Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.Mr Miller’s News.There were difficulties to contend with. Lady Mildred, whose hospitable instincts were aroused, and who felt really anxious about the delicate little boy, would not hear of his leaving without the doctor’s permission.“He will be here directly,” she said; but it was impossible for Mr Waldron to wait. He glanced at Claudia in a sort of despair. She understood him.“I am almost sure Mr Webb will say Gervais may safely go,” she said; “perhaps if he is fidgety and nervous at being away from—from his mother and all, it would be better to run the risk of cold than to excite him by keeping him here.”“Yes,” said Mr Waldron, gratefully; “that is just it. Then I may send a close carriage in about a couple of hours.”“No, certainly not,” said Lady Mildred sharply. “If Mr Webb does give leave for him to go to-day, it shall certainly be in the brougham. I shall send Mrs Ball or some one with him—”“I have some one with me,” said Mr Waldron, “waiting in the dog-cart at the door.”Lady Mildred almost screamed.“Waiting at the door in this weather! My dear Mr Waldron—”A few minutes later, as Jerry lay wondering if he might not get up, a slight rustle in the doorway caught his ears, at all times of the sharpest. It was clear daylight, impossible to think of ghosts or anything uncanny; but Jerry’s heart nevertheless beat rather faster than usual for an instant or two. Then there was a little cry, a rush towards the bed, disjointed exclamations—“Oh, dear Charlotte! is it you?”“My own old Jerry, to think you were nearly lost in the snow. Oh, how miserable we were! Oh my old Jerry.”There was some one in the doorway, some one who had brought Charlotte up-stairs, whose eyes filled with tears as she listened to them.“Oh, how happy they are to be together, not to have to be separated,” she thought, as her fancy flew off to her own dear ones, Lalage and Alix, and the three little brothers at the Rectory.And an hour or two later, Jerry, well wrapped up, and in Charlotte’s careful convoy, was driven home in Lady Mildred’s deliciously comfortable brougham. How his tongue went, how intense was Charlotte’s interest in the thrilling experiences of the night before!“It isverystrange,” she said thoughtfully; “indeed the whole thing is too strange. That you should have been put to sleep in that very same room; oh, I can fancy how frightened you must have been. I don’t think it was babyish at all.”For that it had been so, was Jerry’s worst misgiving.“And oh, Charlotte, shewasso kind; whether she’s spoilt or not, whatever she is, I shall always say she is very,verykind.”“Yes, Jerry dear; I will try more than ever to—to like her, at least not to be jealous of her: it is a horrible feeling,” said Charlotte with a sigh. And a softer feeling than she had yet had towards Claudia came over her as she thought of all her gentle kindness that very morning; how she had entered into Jerry’s gladness when the doctor said he might go home; how she had herself seen to the hot-water bottles in the brougham, and brought the warmest wraps, and insisted on lending her furred carriage overshoes, as Jerry’s boots had shrunk. How lovely she had looked as she stood at the hall-door to see them off! It had been impossible for Charlotte to resist giving her a warm pressure of the hand, and murmuring a hearty “thank you.” Afterwards she felt doubly glad that she had done so, though she was far from thinking just now how long it would be before she saw again the sweet, bright face against whose attractiveness she had so resolutely steeled herself.Lady Mildred continued uneasy and nervous; she asked Claudia not to go to school that day.“For one thing,” she said, “it would not be fit for you to go with Kelpie, and there is no horse roughed except the one that has gone in the brougham; and I have a sort of feeling that there may be a telegram from Mr Miller as there was no letter. It is possible we may go up to town almost at once.”But no telegram came.The next morning, however, brought a letter from Mr Miller in which he decidedly seconded Lady Mildred’s proposal to spend Christmas in town. If she could manage to do so, he said, it would be in every way more satisfactory than his coming down to Silverthorns. For the business he wanted to see her about, was not anything that could be settled at once. He should hope to have several long talks with her.“Tiresome man,” said Lady Mildred; “why can’t he speak out and say what it is. Claudia, I shall not feel comfortable now till I have seen him. I shall have a telegram this morning to say if I can get the rooms I want—my own house, you know, Claudia, has been let since Mr Osbert’s death—and it so, I shall decide to go up to-morrow. You must send a note to your Miss Lloyd to say you will be away till after Christmas.”“Very well, Aunt Mildred,” Claudia replied.Lady Mildred glanced at her sharply.“What is the matter, child?” she said. “Are you vexed at having to miss a week or ten days of these precious lessons? Any other girl would like the idea of a visit to town, even in winter. I will take you about, as much as I can.”“I do like it, indeed, aunt,” said Claudia earnestly; “and for some things I am really not sorry to miss this last little bit at Miss Lloyd’s.”“You are ahead of all the Wortherham misses, I suppose, and afraid of hurting their feelings, or something of that sort, I suppose,” said Lady Mildred, with a sort of half-grudging admiration. “My dear Claudia, you are your father’s own daughter—Quixotic is no word for you. You won’t find that kind of thing answer in the world, I assure you.”But Claudia laughed brightly.“I think the world is a much nicer place than most people allow, Aunt Mildred.”“You have seen such a great deal of it,” Lady Mildred replied. “I am not sure but that you have seen enough of the Wortherham corner of it, however. I think you are beyond Miss Lloyd’s institution. What you should have now is some first-rate teaching in France and Germany.”Claudia’s eyes glistened.“Of course I should like that very much,” she said; “but I do think the teaching very good at Miss Lloyd’s—it has been already such a test to me of what I really do know.”The telegram with a favourable reply about the rooms came that morning. The very next day saw Lady Mildred and Claudia installed in them. Claudia had never been in London before for more than a day or two at a time, and in spite of the dreary winter weather she was full of delight. Even the slight fog, which of course greeted them on their awaking the next morning, could not depress her spirits.“I have always wanted so to see a real London fog,” she said with satisfaction, when her aunt called her back from her station at the window.“But, my dear, this is not a real fog,” said Lady Mildred laughing. “It is foggy, certainly; but a real London fog, as you call it, would rather astonish you.”“I hope we shall have one then, while we are in town,” said Claudia, naïvely.And Lady Mildred was still laughing at her when Mr Miller was announced, and Claudia was dismissed.“What a very charming girl,” began the old gentleman, as she left the room. Everybody always did say something of the kind about Claudia, but in the present case the remark struck Lady Mildred as rather forced. It seemed to her that Mr Miller was deferring the evil moment of some communication he had to make to her. “Is she a relation of yours—or—or perhaps of Mr Osbert’s?” he went on with a sudden gleam of interest.“Of Mr Osbert’s!” repeated Lady Mildred, contemptuously. “What are you thinking of, my good Mr Miller? You know all about Mr Osbert’s relations as well as or better than I do. You know he had none near enough to count except General Osbert and his family; and General Osbert has no daughter.”“No; but there are relations of Mr Osbert’s, and not so very distant ones either, living within a short drive of you,” said Mr Miller, rather snappishly. He did not like Lady Mildred’s tone. “I had occasion several times to remind Mr Osbert of this, though possibly your ladyship’s attention was never drawn to it.”“You mean those Waldrons, I suppose,” said Lady Mildred. “I do not know their exact connection with the Osberts. I know my husband did not like them; he had some trouble with old Mrs Waldron when he first came to Silverthorns, I remember his telling me. Some interference or some unreasonable claim she made. But why should we waste time in speaking about them just now, Mr Miller; you have some important matters to talk over with me, and I have been making myself quite uneasy with wondering what they could be.”She expected some courteous and smiling expression of regret and reassurance from the lawyer; but to her surprise his face remained very grave.“Yes; I have some most important matters to discuss with you,” he said; “I have been foreseeing the present state of things for some time. There has been—I have had bad news from Cannes. You are aware that General Osbert and his family—a very small family now—usually spend the winters there, though I think you never have any direct communication with them?”“Never,” said Lady Mildred; “though they keep themselves informed ofmystate of health, no doubt. My death will be a matter of some moment to them.” But Mr Miller took no notice of this caustic observation.“As I was saying,” he went on, “I have had bad news from Cannes. The elder son—the only one, one might almost say, for the other one is hopelessly consumptive—had a bad accident last week; he was thrown from his horse. Yesterday evening came a telegram announcing his death.”Lady Mildred started.“But he was married,” she said hastily.“Yes; he has been married several years to a cousin on his mother’s side, but he has left no children; he never had any. General Osbert is terribly broken down by this, and he is already an old man. It is practically the end of the family. The other son cannot live many months.”“And I am an old woman,” said Lady Mildred: “I may die any day. Don’t be afraid to speak out, Mr Miller. You are thinking of what will become of the property if all General Osbert’s family thus comes to an end.”“Yes,” said Mr Miller quietly, “I am. Not whatwillbecome of it, but whatshould. I have much to explain to you, which I do not think you have ever thoroughly understood, indeed I have not always thoroughly understood it myself. There were some things wrongly done when the property last changed hands—not so much illegally as unfairly and unkindly.”“You mean to say when my husband’s branch of it came into possession,” said Lady Mildred hastily. “I will listen to no blame ofhim, Mr Miller.”Mr Miller smiled a little.“I do not ask you to do so, Lady Mildred,” he said. “Mr Osbert was misinformed and prejudiced; and there was foolish pride on the other side—reluctance to explain things properly. I blame the old squire’s sister, the late Mrs Waldron, for this, though she was an admirable woman. If you will allow me, I will go over the whole with you, and explain exactly the present position of things.”Lady Mildred was closeted with Mr Miller for a long time that morning. When he at last left and Claudia rejoined her, the girl saw that she was grave and thoughtful, but not restless or uneasy.“Mr Miller had melancholy news to give me, Claudia,” she said; “my husband’s nephew, General Osbert’s son, is dead. It is very, very sad for them.” Claudia’s bright face shadowed over.“Have they no other children?”“It is not ‘they’—the old man is a widower. Yes; he has one other son, but he is frightfully delicate,” and Lady Mildred sighed. “I have a good deal on my mind, my dear. I don’t quite see what to do. What should you say to our going abroad; I may have to see the General on business matters.”“I should like it, of course,” said Claudia; “especially if—please don’t think me selfish—if I could go on with my lessons.”“Oh, you tiresome child! You have lessons on the brain: yes, of course you would go on with them, and learn more than at Miss Lloyd’s. No, I am not vexed with you; it is right and necessary that you should feel as you do. I wonder, by the bye, how that little fellow is—the little Waldron boy. I hope his adventure has done him no lasting harm; he did look so very thin and delicate. Perhaps the hearing of those unfortunate people’s troubles has made me think of him again.”“Might I write to his sister to ask how he is, Aunt Mildred?” said Claudia. She would have spoken eagerly, for she felt so, but she knew that with Lady Mildred it was best to be calm.Rather to her surprise the response was almost cordial.“Yes; I have no objection. It would seem only natural after our having had him with us. Tell the girl I should like to hear that his exposure in the snow has done him no harm.”“Thank you, aunt; I will write at once,” said Claudia, flushing with pleasure.“What do you thank me for, my dear?” said Lady Mildred, with a rather curious smile. “It is rather I that should thank you for writing the letter for me.”But Claudia saw that she was not vexed, though she could not quite understand her.“Aunt Mildred is rather incomprehensible sometimes,” she said to herself; “but it is no use minding; she is so very good and kind.”For it was not by any means Claudia’s way to worry or perplex herself with useless puzzles or wonderings; her heart and mind were too full of pleasanter and more profitable things.She was not able, much as she wished to do so, to write to Charlotte that day. For she had to go out with her aunt, to write some notes to friends for her, and various other small pieces of business to attend to which made it evening before she had any leisure; and in the evening Lady Mildred disliked to see her occupied. And the next day was Sunday, when, as everybody knows, all the postal arrangements in London go to sleep.So it was not till Tuesday morning that Claudia’s letter was put into Charlotte’s hands at the breakfast-table.“A letter for me,” she exclaimed, with some excitement and surprise; for Charlotte’s letters, except on the very rare occasions when she was away from home for a little, were few and far between. “I wonder what it is. I wish it could be anything to please poor Jerry,” she went on speaking half to herself.For since they had brought him home, Jerry had been ill—confined to bed now for the best part of a week, and it seemed very melancholy without him, even in that busy household. It had not done him any harm to bring him straight home that first day; the harm was done already; the chill had given him a bad feverish cold, and though it was not anything very serious he was much weakened by it.“He must get up his strength, or we shall be afraid to let him out again till the fine weather comes,” the doctor said; “and that would be a sad thing for a boy of his age.”Then when he went down-stairs with Mrs Waldron to write a prescription for a tonic, he sat looking thoughtful and pre-occupied for a minute or two. Jerry’s mother was a little alarmed.“You don’t think there is anything much the matter with him?” she said.“No, oh no; he has rather lost ground in his general health the last few months. He needed a fresh start or a fillip, and unluckily he has, so to speak, had one the wrong way. But there is nothing to be uneasy about, only considering how wonderfully he has improved in the last few years, I should like to see him still stronger.”“Yes,” Mrs Waldron agreed; “and in another year or so he will be getting into a higher class at school, and he will have to work harder, that will be trying for him.”“Exactly,” said the doctor, who had known Jerry since he was a baby; “now’s the time for him to get up his strength. You couldn’t by any possibility, I suppose, manage to send him out of England, to some of the mild health places, for a winter? It would be the making of him.”Mrs Waldron shook her head. She saw no chance whatever of such a thing and said so.“Ah, well,” said the doctor, “we must do our best. I dare say he’ll pull up again. It was only an idea that struck me.”And when he had gone, and Jerry’s mother went up-stairs again, it struck her too that the boy did look sadly in want of something of the kind.“If only we were rich,” she thought. “When we are all well it does not seem to press so—it is illness that brings small means home to one sorely.”Charlotte opened her letter, and glanced through it; then made a little exclamation. She had her wish. It was something that would please Jerry.“What is it?” asked her mother.“It is,”—Charlotte began with a very slight shade of reluctance—“it is a letter from Miss Meredon to ask how Jerry is.”“It is very nice of her to have thought of it,” said Mrs Waldron.“She writes, she says, by Lady Mildred’s wish,” said Charlotte; “they are in London.”“Well, you may run up-stairs and tell Jerry about it. It will please him,” said her mother.

There were difficulties to contend with. Lady Mildred, whose hospitable instincts were aroused, and who felt really anxious about the delicate little boy, would not hear of his leaving without the doctor’s permission.

“He will be here directly,” she said; but it was impossible for Mr Waldron to wait. He glanced at Claudia in a sort of despair. She understood him.

“I am almost sure Mr Webb will say Gervais may safely go,” she said; “perhaps if he is fidgety and nervous at being away from—from his mother and all, it would be better to run the risk of cold than to excite him by keeping him here.”

“Yes,” said Mr Waldron, gratefully; “that is just it. Then I may send a close carriage in about a couple of hours.”

“No, certainly not,” said Lady Mildred sharply. “If Mr Webb does give leave for him to go to-day, it shall certainly be in the brougham. I shall send Mrs Ball or some one with him—”

“I have some one with me,” said Mr Waldron, “waiting in the dog-cart at the door.”

Lady Mildred almost screamed.

“Waiting at the door in this weather! My dear Mr Waldron—”

A few minutes later, as Jerry lay wondering if he might not get up, a slight rustle in the doorway caught his ears, at all times of the sharpest. It was clear daylight, impossible to think of ghosts or anything uncanny; but Jerry’s heart nevertheless beat rather faster than usual for an instant or two. Then there was a little cry, a rush towards the bed, disjointed exclamations—“Oh, dear Charlotte! is it you?”

“My own old Jerry, to think you were nearly lost in the snow. Oh, how miserable we were! Oh my old Jerry.”

There was some one in the doorway, some one who had brought Charlotte up-stairs, whose eyes filled with tears as she listened to them.

“Oh, how happy they are to be together, not to have to be separated,” she thought, as her fancy flew off to her own dear ones, Lalage and Alix, and the three little brothers at the Rectory.

And an hour or two later, Jerry, well wrapped up, and in Charlotte’s careful convoy, was driven home in Lady Mildred’s deliciously comfortable brougham. How his tongue went, how intense was Charlotte’s interest in the thrilling experiences of the night before!

“It isverystrange,” she said thoughtfully; “indeed the whole thing is too strange. That you should have been put to sleep in that very same room; oh, I can fancy how frightened you must have been. I don’t think it was babyish at all.”

For that it had been so, was Jerry’s worst misgiving.

“And oh, Charlotte, shewasso kind; whether she’s spoilt or not, whatever she is, I shall always say she is very,verykind.”

“Yes, Jerry dear; I will try more than ever to—to like her, at least not to be jealous of her: it is a horrible feeling,” said Charlotte with a sigh. And a softer feeling than she had yet had towards Claudia came over her as she thought of all her gentle kindness that very morning; how she had entered into Jerry’s gladness when the doctor said he might go home; how she had herself seen to the hot-water bottles in the brougham, and brought the warmest wraps, and insisted on lending her furred carriage overshoes, as Jerry’s boots had shrunk. How lovely she had looked as she stood at the hall-door to see them off! It had been impossible for Charlotte to resist giving her a warm pressure of the hand, and murmuring a hearty “thank you.” Afterwards she felt doubly glad that she had done so, though she was far from thinking just now how long it would be before she saw again the sweet, bright face against whose attractiveness she had so resolutely steeled herself.

Lady Mildred continued uneasy and nervous; she asked Claudia not to go to school that day.

“For one thing,” she said, “it would not be fit for you to go with Kelpie, and there is no horse roughed except the one that has gone in the brougham; and I have a sort of feeling that there may be a telegram from Mr Miller as there was no letter. It is possible we may go up to town almost at once.”

But no telegram came.

The next morning, however, brought a letter from Mr Miller in which he decidedly seconded Lady Mildred’s proposal to spend Christmas in town. If she could manage to do so, he said, it would be in every way more satisfactory than his coming down to Silverthorns. For the business he wanted to see her about, was not anything that could be settled at once. He should hope to have several long talks with her.

“Tiresome man,” said Lady Mildred; “why can’t he speak out and say what it is. Claudia, I shall not feel comfortable now till I have seen him. I shall have a telegram this morning to say if I can get the rooms I want—my own house, you know, Claudia, has been let since Mr Osbert’s death—and it so, I shall decide to go up to-morrow. You must send a note to your Miss Lloyd to say you will be away till after Christmas.”

“Very well, Aunt Mildred,” Claudia replied.

Lady Mildred glanced at her sharply.

“What is the matter, child?” she said. “Are you vexed at having to miss a week or ten days of these precious lessons? Any other girl would like the idea of a visit to town, even in winter. I will take you about, as much as I can.”

“I do like it, indeed, aunt,” said Claudia earnestly; “and for some things I am really not sorry to miss this last little bit at Miss Lloyd’s.”

“You are ahead of all the Wortherham misses, I suppose, and afraid of hurting their feelings, or something of that sort, I suppose,” said Lady Mildred, with a sort of half-grudging admiration. “My dear Claudia, you are your father’s own daughter—Quixotic is no word for you. You won’t find that kind of thing answer in the world, I assure you.”

But Claudia laughed brightly.

“I think the world is a much nicer place than most people allow, Aunt Mildred.”

“You have seen such a great deal of it,” Lady Mildred replied. “I am not sure but that you have seen enough of the Wortherham corner of it, however. I think you are beyond Miss Lloyd’s institution. What you should have now is some first-rate teaching in France and Germany.”

Claudia’s eyes glistened.

“Of course I should like that very much,” she said; “but I do think the teaching very good at Miss Lloyd’s—it has been already such a test to me of what I really do know.”

The telegram with a favourable reply about the rooms came that morning. The very next day saw Lady Mildred and Claudia installed in them. Claudia had never been in London before for more than a day or two at a time, and in spite of the dreary winter weather she was full of delight. Even the slight fog, which of course greeted them on their awaking the next morning, could not depress her spirits.

“I have always wanted so to see a real London fog,” she said with satisfaction, when her aunt called her back from her station at the window.

“But, my dear, this is not a real fog,” said Lady Mildred laughing. “It is foggy, certainly; but a real London fog, as you call it, would rather astonish you.”

“I hope we shall have one then, while we are in town,” said Claudia, naïvely.

And Lady Mildred was still laughing at her when Mr Miller was announced, and Claudia was dismissed.

“What a very charming girl,” began the old gentleman, as she left the room. Everybody always did say something of the kind about Claudia, but in the present case the remark struck Lady Mildred as rather forced. It seemed to her that Mr Miller was deferring the evil moment of some communication he had to make to her. “Is she a relation of yours—or—or perhaps of Mr Osbert’s?” he went on with a sudden gleam of interest.

“Of Mr Osbert’s!” repeated Lady Mildred, contemptuously. “What are you thinking of, my good Mr Miller? You know all about Mr Osbert’s relations as well as or better than I do. You know he had none near enough to count except General Osbert and his family; and General Osbert has no daughter.”

“No; but there are relations of Mr Osbert’s, and not so very distant ones either, living within a short drive of you,” said Mr Miller, rather snappishly. He did not like Lady Mildred’s tone. “I had occasion several times to remind Mr Osbert of this, though possibly your ladyship’s attention was never drawn to it.”

“You mean those Waldrons, I suppose,” said Lady Mildred. “I do not know their exact connection with the Osberts. I know my husband did not like them; he had some trouble with old Mrs Waldron when he first came to Silverthorns, I remember his telling me. Some interference or some unreasonable claim she made. But why should we waste time in speaking about them just now, Mr Miller; you have some important matters to talk over with me, and I have been making myself quite uneasy with wondering what they could be.”

She expected some courteous and smiling expression of regret and reassurance from the lawyer; but to her surprise his face remained very grave.

“Yes; I have some most important matters to discuss with you,” he said; “I have been foreseeing the present state of things for some time. There has been—I have had bad news from Cannes. You are aware that General Osbert and his family—a very small family now—usually spend the winters there, though I think you never have any direct communication with them?”

“Never,” said Lady Mildred; “though they keep themselves informed ofmystate of health, no doubt. My death will be a matter of some moment to them.” But Mr Miller took no notice of this caustic observation.

“As I was saying,” he went on, “I have had bad news from Cannes. The elder son—the only one, one might almost say, for the other one is hopelessly consumptive—had a bad accident last week; he was thrown from his horse. Yesterday evening came a telegram announcing his death.”

Lady Mildred started.

“But he was married,” she said hastily.

“Yes; he has been married several years to a cousin on his mother’s side, but he has left no children; he never had any. General Osbert is terribly broken down by this, and he is already an old man. It is practically the end of the family. The other son cannot live many months.”

“And I am an old woman,” said Lady Mildred: “I may die any day. Don’t be afraid to speak out, Mr Miller. You are thinking of what will become of the property if all General Osbert’s family thus comes to an end.”

“Yes,” said Mr Miller quietly, “I am. Not whatwillbecome of it, but whatshould. I have much to explain to you, which I do not think you have ever thoroughly understood, indeed I have not always thoroughly understood it myself. There were some things wrongly done when the property last changed hands—not so much illegally as unfairly and unkindly.”

“You mean to say when my husband’s branch of it came into possession,” said Lady Mildred hastily. “I will listen to no blame ofhim, Mr Miller.”

Mr Miller smiled a little.

“I do not ask you to do so, Lady Mildred,” he said. “Mr Osbert was misinformed and prejudiced; and there was foolish pride on the other side—reluctance to explain things properly. I blame the old squire’s sister, the late Mrs Waldron, for this, though she was an admirable woman. If you will allow me, I will go over the whole with you, and explain exactly the present position of things.”

Lady Mildred was closeted with Mr Miller for a long time that morning. When he at last left and Claudia rejoined her, the girl saw that she was grave and thoughtful, but not restless or uneasy.

“Mr Miller had melancholy news to give me, Claudia,” she said; “my husband’s nephew, General Osbert’s son, is dead. It is very, very sad for them.” Claudia’s bright face shadowed over.

“Have they no other children?”

“It is not ‘they’—the old man is a widower. Yes; he has one other son, but he is frightfully delicate,” and Lady Mildred sighed. “I have a good deal on my mind, my dear. I don’t quite see what to do. What should you say to our going abroad; I may have to see the General on business matters.”

“I should like it, of course,” said Claudia; “especially if—please don’t think me selfish—if I could go on with my lessons.”

“Oh, you tiresome child! You have lessons on the brain: yes, of course you would go on with them, and learn more than at Miss Lloyd’s. No, I am not vexed with you; it is right and necessary that you should feel as you do. I wonder, by the bye, how that little fellow is—the little Waldron boy. I hope his adventure has done him no lasting harm; he did look so very thin and delicate. Perhaps the hearing of those unfortunate people’s troubles has made me think of him again.”

“Might I write to his sister to ask how he is, Aunt Mildred?” said Claudia. She would have spoken eagerly, for she felt so, but she knew that with Lady Mildred it was best to be calm.

Rather to her surprise the response was almost cordial.

“Yes; I have no objection. It would seem only natural after our having had him with us. Tell the girl I should like to hear that his exposure in the snow has done him no harm.”

“Thank you, aunt; I will write at once,” said Claudia, flushing with pleasure.

“What do you thank me for, my dear?” said Lady Mildred, with a rather curious smile. “It is rather I that should thank you for writing the letter for me.”

But Claudia saw that she was not vexed, though she could not quite understand her.

“Aunt Mildred is rather incomprehensible sometimes,” she said to herself; “but it is no use minding; she is so very good and kind.”

For it was not by any means Claudia’s way to worry or perplex herself with useless puzzles or wonderings; her heart and mind were too full of pleasanter and more profitable things.

She was not able, much as she wished to do so, to write to Charlotte that day. For she had to go out with her aunt, to write some notes to friends for her, and various other small pieces of business to attend to which made it evening before she had any leisure; and in the evening Lady Mildred disliked to see her occupied. And the next day was Sunday, when, as everybody knows, all the postal arrangements in London go to sleep.

So it was not till Tuesday morning that Claudia’s letter was put into Charlotte’s hands at the breakfast-table.

“A letter for me,” she exclaimed, with some excitement and surprise; for Charlotte’s letters, except on the very rare occasions when she was away from home for a little, were few and far between. “I wonder what it is. I wish it could be anything to please poor Jerry,” she went on speaking half to herself.

For since they had brought him home, Jerry had been ill—confined to bed now for the best part of a week, and it seemed very melancholy without him, even in that busy household. It had not done him any harm to bring him straight home that first day; the harm was done already; the chill had given him a bad feverish cold, and though it was not anything very serious he was much weakened by it.

“He must get up his strength, or we shall be afraid to let him out again till the fine weather comes,” the doctor said; “and that would be a sad thing for a boy of his age.”

Then when he went down-stairs with Mrs Waldron to write a prescription for a tonic, he sat looking thoughtful and pre-occupied for a minute or two. Jerry’s mother was a little alarmed.

“You don’t think there is anything much the matter with him?” she said.

“No, oh no; he has rather lost ground in his general health the last few months. He needed a fresh start or a fillip, and unluckily he has, so to speak, had one the wrong way. But there is nothing to be uneasy about, only considering how wonderfully he has improved in the last few years, I should like to see him still stronger.”

“Yes,” Mrs Waldron agreed; “and in another year or so he will be getting into a higher class at school, and he will have to work harder, that will be trying for him.”

“Exactly,” said the doctor, who had known Jerry since he was a baby; “now’s the time for him to get up his strength. You couldn’t by any possibility, I suppose, manage to send him out of England, to some of the mild health places, for a winter? It would be the making of him.”

Mrs Waldron shook her head. She saw no chance whatever of such a thing and said so.

“Ah, well,” said the doctor, “we must do our best. I dare say he’ll pull up again. It was only an idea that struck me.”

And when he had gone, and Jerry’s mother went up-stairs again, it struck her too that the boy did look sadly in want of something of the kind.

“If only we were rich,” she thought. “When we are all well it does not seem to press so—it is illness that brings small means home to one sorely.”

Charlotte opened her letter, and glanced through it; then made a little exclamation. She had her wish. It was something that would please Jerry.

“What is it?” asked her mother.

“It is,”—Charlotte began with a very slight shade of reluctance—“it is a letter from Miss Meredon to ask how Jerry is.”

“It is very nice of her to have thought of it,” said Mrs Waldron.

“She writes, she says, by Lady Mildred’s wish,” said Charlotte; “they are in London.”

“Well, you may run up-stairs and tell Jerry about it. It will please him,” said her mother.

Chapter Fourteen.Lady Mildred Makes up her Mind.Jerry was sitting up in bed; he was so far better that no serious illness was now to be feared, but he was weak and depressed, feeling vaguely “sorry for himself,” not quite sure what he wanted, nor eager to profit by the doctor’s permission to get up in the afternoon, and go down to have tea in the drawing-room.He glanced up listlessly as Charlotte came in.“I have an hour still before I need to go to school,” she said, “so I have come up to you, Jerry: there is a letter about you this morning.”“About me!” Jerry exclaimed; “anything about school, do you mean? They know I’m ill.”“No, not from school; it’s from Miss Meredon, to ask how you are; they’re in London.”“How nice of her!” said Jerry, his eyes brightening. “I’m sure you must see, Charlotte, how nice she is.”“Yes,” Charlotte allowed; “she is kind and good; I’ll never say she’s not. But it can’t be difficult to be nice when one has everything one wants, like her,” she added, reverting to her old strain.Jerry looked disappointed.“I think you are rather unfair, Charlotte,” he said. “If she wasn’t nice you’d say she was spoilt and selfish, and as sheisnice you say it’s no credit to her. How can you tell that it isn’t very difficult to be nice and kind to others when one has everything one wants oneself?Papasays it is very difficult indeed not to get spoilt when one’s like that.”“I’d like to be tried,” said Charlotte.“Besides,” pursued Jerry, “do you know I’m not quite sure that shehaseverything the way we fancied.”Charlotte looked up eagerly.“What do you mean?” she said. “What can there be that she hasn’t got? Weknowshe’s very rich and clever and pretty; that’s a good deal, any way.”“But I’m almost sure she has to be away from the people she loves most,” said Jerry; “I know it by some things she said. And I could tell by her ways that she’s used to brothers and sisters—I fancy there’s a lot of them.”“She is rather to be pitied for that,” said Charlotte half-laughingly, “though it can’t be so bad when people are rich. And then as Lady Mildred has adopted her what can it matter?”“I shouldn’t like to be adopted away from you all, however grand and rich I was to be,” said Jerry, “and I don’t believe you’d like it either, whatever you say. You make yourself out worse than you are, Charlotte.”“Well, read the letter,” she said, and Jerry did so. As he gave it back to Charlotte he grew rather red.“Do you see?” he said; “they’re not coming back—not till after Christmas. Charlotte, you’re sure of the German prize.”Charlotte’s face lighted up.“I did not notice that,” she said; “I thought she said something about staying a few days.”“No,” said Jerry, “she says, ‘We shall not return to Silverthorns till after Christmas, perhaps a few days after, and perhaps not so soon.’”Charlotte drew a deep breath.“I see,” she said. “My composition is nearly finished. Oh, Jerry, how I hope I shall get the prize now.”“You are sure to,” he said shortly.“Unless,” Charlotte went on, “unless she possibly finishes it there, and sends it back by post.”“Nonsense,” said Jerry; “I am sure she won’t. She wouldn’t have time for one thing, and—”“What?”“Oh, I don’t think she’s the sort of girl to set herself so to win a prize when she’s been so short a time at school with you all,” said Jerry.“No; perhaps not. Of course itcan’tmatter to her as it does to me. I dare say she’s forgotten all about it now she’s up in London amusing herself,” said Charlotte in a satisfied tone which Jerry found rather provoking. “I don’t mind her not trying—I mean I’m not too proud to say I know she would have won it if she had. I shall always say so, for she is much further on and much cleverer than any of us. And some of them have been working very hard lately. It isn’t as if I had no one worth trying against.”Jerry said no more. He was glad for Charlotte, but he did feel it hard that Claudia’s self-sacrifice, which had been just as great and real as if after events had not rendered it unnecessary, should remain for ever unknown and unappreciated.“I wonder if I shallneverbe able to tell Charlotte,” he said to himself. “Long after, perhaps, when she’s left off caring about school things. I should like her to know some day,” and his blue eyes gazed out into the future wistfully.“What are you thinking of, Jerry?” said Charlotte suddenly. “Why do you look so melancholy? The doctor says you may get up this afternoon.”“I know he did,” said Jerry, “but I don’t think I want to. I’m too tired,” and with a little sigh of weariness he lay down again on his pillows.Charlotte looked at him in distress.“Oh, dear,” she said; “how unlucky that snowy day was, though I suppose things might have turned out worse.”“Yes,” replied Jerry with complacency; “I might have had rheumatic fever, or brain fever, perhaps. But, Charlotte, it wasn’t because I was feverish that I heard those noises that night; Iknowit wasn’t. And I don’t believe papa thinks so either. It can’t be true about only a member of the family hearing it, for you see there was papa when he was a little boy. I’d like to tellher, Claudia, that.”“It was very queer,” said Charlotte; “you don’t know how pleased I am to have seen that part of the house, Jerry. I took a good look up the stair to where the tower room must be: there was something melancholy about the house, wasn’t there? How awfully nice it would be with a large family in it, and lots of running about.”“You wouldn’t mind lots of brothers and sisters then,” said Jerry.“No, I’d like it; just fancy what fun we could have. But I must go, Jerry. I will write to Miss Meredon when I come home.”“I think I’d like to write to her myself,” said Jerry. “Ask mamma if I may.”“Very well,” said Charlotte, rather surprised; “I dare say mamma will be quite pleased that you want to do it.” And so Mrs Waldron was, for Jerry’s lassitude and want of energy were troubling her.He quite brightened up over his letter.“You won’t care to see it, will you, mamma?” he asked. “You see she’s such a jolly—an understanding sort of girl; she won’t bother about how it’s spelt, and all that.”“But you will send a proper message of thanks to Lady Mildred,” said his mother. “It is very good of her to take so much interest in you, and she was very kind to you at Silverthorns.”“Not as kind as Miss Meredon was,” said Jerry; “but of course I’ll say it properly, mamma.”Mrs Waldron told her husband that evening of the letter, and Jerry’s replying to it himself.“I was glad to see him interested about it,” she said; “it is so unlike him to be so listless. How strange it seems that we should be in any way brought in contact with Silverthorns after all these years!”“Stranger even than you think it,” he replied. “Do you know I heard only to-day that General Osbert’s eldest—or elder, he has only two—son is dead, in consequence of a fall from his horse? He died on the 13th, just the day Jerry was so frightened at Silverthorns. And it was when my old uncle died that I, as a child, was so startled there.”“You won’t tell Jerry? It would only deepen the impression.”“Of course not. Besides, there are so many other ways of accounting for what he heard—his own feverish state at the time, in the first place.”“Perhaps it is on account of this news that Lady Mildred has gone up to town just now,” said Mrs Waldron.“I hardly think so: there is still the other son, who may be married and have children, or this one, poor fellow, may have left sons himself for all I know. I have never kept up much knowledge of them. You see it cannot matter to us, as it is so very improbable but that Lady Mildred would leave all to her own people if the Osberts died out.”Mrs Waldron smiled.“I can’t see it quite that way,” she said; “youarehalf Osbert, and then you were so associated with the place from being brought up there. I am sure your grand-uncle would rather it had gone to you than to those far-off cousins.”“Ah, well, it is much better not to think about it,” said Mr Waldron philosophically.Jerry’s letter took him some time; he was not satisfied with the first production, and being a very particular, not to say “fussy,” little person, he determined to copy it out again. And he was very easily tired still. So it was not till the next day but one that Claudia received the answer to her letter of inquiry.Her face lighted up with pleasure and amusement as she read it:“My dear Miss Meredon,” it began—“I have asked Charlotte to let me write myself, to thank you for writing about me. I am better, thank you, but I am still in bed. The doctor says I may get up this afternoon, but I’m not sure that I’m inclined. It is so cold and I am so tired still; I wish it was summer again. I want to tell you that Charlotte is in very good spirits, and she is working hard,speciallyat German. I should like to see you again. Perhaps some day I could go to call on you when you come back, for I should like to thank Lady Mildred Osbert too for being so kind to me. Papa and mamma wish me to thank her for wanting to know how I was. I wish you a merry Christmas. I remain,—“Yours truly,—“G.T. Waldron.”They were at breakfast when the letter came. Lady Mildred glanced at Claudia’s smiling face.“Home news, I suppose, to make you look so sunshiny?” she said, in the half-teasing tone that Claudia had learnt not to mind.“No, Aunt Mildred; it’s a letter from little Gervais Waldron,” she said, and after a moment’s imperceptible hesitation in which she had time to say to herself,—“there is nothing in it which would tell his secret,”—she handed it to Lady Mildred, who read it.“Poor little fellow,” she said, “it doesn’t seem much as if he were in a very promising way; they should send him abroad for the rest of the winter. He looks to me just the sort of child that might be set up by it. I think it a cruel thing to send away hopeless invalids to those southern places, even if it prolongs their lives a little it too often deprives them of their homes and friends at the last. But it is a very different thing for a delicate child with no actual disease. In such a case it may give a start for life.”Claudia listened with some surprise. Her aunt’s interest in the subject of this boy was not exactly the sort of thing that Lady Mildred’s usual ways would have led her to expect.“I dare say it would be a very good thing—the best in the world for him,” she said. “But I amsurethey could not possibly afford it.”“Why? Are they so poor do you think?” said Lady Mildred quickly.Claudia could not help laughing a very little. “Auntie,” she said, “people needn’t be desperately poor not to be able to send a child abroad for the winter. But I think the Waldrons are poorer than many families who yet would find it very difficult to do that.”“How do you know—how can you judge? You’ve never been in their house?” said Lady Mildred sharply and almost suspiciously; “and I put you on your honour not to get intimate with the girl or with any of your schoolfellows.”“I am not intimate with any of them, and with Charlotte Waldron perhaps less than with any; andof courseI have never been at their house nor at anybody’s house without your knowing. I would never do such a thing, dear aunt; you know I wouldn’t,” said Claudia gently. “But I can tell quite well that they are poor,” she went on, seeing Lady Mildred’s face clear again; “it is a sort of instinct, because you see I know so well about it myself. Charlotte has had the same dress ever since I have known her, and once or twice, when it had got wet or muddy, she came with a still plainer and much older one. And—other little things that I don’t suppose most girls would notice—I have seen her look quite troubled when her clean cuffs got inked, or when a copy-book was lost and she had to get an extra one. She is a very, very neat and careful girl. Some of the others call her mean—once they began doing so before me as if they thought I would join with them in it, because they fancy I am rich! I did feel so angry; for I know it all so well, you see, Aunt Mildred.”“Bless the child—she talks as if she were a char woman with half-a-dozen children,” said Lady Mildred. “I suppose you think you know a great deal more of the practical side of life than I do, my dear?”But though her tone was sharp, Claudia could see that she was not vexed, but on the contrary interested, and even touched.“I know more in some ways about being poor than you do, I think, Aunt Mildred,” she replied. “Oh, in hundreds of little ways that one would be almost ashamed to put into words, that rich people would really not understand! You see with my being the eldest at home, and mamma always wanting to save papa all the worries she could, I could not but know a great deal. But nothing is too hard when we are together. Youcan’tknow, aunt, how different everything seems now that I can look forward to staying at home, and helping them so beautifully—all thanks to you. There were times when mamma and I used sometimes to think I should have to go away as a teacher in some school, or as a sort of nursery governess even. And now it issodifferent.”“I wish it were going to be still more different,” said Lady Mildred. “I wish I could help you all more effectually; but—”“Dear Aunt Mildred, you couldn’t have helped us more effectually,” said Claudia, her eyes beaming. “We don’t want to be rich, even if you had a fortune to leave us, we couldn’t wish to be happier than we shall be when I am quite grown-up and able to begin my school, as mamma calls it. And we are all so strong and well, if it wasn’t for papa’s eyes.”“Yes, that is a blessing,” Lady Mildred agreed: “the Meredons are a very sturdy race, much stronger than the Osberts. And that reminds me, I am sorry about that little Waldron boy; I cannot forget his poor little white face.”“I hope he will get stronger soon,” said Claudia.Lady Mildred said no more, and her niece saw little of her for the rest of that day, for there was another long interview with Mr Miller, and Claudia was sent out sight-seeing under the convoy of Lady Mildred’s maid.It was some days later, Christmas Eve in fact, when the old lady said suddenly to her young companion:“I see no help for it, Claudia; I must go to Cannes. It is absolutely necessary for me to see General Osbert without delay, and I cannot expect him to come here considering that his only remaining son is dying.”“His only other son,” Claudia repeated. “Oh, Aunt Mildred, how very sad!”“Yes; but this they have anticipated for some time. It was John Osbert’s death that was the great blow; and very probably the shock of it has made Frank worse. But it is very hard upon me too, though perhaps it seems selfish to say so; for I am too old to like starting off to the ends of the earth in this sudden fashion. For you I shall take care that it is no disadvantage. Once out of England I may not be in such a hurry to return. And you can have excellent lessons.”“Oh, aunt, I do hope my being with you will not make it all more troublesome,” said Claudia. “Of course I shall like going better than anything. It is what mamma wished for me more than she could say. But, you know, if it would be easier for you it might be arranged for me to go to school, as mamma once thought of?”“No,” said Lady Mildred decidedly; “I shall like having you with me. It will be an interest to me, and without it I should feel very lonely I shall not see much of the Osberts, poor people. It is really necessity that takes me there. I have never known much of them. I should like you to write home and tell them of our plans. I shall add a word or two to the letter.”“And, Aunt Mildred,” said Claudia half-timidly, “may I answer Gervais’s letter? I should like to know if he is better: there is no fear of its leading to any intimacy that you might not like, as I may not be at Silverthorns again for a long time.”“You can write if you like,” said Lady Mildred rather shortly. “I have nothing against the Waldrons. I dare say they are very well-brought-up young people. I only wish they did not live at that odious, gossiping Wortherham.”Claudia looked up in surprise. She had hitherto been under the impression that of all the families in Wortherham, the Waldrons were her aunt’s chief aversion!

Jerry was sitting up in bed; he was so far better that no serious illness was now to be feared, but he was weak and depressed, feeling vaguely “sorry for himself,” not quite sure what he wanted, nor eager to profit by the doctor’s permission to get up in the afternoon, and go down to have tea in the drawing-room.

He glanced up listlessly as Charlotte came in.

“I have an hour still before I need to go to school,” she said, “so I have come up to you, Jerry: there is a letter about you this morning.”

“About me!” Jerry exclaimed; “anything about school, do you mean? They know I’m ill.”

“No, not from school; it’s from Miss Meredon, to ask how you are; they’re in London.”

“How nice of her!” said Jerry, his eyes brightening. “I’m sure you must see, Charlotte, how nice she is.”

“Yes,” Charlotte allowed; “she is kind and good; I’ll never say she’s not. But it can’t be difficult to be nice when one has everything one wants, like her,” she added, reverting to her old strain.

Jerry looked disappointed.

“I think you are rather unfair, Charlotte,” he said. “If she wasn’t nice you’d say she was spoilt and selfish, and as sheisnice you say it’s no credit to her. How can you tell that it isn’t very difficult to be nice and kind to others when one has everything one wants oneself?Papasays it is very difficult indeed not to get spoilt when one’s like that.”

“I’d like to be tried,” said Charlotte.

“Besides,” pursued Jerry, “do you know I’m not quite sure that shehaseverything the way we fancied.”

Charlotte looked up eagerly.

“What do you mean?” she said. “What can there be that she hasn’t got? Weknowshe’s very rich and clever and pretty; that’s a good deal, any way.”

“But I’m almost sure she has to be away from the people she loves most,” said Jerry; “I know it by some things she said. And I could tell by her ways that she’s used to brothers and sisters—I fancy there’s a lot of them.”

“She is rather to be pitied for that,” said Charlotte half-laughingly, “though it can’t be so bad when people are rich. And then as Lady Mildred has adopted her what can it matter?”

“I shouldn’t like to be adopted away from you all, however grand and rich I was to be,” said Jerry, “and I don’t believe you’d like it either, whatever you say. You make yourself out worse than you are, Charlotte.”

“Well, read the letter,” she said, and Jerry did so. As he gave it back to Charlotte he grew rather red.

“Do you see?” he said; “they’re not coming back—not till after Christmas. Charlotte, you’re sure of the German prize.”

Charlotte’s face lighted up.

“I did not notice that,” she said; “I thought she said something about staying a few days.”

“No,” said Jerry, “she says, ‘We shall not return to Silverthorns till after Christmas, perhaps a few days after, and perhaps not so soon.’”

Charlotte drew a deep breath.

“I see,” she said. “My composition is nearly finished. Oh, Jerry, how I hope I shall get the prize now.”

“You are sure to,” he said shortly.

“Unless,” Charlotte went on, “unless she possibly finishes it there, and sends it back by post.”

“Nonsense,” said Jerry; “I am sure she won’t. She wouldn’t have time for one thing, and—”

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t think she’s the sort of girl to set herself so to win a prize when she’s been so short a time at school with you all,” said Jerry.

“No; perhaps not. Of course itcan’tmatter to her as it does to me. I dare say she’s forgotten all about it now she’s up in London amusing herself,” said Charlotte in a satisfied tone which Jerry found rather provoking. “I don’t mind her not trying—I mean I’m not too proud to say I know she would have won it if she had. I shall always say so, for she is much further on and much cleverer than any of us. And some of them have been working very hard lately. It isn’t as if I had no one worth trying against.”

Jerry said no more. He was glad for Charlotte, but he did feel it hard that Claudia’s self-sacrifice, which had been just as great and real as if after events had not rendered it unnecessary, should remain for ever unknown and unappreciated.

“I wonder if I shallneverbe able to tell Charlotte,” he said to himself. “Long after, perhaps, when she’s left off caring about school things. I should like her to know some day,” and his blue eyes gazed out into the future wistfully.

“What are you thinking of, Jerry?” said Charlotte suddenly. “Why do you look so melancholy? The doctor says you may get up this afternoon.”

“I know he did,” said Jerry, “but I don’t think I want to. I’m too tired,” and with a little sigh of weariness he lay down again on his pillows.

Charlotte looked at him in distress.

“Oh, dear,” she said; “how unlucky that snowy day was, though I suppose things might have turned out worse.”

“Yes,” replied Jerry with complacency; “I might have had rheumatic fever, or brain fever, perhaps. But, Charlotte, it wasn’t because I was feverish that I heard those noises that night; Iknowit wasn’t. And I don’t believe papa thinks so either. It can’t be true about only a member of the family hearing it, for you see there was papa when he was a little boy. I’d like to tellher, Claudia, that.”

“It was very queer,” said Charlotte; “you don’t know how pleased I am to have seen that part of the house, Jerry. I took a good look up the stair to where the tower room must be: there was something melancholy about the house, wasn’t there? How awfully nice it would be with a large family in it, and lots of running about.”

“You wouldn’t mind lots of brothers and sisters then,” said Jerry.

“No, I’d like it; just fancy what fun we could have. But I must go, Jerry. I will write to Miss Meredon when I come home.”

“I think I’d like to write to her myself,” said Jerry. “Ask mamma if I may.”

“Very well,” said Charlotte, rather surprised; “I dare say mamma will be quite pleased that you want to do it.” And so Mrs Waldron was, for Jerry’s lassitude and want of energy were troubling her.

He quite brightened up over his letter.

“You won’t care to see it, will you, mamma?” he asked. “You see she’s such a jolly—an understanding sort of girl; she won’t bother about how it’s spelt, and all that.”

“But you will send a proper message of thanks to Lady Mildred,” said his mother. “It is very good of her to take so much interest in you, and she was very kind to you at Silverthorns.”

“Not as kind as Miss Meredon was,” said Jerry; “but of course I’ll say it properly, mamma.”

Mrs Waldron told her husband that evening of the letter, and Jerry’s replying to it himself.

“I was glad to see him interested about it,” she said; “it is so unlike him to be so listless. How strange it seems that we should be in any way brought in contact with Silverthorns after all these years!”

“Stranger even than you think it,” he replied. “Do you know I heard only to-day that General Osbert’s eldest—or elder, he has only two—son is dead, in consequence of a fall from his horse? He died on the 13th, just the day Jerry was so frightened at Silverthorns. And it was when my old uncle died that I, as a child, was so startled there.”

“You won’t tell Jerry? It would only deepen the impression.”

“Of course not. Besides, there are so many other ways of accounting for what he heard—his own feverish state at the time, in the first place.”

“Perhaps it is on account of this news that Lady Mildred has gone up to town just now,” said Mrs Waldron.

“I hardly think so: there is still the other son, who may be married and have children, or this one, poor fellow, may have left sons himself for all I know. I have never kept up much knowledge of them. You see it cannot matter to us, as it is so very improbable but that Lady Mildred would leave all to her own people if the Osberts died out.”

Mrs Waldron smiled.

“I can’t see it quite that way,” she said; “youarehalf Osbert, and then you were so associated with the place from being brought up there. I am sure your grand-uncle would rather it had gone to you than to those far-off cousins.”

“Ah, well, it is much better not to think about it,” said Mr Waldron philosophically.

Jerry’s letter took him some time; he was not satisfied with the first production, and being a very particular, not to say “fussy,” little person, he determined to copy it out again. And he was very easily tired still. So it was not till the next day but one that Claudia received the answer to her letter of inquiry.

Her face lighted up with pleasure and amusement as she read it:

“My dear Miss Meredon,” it began—“I have asked Charlotte to let me write myself, to thank you for writing about me. I am better, thank you, but I am still in bed. The doctor says I may get up this afternoon, but I’m not sure that I’m inclined. It is so cold and I am so tired still; I wish it was summer again. I want to tell you that Charlotte is in very good spirits, and she is working hard,speciallyat German. I should like to see you again. Perhaps some day I could go to call on you when you come back, for I should like to thank Lady Mildred Osbert too for being so kind to me. Papa and mamma wish me to thank her for wanting to know how I was. I wish you a merry Christmas. I remain,—“Yours truly,—“G.T. Waldron.”

“My dear Miss Meredon,” it began—“I have asked Charlotte to let me write myself, to thank you for writing about me. I am better, thank you, but I am still in bed. The doctor says I may get up this afternoon, but I’m not sure that I’m inclined. It is so cold and I am so tired still; I wish it was summer again. I want to tell you that Charlotte is in very good spirits, and she is working hard,speciallyat German. I should like to see you again. Perhaps some day I could go to call on you when you come back, for I should like to thank Lady Mildred Osbert too for being so kind to me. Papa and mamma wish me to thank her for wanting to know how I was. I wish you a merry Christmas. I remain,—“Yours truly,—“G.T. Waldron.”

They were at breakfast when the letter came. Lady Mildred glanced at Claudia’s smiling face.

“Home news, I suppose, to make you look so sunshiny?” she said, in the half-teasing tone that Claudia had learnt not to mind.

“No, Aunt Mildred; it’s a letter from little Gervais Waldron,” she said, and after a moment’s imperceptible hesitation in which she had time to say to herself,—“there is nothing in it which would tell his secret,”—she handed it to Lady Mildred, who read it.

“Poor little fellow,” she said, “it doesn’t seem much as if he were in a very promising way; they should send him abroad for the rest of the winter. He looks to me just the sort of child that might be set up by it. I think it a cruel thing to send away hopeless invalids to those southern places, even if it prolongs their lives a little it too often deprives them of their homes and friends at the last. But it is a very different thing for a delicate child with no actual disease. In such a case it may give a start for life.”

Claudia listened with some surprise. Her aunt’s interest in the subject of this boy was not exactly the sort of thing that Lady Mildred’s usual ways would have led her to expect.

“I dare say it would be a very good thing—the best in the world for him,” she said. “But I amsurethey could not possibly afford it.”

“Why? Are they so poor do you think?” said Lady Mildred quickly.

Claudia could not help laughing a very little. “Auntie,” she said, “people needn’t be desperately poor not to be able to send a child abroad for the winter. But I think the Waldrons are poorer than many families who yet would find it very difficult to do that.”

“How do you know—how can you judge? You’ve never been in their house?” said Lady Mildred sharply and almost suspiciously; “and I put you on your honour not to get intimate with the girl or with any of your schoolfellows.”

“I am not intimate with any of them, and with Charlotte Waldron perhaps less than with any; andof courseI have never been at their house nor at anybody’s house without your knowing. I would never do such a thing, dear aunt; you know I wouldn’t,” said Claudia gently. “But I can tell quite well that they are poor,” she went on, seeing Lady Mildred’s face clear again; “it is a sort of instinct, because you see I know so well about it myself. Charlotte has had the same dress ever since I have known her, and once or twice, when it had got wet or muddy, she came with a still plainer and much older one. And—other little things that I don’t suppose most girls would notice—I have seen her look quite troubled when her clean cuffs got inked, or when a copy-book was lost and she had to get an extra one. She is a very, very neat and careful girl. Some of the others call her mean—once they began doing so before me as if they thought I would join with them in it, because they fancy I am rich! I did feel so angry; for I know it all so well, you see, Aunt Mildred.”

“Bless the child—she talks as if she were a char woman with half-a-dozen children,” said Lady Mildred. “I suppose you think you know a great deal more of the practical side of life than I do, my dear?”

But though her tone was sharp, Claudia could see that she was not vexed, but on the contrary interested, and even touched.

“I know more in some ways about being poor than you do, I think, Aunt Mildred,” she replied. “Oh, in hundreds of little ways that one would be almost ashamed to put into words, that rich people would really not understand! You see with my being the eldest at home, and mamma always wanting to save papa all the worries she could, I could not but know a great deal. But nothing is too hard when we are together. Youcan’tknow, aunt, how different everything seems now that I can look forward to staying at home, and helping them so beautifully—all thanks to you. There were times when mamma and I used sometimes to think I should have to go away as a teacher in some school, or as a sort of nursery governess even. And now it issodifferent.”

“I wish it were going to be still more different,” said Lady Mildred. “I wish I could help you all more effectually; but—”

“Dear Aunt Mildred, you couldn’t have helped us more effectually,” said Claudia, her eyes beaming. “We don’t want to be rich, even if you had a fortune to leave us, we couldn’t wish to be happier than we shall be when I am quite grown-up and able to begin my school, as mamma calls it. And we are all so strong and well, if it wasn’t for papa’s eyes.”

“Yes, that is a blessing,” Lady Mildred agreed: “the Meredons are a very sturdy race, much stronger than the Osberts. And that reminds me, I am sorry about that little Waldron boy; I cannot forget his poor little white face.”

“I hope he will get stronger soon,” said Claudia.

Lady Mildred said no more, and her niece saw little of her for the rest of that day, for there was another long interview with Mr Miller, and Claudia was sent out sight-seeing under the convoy of Lady Mildred’s maid.

It was some days later, Christmas Eve in fact, when the old lady said suddenly to her young companion:

“I see no help for it, Claudia; I must go to Cannes. It is absolutely necessary for me to see General Osbert without delay, and I cannot expect him to come here considering that his only remaining son is dying.”

“His only other son,” Claudia repeated. “Oh, Aunt Mildred, how very sad!”

“Yes; but this they have anticipated for some time. It was John Osbert’s death that was the great blow; and very probably the shock of it has made Frank worse. But it is very hard upon me too, though perhaps it seems selfish to say so; for I am too old to like starting off to the ends of the earth in this sudden fashion. For you I shall take care that it is no disadvantage. Once out of England I may not be in such a hurry to return. And you can have excellent lessons.”

“Oh, aunt, I do hope my being with you will not make it all more troublesome,” said Claudia. “Of course I shall like going better than anything. It is what mamma wished for me more than she could say. But, you know, if it would be easier for you it might be arranged for me to go to school, as mamma once thought of?”

“No,” said Lady Mildred decidedly; “I shall like having you with me. It will be an interest to me, and without it I should feel very lonely I shall not see much of the Osberts, poor people. It is really necessity that takes me there. I have never known much of them. I should like you to write home and tell them of our plans. I shall add a word or two to the letter.”

“And, Aunt Mildred,” said Claudia half-timidly, “may I answer Gervais’s letter? I should like to know if he is better: there is no fear of its leading to any intimacy that you might not like, as I may not be at Silverthorns again for a long time.”

“You can write if you like,” said Lady Mildred rather shortly. “I have nothing against the Waldrons. I dare say they are very well-brought-up young people. I only wish they did not live at that odious, gossiping Wortherham.”

Claudia looked up in surprise. She had hitherto been under the impression that of all the families in Wortherham, the Waldrons were her aunt’s chief aversion!

Chapter Fifteen.Like a Fairy Tale.“No,” said the doctor; “he’s not gaining ground as he should. Still there’s nothing really wrong. But I hardly know what to advise. What he really should have, as I’ve told you before, is a complete change. Can you not manage it? Not even to Devonshire or the Isle of Wight?”Mrs Waldron shook her head sadly.“I think even one of those would be about as impossible for us as the South of France or Italy,” she said. “But I will tell my husband what you say. Of course, in a case of life or death—”“But it is not so bad as that; I have never said it was,” interrupted the doctor. “Don’t exaggerate it, my dear lady. If youcan’tdo as I say, you can’t, and we must do what we can, and hope the best. He will outgrow his present weakness I have no doubt. But he has come through so much that I was beginning to be rather proud of him, and this unfortunate back-cast is rather disappointing. I had set my heart on his growing up really strong and hearty, and I quite believe he might if he could get a thorough good start. That is the real state of the case.”“Thank you! Yes, I think I quite understand,” replied Mrs Waldron. But she sighed as she spoke; and the doctor felt sorry for her, but he had to hurry away; and after all he came across people in worse plight than the Waldrons every day of the week, and he could not afford to spend much time or thought in sympathy.The plight was bad enough, nevertheless, it seemed to Mrs Waldron, as she went back to the drawing-room where Jerry was lying covered with shawls and sheltered as well as could be from the draughts and insidious chills that it is so difficult entirely to defy in a small house, where one seems always running against a door or a window. The boy, to her eyes sharpened by anxiety, was doing worse than not gaining ground. He was, she began to believe, losing it. And some bitter enough tears rose to her eyes as she sat down to go on with the work at which Dr Lewis’s visit had interrupted her.“Mamma,” said Jerry’s thin weak voice, “don’t you think Charlotte is reallyverypleased to have got the German prize?”“Yes, my boy; I think she is. And she deserves to be so—she worked very hard indeed for it.”“She would have been dreadfully disappointed not to get it,” said he again. “Though all the same,” he went on thinking to himself, “it is a little provoking to think that she would have got it any way, and that I went and caught this horrible cold for nothing. Only I would never have known how good Claudia was but for all that, andperhapsshe would still have tried for the prize. I wish she would write to me again! I’m sure she would if she knew how tired I am of being ill, and of everything.”—“Mamma,” he went on again aloud, “doesn’t this winter seem dreadfully long, and it’s only a fortnight and four days past Christmas? Charlotte and the boys only began lessons again three days ago. I wish I could go back to school too, mamma. Oh, I do wish the summer would come. I think I shouldn’t care to live if it was to be always winter.”His words startled his mother. She got up and came over to him.“What makes you so gloomy, my old Jerry?” she said; “it isn’t like you.”“I don’t mean to be naughty and impatient, mamma,” he said; “it’s just that I’m so tired—so tired of the cold, and the darkness, and the grimness,” and his eyes turned with almost a shudder from the window towards which they had glanced instinctively. He knew so well what the prospect outside must be; for it was raining heavily, one of Wortherham’s very ugliest days. “Oh, how I should like just to see and feel the sun, and the blue sky above! I feel as if I could drink the sunshine, mamma; I am so thirsty for it.”Mrs Waldron sighed a little.“It is as if he felt the want of it by instinct,” she said to herself. “There are places in the world where there is sunshine even at this season, my Jerry,” she said aloud. “I wish I could send you to one of them.”Jerry’s eyes sparkled.“Yes, wouldn’t it be lovely?” he exclaimed. “I wonder if it is to one of those places that they are going;” he added.“Who?” asked his mother.“The girl at Silverthorns—Miss Meredon, and old Lady Mildred. She said in her last letter, you know, mamma, that perhaps they were going to France. How nice it would be if we could all go! Sometimes one can’t help wishing to be rich, mamma.”“Or at least not so poor,” his mother agreed with a rather wintry smile. “I can’t help wishing it when it is anything any of my darlings seem to want that I can’t give them, especially my poor old Jerry, who has had suffering enough in his life.”“Mamma, dear, sweet mamma, don’t speak like that,” said Jerry, softly stroking her cheek with his little thin hand. “I mustn’t grumble, I haven’t anything to grumble about, when I have you and Charlotte and papa and them all. And it isn’t grumbling to wish for the spring, is it? It is so nice even to think of the woods out at Gretham, with the primroses and violets all coming out. Oh, I do hope I shall be quite well by then, so that I can often walk out there on half-holidays!”Mrs Waldron tried to answer cheerfully, but it was not easy. There was a cold misgiving at her heart, which she dared not, would not give words to. What would the sunshine or the spring-time, or primroses or violets, or anything sweet and lovely be to her, be to them all, without their quiet, patient little lame boy? How poorly do those understand a mother’s love who speak of one of several children as less precious than an only child! In a sense the intertwining bonds seem indeed but to make the whole affections stronger where a large circle is included by them.Jerry seemed to have some notion of the thoughts in his mother’s mind.“You are sure it would make me quite well to go to one of those warm places?” he said again, after a little pause.“Dr Lewis thinks so,” said Mrs Waldron.She had not meant to tell him so much, but she was feeling in a way, reckless.“Hemustgo abroad,” she said to herself. “He must and he shall. I will tell Edward so this evening, and at whatever cost and sacrifice it shall be done.”And though the resolve seemed a wild one, though she had no faintest idea how it was to be carried out, her heart felt curiously lighter when she had made it.Charlotte looked anxiously at Jerry when she came home from school that afternoon. He was lying asleep on his sofa, and her mother made a little sign not to disturb him as the girl opened the door.“Is he no better to-day, mamma?” she whispered, as she sat down quietly beside her mother in the further corner of the room.“Much as usual, I think,” Mrs Waldron replied, in the same tone. “Perhaps in himself he has been a little brighter. He was interested in what we were talking about.”“Yes?” and Charlotte looked up inquiringly.“Dr Lewis was here this morning. He examined Jerry thoroughly again, and still says the same thing. There is no actual disease, it is only weakness and want of tone that he speaks of. But those may be the beginning of anything! Charlotte, my dear, I have been feeling nearly desperate about Jerry.”Then she went on to tell the girl all that the doctor had said—all that she had been thinking and resolving in her own mind.She found full sympathy.“Yes, mamma,” Charlotte agreed, “at all costs it must be done. But where should he go, and with whom, and how?”“I don’t think it matters very specially where,” Mrs Waldron replied, “so long as it is a bright and sunny place. But how? Ah, I wish I knew! I am so ignorant of all those winter places—I don’t know which are the cheapest. I fancy they are all dear! Jerry has been writing to his friend, Miss Meredon, again. She wrote to him that she and her aunt are going abroad. I wish—I wonder if we could get any information from them.”“Oh, no,” Charlotte interposed hastily; “don’t let us put ourselves under any more obligation to them. I don’t want to be horrid, mamma, but that girl seems to bealwayscoming in my way. Even now that she has left school for a while, the next thing is we must hear of her going abroad for the winter like a princess, just when we’d giveanythingto be able to send Jerry.”“Charlotte, my dear, you really are unreasonable,” said Mrs Waldron. “I thought you were grateful to this young girl, as we all are, for her kindness to Jerry. You told me yourself that you would never again say she was spoilt, or selfish, or any of the terrible things you had made up your mind shemustbe.”“I know I did,” said Charlotte half penitently. “I did not mean to speak that way; but oh, mamma, it makes me wild to think about Jerry—he does look so white and thin?” She got up as she spoke, and went across the room on tip-toe, and stood for a moment looking down at the sleeping boy, her eyes filling with tears. “Mamma,” she said again as she returned to her mother, “wemustmanage it.”But two or three days went by without any solution to the problem offering itself. Mr Waldron was exceedingly busy just at this time, and his wife shrank from saying much to him about what was constantly in her thoughts, till she had some at leastpossibleplan to suggest. At last one night a sudden idea struck her.“I will write to Mrs Knox,” she thought; “she may know of some place, some kind ofpension, perhaps, or some doctor’s family, where Jerry would be well cared for, on pretty moderate terms. And once we hear of such a place we justmustfind the money somehow,”—and her mind ran over the few treasured pieces of silver plate in their possession,—“and Edward must take him there. Only will he not be terribly home-sick, alone among strangers?”But Charlotte agreed that it seemed the only thing to do. The letter to Mrs Knox was written, and that evening after dinner Mr Waldron, his wife decided, must be told of all Dr Lewis had said. Dinner-time drew near, however, and instead of Mr Waldron there came a boy from his office with a note to say that he was not to be waited for; he had been detained unexpectedly, but would be home before long.“How unlucky,” sighed Mrs Waldron. “I cannot send the letter without talking to your father, and he will come home so tired. Arthur,” for Arthur as well as Charlotte was in her confidence, “can you manage to keep Ted and Noble quiet in the school-room so that I can speak to your father uninterruptedly? Tell them he will be tired, and will like to be quiet.”“All right, mother; I’ll see to it,” and a moment or two later certain ominous sounds from the school-room announced that Arthur was favouring his younger brothers with a specimen of certain strong measures he intended to resort to, should occasion arise, such as their “kicking up a row or making fools of themselves when mamma wanted to be quiet.”He achieved his purpose, however. Mrs Waldron was alone, and the house was unusually silent when their father came in; he went straight to the drawing-room.“You must be very tired, Edward,” said Mrs Waldron, starting up, “and hungry too. You have not had dinner.”“Yes, thank you; I have had all I want,” he replied. “Tea then, or coffee?”“In a little while, perhaps, but not just yet. I’m glad you are alone, Amy; I want to talk to you. How is Jerry to-day?”“Much the same. I want to talk to you too—about Jerry—about what Dr Lewis has been saying,” Mrs Waldron began.Her husband looked up sharply, and then she noticed that he was very pale, and as she mentioned the doctor’s name he started.“Not anything worse? You are not trying to break anything dreadful to me, Amy,” he said hoarsely. “What a mockery it would all seem if it had come too late!” he added, as if speaking to himself, in a lower voice, though not so low as not to be heard by his wife. But she did not stop to ask the meaning of his words—she was too eager to set his anxiety at rest.“Oh, no, no,” she said; “there is nothing new. It is only that Dr Lewis does so very earnestly advise—”“His going abroad for some months,” interrupted Mr Waldron, his face clearing. “Yes, I know that. You spoke of it a little the other day; but I did not know till to-day that he urged it so very strongly.”“Till to-day,” repeated Mrs Waldron, bewildered; “how did you hear it to-day? Has Dr Lewis been to see you?”“No,” said her husband, with a rather peculiar smile, “it was not from him I heard it. Why did you not tell me how much he had said about it, Amy?”“I have been going to do so all these last days,” she said; “but I waited to think over any feasible plan before saying more to you. I knew you were busy and worried. And even now I have but little to propose,” and she went on to tell of her letter to Mrs Knox, and her hopes of some advice or help in that quarter. Mr Waldron listened and again he smiled.“I think I have a better plan than that to talk about,” he said. “You will scarcely believe me, Amy, when I tell you that I have this afternoon a letter from Lady Mildred Osbert offering to take charge of Jerry at Cannes for some weeks, or months—in fact for as long as it would be well for him to stay there.”“From Lady Mildred!” Mrs Waldron ejaculated. “Edward! How ever did she know about his being ordered to go?”“For that, and perhaps for the idea itself, we have to thank that young niece of hers, Charlotte’s schoolfellow. Jerry told us how kind the girl was to him, and in writing to her he must have said, quite innocently, of course, what Dr Lewis wished for him. They are leaving themselves for Cannes to-morrow; but Lady Mildred proposes that—thatIshould take Jerry to them next week.”“You?” said Mrs Waldron, growing pale with suppressed anxiety and excitement. “Oh, Edward, you have more to tell me. What should she want to see you for, when she has always so completely ignored us as relations, unless there is some great change in some way.”“Yes, Amy; there is a great change. That is what I wanted to tell you. The reason I did not come home earlier as usual to dinner was that I wanted to think it over quietly, to take it in as it were, before I tried to tell you about it. I have felt as if I were dreaming since I got the letters.”“Letters?” half whispered Mrs Waldron; “were there more than one then? You said the one about Jerry was from Lady Mildred herself.”“Yes; but it referred to another—a long and clear and most important letter from the London solicitors; it was in fact written by old Miller himself. I will show it you afterwards, but just now I want merely to tell you the drift of it all.”“I think I can guess it,” said Mrs Waldron; “Lady Mildred has found out that she has been unfairly prejudiced against you, and she wants now to do something to help us. It will be a great boon, whatever it is—this offer for Jerry alone has lifted a terrible weight from my mind. But how has she changed so?”“My dear Amy, don’t run on so fast. It is true that Lady Mildred has changed, but there is a great deal more to tell. You heard of Mr Osbert’s death, the General’s elder son? Well it appears that the second one, the only other—is dying. He has been in a hopeless state for years, but Lady Mildred did not know it. Mr Miller evidently thinks it was concealed purposely. She has had very little communication with the Osberts, and she has always thought of the sons as certain to succeed, as the General is an old man. But, do you see, Amy, as things are, there will be no Osbert to succeed?”Mrs Waldron looked up bewilderedly.“But it is all in Lady Mildred’s hands, is it not?” she said. “She can leave Silverthorns to her own family, can she not?”“She canlegallyleave it to anybody, but she considers herself absolutely bound by her husband’s expressed wishes; and those were that it should never leave the family. Mr Miller says, that failing the Osberts, the Squire instructed Lady Mildred to look up all remoter connections; but till now, it does really seem very strange, she did not know, had no idea that we were the nearest. Mr Miller has been a good friend in the matter; he has, I suppose,” and here Mr Waldron laughed a little, “made inquiries about us and found all satisfactory. He has removed all Lady Mildred’s prejudices against me, and what I care for most, against my poor grandmother. And,”—Mr Waldron hesitated,—“Amy, it seems impossible, her intention therefore is now to makemethe next proprietor of the old place.”Mrs Waldron was silent for a moment.“It seems too much,” he said again. “I don’t deserve it,” her husband went on.This gave her power to speak.“You not deserve it!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Edward, could a man deserve it more? How you have toiled, how you have kept up your spirits through all! If you saidIdidn’t deserve it—I have been often so faint-hearted and depressed. I don’t think—Idon’tthink we shall be spoilt by prosperity; we shall always know so well what a struggling life really is; it will be so delightful to help others. And oh, Edward! Arthur and Noble can go to college, and Ted into the army! That is to say if—will it make any difference at once?”“Yes; Lady Mildred’s idea is that we should at once, at least very shortly, go to live on the estate, and that I should take charge of things. There is a very good house, at present occupied by one of the farmers, which can easily be made a capital house for us. It is so pretty, I remember it well; how delightful it will be to see you there, Amy! Lady Mildred, of course, will have the big house for her life, but she will be glad to feel free to come and go—the place has been growing a great charge to her. This is the rough sketch of her plan only. Of course there are numberless details to be arranged, and for these she wishes to see me. Then again,in casethe General survives her he would have a right to some provision for his life, though it is very certain he would never wish now to be master of Silverthorns—he is quite broken down—and even had he inherited the place, he says he never would have come to live there. But Lady Mildred thinks it right to see him, and she wishes me to see him too. Miller says she is determined that none of the old prejudice against me shall be left; she is not a woman to do things by halves, once she has made up her mind. So, thanks to Miss Meredon, the idea of offering to take Jerry for a time fits in with my going to Cannes. And there we can talk all over.”Mrs Waldron sat gazing into the fire.“Edward,” she said, “I feel as if I were dreaming. Tell me—should we not let the poor children know this wonderful news at once?”“Arthur and Charlotte, perhaps,—they deserve it,” he replied, getting up as he spoke to summon them.And then again the whole had to be told.Arthur’s pleasant face literally beamed with delight.“Oh, papa!—oh, mother!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe it. It is like a fairy tale. Why did you never tell us before that we were half Osberts?”“I had meant to tell you before long,” said Mr Waldron; “but I had a horror of raising vague expectations. I knew too well what I had suffered from my false position as a child.”“Yes,” said Arthur, thoughtfully; “I see.” And then, as a sudden idea struck him, “Fancy its coming after all through the female branch. Papa, the ghost will be laid.”“Yes,” said Mr Waldron, smiling; “the ghost will be laid.”“I bet you anything,”—Arthur went on—“I bet you anything, that the first thing old Jerry will say when he quite understands it, will be, ‘I’m so glad for the poor ghost.’”“And if we never hear anything more of the ghost,” said Charlotte, speaking almost for the first time, “Jerry will be more than ever convinced that hedidhear it. Papa,” she added with a little hesitation, “won’t Lady Mildred’s niece, Miss Meredon, be dreadfully disappointed when she knows all this? Perhaps she has heard all the talk about Lady Mildred’s intending to make her her heiress?”“I hope not,” said Mr Waldron; “she has certainly hitherto shown a most friendly spirit to us. I should be grieved for our good fortune to cause disappointment to any one.”“And then she must be so rich and grand already, I don’t suppose it would matter much to her,” said Charlotte.“I don’t know about that: the Meredons are not a rich family by any means,” said Mr Waldron.“I shall always love that girl,” said Mrs Waldron enthusiastically. “It is her doing about Jerry. Oh, Charlotte, darling! to think that all our poor little plans for sending him abroad are to be so delightfully replaced.”“May I tell him, mamma?” said Charlotte eagerly; “to-morrow, not to-night, of course! I will take care not to startle him. But it would besonice. And I will tell him how kindshehas been—he is very fond of her,” she added with a slightly reluctant honesty.“You must be fond of her too, my dear child,” said her father.“I would like to be, at least I think so,” said Charlotte, and a vision rose before her of Claudia’s sweet, appealing face. “I have been horrid to her, I know,” she added to herself, “but she was rather queer at school.”

“No,” said the doctor; “he’s not gaining ground as he should. Still there’s nothing really wrong. But I hardly know what to advise. What he really should have, as I’ve told you before, is a complete change. Can you not manage it? Not even to Devonshire or the Isle of Wight?”

Mrs Waldron shook her head sadly.

“I think even one of those would be about as impossible for us as the South of France or Italy,” she said. “But I will tell my husband what you say. Of course, in a case of life or death—”

“But it is not so bad as that; I have never said it was,” interrupted the doctor. “Don’t exaggerate it, my dear lady. If youcan’tdo as I say, you can’t, and we must do what we can, and hope the best. He will outgrow his present weakness I have no doubt. But he has come through so much that I was beginning to be rather proud of him, and this unfortunate back-cast is rather disappointing. I had set my heart on his growing up really strong and hearty, and I quite believe he might if he could get a thorough good start. That is the real state of the case.”

“Thank you! Yes, I think I quite understand,” replied Mrs Waldron. But she sighed as she spoke; and the doctor felt sorry for her, but he had to hurry away; and after all he came across people in worse plight than the Waldrons every day of the week, and he could not afford to spend much time or thought in sympathy.

The plight was bad enough, nevertheless, it seemed to Mrs Waldron, as she went back to the drawing-room where Jerry was lying covered with shawls and sheltered as well as could be from the draughts and insidious chills that it is so difficult entirely to defy in a small house, where one seems always running against a door or a window. The boy, to her eyes sharpened by anxiety, was doing worse than not gaining ground. He was, she began to believe, losing it. And some bitter enough tears rose to her eyes as she sat down to go on with the work at which Dr Lewis’s visit had interrupted her.

“Mamma,” said Jerry’s thin weak voice, “don’t you think Charlotte is reallyverypleased to have got the German prize?”

“Yes, my boy; I think she is. And she deserves to be so—she worked very hard indeed for it.”

“She would have been dreadfully disappointed not to get it,” said he again. “Though all the same,” he went on thinking to himself, “it is a little provoking to think that she would have got it any way, and that I went and caught this horrible cold for nothing. Only I would never have known how good Claudia was but for all that, andperhapsshe would still have tried for the prize. I wish she would write to me again! I’m sure she would if she knew how tired I am of being ill, and of everything.”—“Mamma,” he went on again aloud, “doesn’t this winter seem dreadfully long, and it’s only a fortnight and four days past Christmas? Charlotte and the boys only began lessons again three days ago. I wish I could go back to school too, mamma. Oh, I do wish the summer would come. I think I shouldn’t care to live if it was to be always winter.”

His words startled his mother. She got up and came over to him.

“What makes you so gloomy, my old Jerry?” she said; “it isn’t like you.”

“I don’t mean to be naughty and impatient, mamma,” he said; “it’s just that I’m so tired—so tired of the cold, and the darkness, and the grimness,” and his eyes turned with almost a shudder from the window towards which they had glanced instinctively. He knew so well what the prospect outside must be; for it was raining heavily, one of Wortherham’s very ugliest days. “Oh, how I should like just to see and feel the sun, and the blue sky above! I feel as if I could drink the sunshine, mamma; I am so thirsty for it.”

Mrs Waldron sighed a little.

“It is as if he felt the want of it by instinct,” she said to herself. “There are places in the world where there is sunshine even at this season, my Jerry,” she said aloud. “I wish I could send you to one of them.”

Jerry’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes, wouldn’t it be lovely?” he exclaimed. “I wonder if it is to one of those places that they are going;” he added.

“Who?” asked his mother.

“The girl at Silverthorns—Miss Meredon, and old Lady Mildred. She said in her last letter, you know, mamma, that perhaps they were going to France. How nice it would be if we could all go! Sometimes one can’t help wishing to be rich, mamma.”

“Or at least not so poor,” his mother agreed with a rather wintry smile. “I can’t help wishing it when it is anything any of my darlings seem to want that I can’t give them, especially my poor old Jerry, who has had suffering enough in his life.”

“Mamma, dear, sweet mamma, don’t speak like that,” said Jerry, softly stroking her cheek with his little thin hand. “I mustn’t grumble, I haven’t anything to grumble about, when I have you and Charlotte and papa and them all. And it isn’t grumbling to wish for the spring, is it? It is so nice even to think of the woods out at Gretham, with the primroses and violets all coming out. Oh, I do hope I shall be quite well by then, so that I can often walk out there on half-holidays!”

Mrs Waldron tried to answer cheerfully, but it was not easy. There was a cold misgiving at her heart, which she dared not, would not give words to. What would the sunshine or the spring-time, or primroses or violets, or anything sweet and lovely be to her, be to them all, without their quiet, patient little lame boy? How poorly do those understand a mother’s love who speak of one of several children as less precious than an only child! In a sense the intertwining bonds seem indeed but to make the whole affections stronger where a large circle is included by them.

Jerry seemed to have some notion of the thoughts in his mother’s mind.

“You are sure it would make me quite well to go to one of those warm places?” he said again, after a little pause.

“Dr Lewis thinks so,” said Mrs Waldron.

She had not meant to tell him so much, but she was feeling in a way, reckless.

“Hemustgo abroad,” she said to herself. “He must and he shall. I will tell Edward so this evening, and at whatever cost and sacrifice it shall be done.”

And though the resolve seemed a wild one, though she had no faintest idea how it was to be carried out, her heart felt curiously lighter when she had made it.

Charlotte looked anxiously at Jerry when she came home from school that afternoon. He was lying asleep on his sofa, and her mother made a little sign not to disturb him as the girl opened the door.

“Is he no better to-day, mamma?” she whispered, as she sat down quietly beside her mother in the further corner of the room.

“Much as usual, I think,” Mrs Waldron replied, in the same tone. “Perhaps in himself he has been a little brighter. He was interested in what we were talking about.”

“Yes?” and Charlotte looked up inquiringly.

“Dr Lewis was here this morning. He examined Jerry thoroughly again, and still says the same thing. There is no actual disease, it is only weakness and want of tone that he speaks of. But those may be the beginning of anything! Charlotte, my dear, I have been feeling nearly desperate about Jerry.”

Then she went on to tell the girl all that the doctor had said—all that she had been thinking and resolving in her own mind.

She found full sympathy.

“Yes, mamma,” Charlotte agreed, “at all costs it must be done. But where should he go, and with whom, and how?”

“I don’t think it matters very specially where,” Mrs Waldron replied, “so long as it is a bright and sunny place. But how? Ah, I wish I knew! I am so ignorant of all those winter places—I don’t know which are the cheapest. I fancy they are all dear! Jerry has been writing to his friend, Miss Meredon, again. She wrote to him that she and her aunt are going abroad. I wish—I wonder if we could get any information from them.”

“Oh, no,” Charlotte interposed hastily; “don’t let us put ourselves under any more obligation to them. I don’t want to be horrid, mamma, but that girl seems to bealwayscoming in my way. Even now that she has left school for a while, the next thing is we must hear of her going abroad for the winter like a princess, just when we’d giveanythingto be able to send Jerry.”

“Charlotte, my dear, you really are unreasonable,” said Mrs Waldron. “I thought you were grateful to this young girl, as we all are, for her kindness to Jerry. You told me yourself that you would never again say she was spoilt, or selfish, or any of the terrible things you had made up your mind shemustbe.”

“I know I did,” said Charlotte half penitently. “I did not mean to speak that way; but oh, mamma, it makes me wild to think about Jerry—he does look so white and thin?” She got up as she spoke, and went across the room on tip-toe, and stood for a moment looking down at the sleeping boy, her eyes filling with tears. “Mamma,” she said again as she returned to her mother, “wemustmanage it.”

But two or three days went by without any solution to the problem offering itself. Mr Waldron was exceedingly busy just at this time, and his wife shrank from saying much to him about what was constantly in her thoughts, till she had some at leastpossibleplan to suggest. At last one night a sudden idea struck her.

“I will write to Mrs Knox,” she thought; “she may know of some place, some kind ofpension, perhaps, or some doctor’s family, where Jerry would be well cared for, on pretty moderate terms. And once we hear of such a place we justmustfind the money somehow,”—and her mind ran over the few treasured pieces of silver plate in their possession,—“and Edward must take him there. Only will he not be terribly home-sick, alone among strangers?”

But Charlotte agreed that it seemed the only thing to do. The letter to Mrs Knox was written, and that evening after dinner Mr Waldron, his wife decided, must be told of all Dr Lewis had said. Dinner-time drew near, however, and instead of Mr Waldron there came a boy from his office with a note to say that he was not to be waited for; he had been detained unexpectedly, but would be home before long.

“How unlucky,” sighed Mrs Waldron. “I cannot send the letter without talking to your father, and he will come home so tired. Arthur,” for Arthur as well as Charlotte was in her confidence, “can you manage to keep Ted and Noble quiet in the school-room so that I can speak to your father uninterruptedly? Tell them he will be tired, and will like to be quiet.”

“All right, mother; I’ll see to it,” and a moment or two later certain ominous sounds from the school-room announced that Arthur was favouring his younger brothers with a specimen of certain strong measures he intended to resort to, should occasion arise, such as their “kicking up a row or making fools of themselves when mamma wanted to be quiet.”

He achieved his purpose, however. Mrs Waldron was alone, and the house was unusually silent when their father came in; he went straight to the drawing-room.

“You must be very tired, Edward,” said Mrs Waldron, starting up, “and hungry too. You have not had dinner.”

“Yes, thank you; I have had all I want,” he replied. “Tea then, or coffee?”

“In a little while, perhaps, but not just yet. I’m glad you are alone, Amy; I want to talk to you. How is Jerry to-day?”

“Much the same. I want to talk to you too—about Jerry—about what Dr Lewis has been saying,” Mrs Waldron began.

Her husband looked up sharply, and then she noticed that he was very pale, and as she mentioned the doctor’s name he started.

“Not anything worse? You are not trying to break anything dreadful to me, Amy,” he said hoarsely. “What a mockery it would all seem if it had come too late!” he added, as if speaking to himself, in a lower voice, though not so low as not to be heard by his wife. But she did not stop to ask the meaning of his words—she was too eager to set his anxiety at rest.

“Oh, no, no,” she said; “there is nothing new. It is only that Dr Lewis does so very earnestly advise—”

“His going abroad for some months,” interrupted Mr Waldron, his face clearing. “Yes, I know that. You spoke of it a little the other day; but I did not know till to-day that he urged it so very strongly.”

“Till to-day,” repeated Mrs Waldron, bewildered; “how did you hear it to-day? Has Dr Lewis been to see you?”

“No,” said her husband, with a rather peculiar smile, “it was not from him I heard it. Why did you not tell me how much he had said about it, Amy?”

“I have been going to do so all these last days,” she said; “but I waited to think over any feasible plan before saying more to you. I knew you were busy and worried. And even now I have but little to propose,” and she went on to tell of her letter to Mrs Knox, and her hopes of some advice or help in that quarter. Mr Waldron listened and again he smiled.

“I think I have a better plan than that to talk about,” he said. “You will scarcely believe me, Amy, when I tell you that I have this afternoon a letter from Lady Mildred Osbert offering to take charge of Jerry at Cannes for some weeks, or months—in fact for as long as it would be well for him to stay there.”

“From Lady Mildred!” Mrs Waldron ejaculated. “Edward! How ever did she know about his being ordered to go?”

“For that, and perhaps for the idea itself, we have to thank that young niece of hers, Charlotte’s schoolfellow. Jerry told us how kind the girl was to him, and in writing to her he must have said, quite innocently, of course, what Dr Lewis wished for him. They are leaving themselves for Cannes to-morrow; but Lady Mildred proposes that—thatIshould take Jerry to them next week.”

“You?” said Mrs Waldron, growing pale with suppressed anxiety and excitement. “Oh, Edward, you have more to tell me. What should she want to see you for, when she has always so completely ignored us as relations, unless there is some great change in some way.”

“Yes, Amy; there is a great change. That is what I wanted to tell you. The reason I did not come home earlier as usual to dinner was that I wanted to think it over quietly, to take it in as it were, before I tried to tell you about it. I have felt as if I were dreaming since I got the letters.”

“Letters?” half whispered Mrs Waldron; “were there more than one then? You said the one about Jerry was from Lady Mildred herself.”

“Yes; but it referred to another—a long and clear and most important letter from the London solicitors; it was in fact written by old Miller himself. I will show it you afterwards, but just now I want merely to tell you the drift of it all.”

“I think I can guess it,” said Mrs Waldron; “Lady Mildred has found out that she has been unfairly prejudiced against you, and she wants now to do something to help us. It will be a great boon, whatever it is—this offer for Jerry alone has lifted a terrible weight from my mind. But how has she changed so?”

“My dear Amy, don’t run on so fast. It is true that Lady Mildred has changed, but there is a great deal more to tell. You heard of Mr Osbert’s death, the General’s elder son? Well it appears that the second one, the only other—is dying. He has been in a hopeless state for years, but Lady Mildred did not know it. Mr Miller evidently thinks it was concealed purposely. She has had very little communication with the Osberts, and she has always thought of the sons as certain to succeed, as the General is an old man. But, do you see, Amy, as things are, there will be no Osbert to succeed?”

Mrs Waldron looked up bewilderedly.

“But it is all in Lady Mildred’s hands, is it not?” she said. “She can leave Silverthorns to her own family, can she not?”

“She canlegallyleave it to anybody, but she considers herself absolutely bound by her husband’s expressed wishes; and those were that it should never leave the family. Mr Miller says, that failing the Osberts, the Squire instructed Lady Mildred to look up all remoter connections; but till now, it does really seem very strange, she did not know, had no idea that we were the nearest. Mr Miller has been a good friend in the matter; he has, I suppose,” and here Mr Waldron laughed a little, “made inquiries about us and found all satisfactory. He has removed all Lady Mildred’s prejudices against me, and what I care for most, against my poor grandmother. And,”—Mr Waldron hesitated,—“Amy, it seems impossible, her intention therefore is now to makemethe next proprietor of the old place.”

Mrs Waldron was silent for a moment.

“It seems too much,” he said again. “I don’t deserve it,” her husband went on.

This gave her power to speak.

“You not deserve it!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Edward, could a man deserve it more? How you have toiled, how you have kept up your spirits through all! If you saidIdidn’t deserve it—I have been often so faint-hearted and depressed. I don’t think—Idon’tthink we shall be spoilt by prosperity; we shall always know so well what a struggling life really is; it will be so delightful to help others. And oh, Edward! Arthur and Noble can go to college, and Ted into the army! That is to say if—will it make any difference at once?”

“Yes; Lady Mildred’s idea is that we should at once, at least very shortly, go to live on the estate, and that I should take charge of things. There is a very good house, at present occupied by one of the farmers, which can easily be made a capital house for us. It is so pretty, I remember it well; how delightful it will be to see you there, Amy! Lady Mildred, of course, will have the big house for her life, but she will be glad to feel free to come and go—the place has been growing a great charge to her. This is the rough sketch of her plan only. Of course there are numberless details to be arranged, and for these she wishes to see me. Then again,in casethe General survives her he would have a right to some provision for his life, though it is very certain he would never wish now to be master of Silverthorns—he is quite broken down—and even had he inherited the place, he says he never would have come to live there. But Lady Mildred thinks it right to see him, and she wishes me to see him too. Miller says she is determined that none of the old prejudice against me shall be left; she is not a woman to do things by halves, once she has made up her mind. So, thanks to Miss Meredon, the idea of offering to take Jerry for a time fits in with my going to Cannes. And there we can talk all over.”

Mrs Waldron sat gazing into the fire.

“Edward,” she said, “I feel as if I were dreaming. Tell me—should we not let the poor children know this wonderful news at once?”

“Arthur and Charlotte, perhaps,—they deserve it,” he replied, getting up as he spoke to summon them.

And then again the whole had to be told.

Arthur’s pleasant face literally beamed with delight.

“Oh, papa!—oh, mother!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe it. It is like a fairy tale. Why did you never tell us before that we were half Osberts?”

“I had meant to tell you before long,” said Mr Waldron; “but I had a horror of raising vague expectations. I knew too well what I had suffered from my false position as a child.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, thoughtfully; “I see.” And then, as a sudden idea struck him, “Fancy its coming after all through the female branch. Papa, the ghost will be laid.”

“Yes,” said Mr Waldron, smiling; “the ghost will be laid.”

“I bet you anything,”—Arthur went on—“I bet you anything, that the first thing old Jerry will say when he quite understands it, will be, ‘I’m so glad for the poor ghost.’”

“And if we never hear anything more of the ghost,” said Charlotte, speaking almost for the first time, “Jerry will be more than ever convinced that hedidhear it. Papa,” she added with a little hesitation, “won’t Lady Mildred’s niece, Miss Meredon, be dreadfully disappointed when she knows all this? Perhaps she has heard all the talk about Lady Mildred’s intending to make her her heiress?”

“I hope not,” said Mr Waldron; “she has certainly hitherto shown a most friendly spirit to us. I should be grieved for our good fortune to cause disappointment to any one.”

“And then she must be so rich and grand already, I don’t suppose it would matter much to her,” said Charlotte.

“I don’t know about that: the Meredons are not a rich family by any means,” said Mr Waldron.

“I shall always love that girl,” said Mrs Waldron enthusiastically. “It is her doing about Jerry. Oh, Charlotte, darling! to think that all our poor little plans for sending him abroad are to be so delightfully replaced.”

“May I tell him, mamma?” said Charlotte eagerly; “to-morrow, not to-night, of course! I will take care not to startle him. But it would besonice. And I will tell him how kindshehas been—he is very fond of her,” she added with a slightly reluctant honesty.

“You must be fond of her too, my dear child,” said her father.

“I would like to be, at least I think so,” said Charlotte, and a vision rose before her of Claudia’s sweet, appealing face. “I have been horrid to her, I know,” she added to herself, “but she was rather queer at school.”

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