herself immensely on
her diplomacy and tact in not allowing the girl to get what she
called any nonsensical ideas into her head, at any rate for the
present.
She has written to her sister now on the subject in high spirits, and
though certain parts of the letter are for Mrs. Merivale's own
private perusal only, she is reading out most of it to Honor.
"Doris seems genuinely fond of the young man now," writes Lady
Woodhouse. "At first, I tell you candidly, I thought I would have
some trouble with her, for she seemed to have a fixed idea in her
silly head that by making some great match she might retrieve the
fortunes of the whole family. She told me plainly one day that she
would see plenty of people during the two years that she was
travelling about, and that if she got a good chance she would
certainly take it. But all this, I am bound to acknowledge, was
before Mr. Ferrars began to pay her any attention. As ill luck would
have it, however, a wretched little elderly French count, with false
teeth and dyed hair and moustache, began to pay her attention also
just at the same time (Doris is certainly a pretty girl, Mary), and
for a little while I shook in my shoes; for common report set him
down as being enormously rich. Well, I saw at last that the child
was getting worried over it all. So was Mr. Ferrars, naturally. And
so one fine day I gave my lady a talking to. 'You can do as you
like,' I said, 'subject to your mother, of course, but don't say
afterwards you were not warned. You can accept this made-up old fop
with his million of francs (mind _francs_, not pounds) and be a
miserable woman for the rest of your life if you like. On the other
hand here is a young, good-looking fellow who is sincerely attached
to you, and though he may have only his few hundreds, he is not the
man to take a wife unless he can keep her comfortably.' I think my
words came just at the right time. Anyhow, it all came right; and
when Doris came to me and told me she would rather be the wife of
Lancelot Ferrars with only one hundred a year than marry the richest
duke in the world, I knew, my dear Mary, that the child's heart was
in the right place after all. I can congratulate you heartily, for
young Ferrars is one of the nicest young men I know, and will be just
the right sort of husband for Doris. Then, of course, his good
position--"
"Good position!" echo both Dick (who has just entered the room) and
Honor, pricking up their ears.
"Position as a painter," remarks Mrs. Merivale, folding up her letter
with dignity. "That is all I need read to you. The rest is all upon
business matters."
"Then we may expect to see Mr. Ferrars some time this week, I
suppose," says Honor presently. For in his short courteous note he
has begged leave to call on Mrs. Merivale, previous to his departure
for some distant part of the world where he has some important
business to transact.
"I do hope he will let us know beforehand," says Honor, already
tormenting herself as to culinary matters, "or else he will be quite
certain to choose a day when we have nothing but cold mutton for
dinner--and none too much of that, very likely."
"Hooray!" shouts Dick, tossing up his cap. "Fancy little Doris being
engaged! Good gracious! the house won't hold her when she comes
back!"
"She seems to be very happy," says Honor, who is reading her sister's
letter for about the sixth time. "She little thought what would come
of her adventure in the wood that day. Dear little Doris, I hope she
has a happy life before her."