The message which Dr. Sinclair promised the Mr. Talboys is despatched about ten o'clock the same night by his own errand-boy, whom he has brought with him to the Rookery and installed in the kitchen, in case of his wanting anything from his surgery during the night, as also to make himself useful in any way that he can in the house, all Becky's energies being concentrated on keeping the kitchen fire in.
The message is one that brings tears of joy and thankfulness to the eyes of the soft-hearted old gentlemen, for it tells them that their little favourite sank into a deep sleep about seven, and that if it continues, as Dr. Sinclair hopes and thinks it will, all danger will be at an end.
The old gentlemen retire to their beds, therefore, in a happier frame of mind than that in which they had left them the same morning. A long, anxious night of watching follows, through most of which Dr. Sinclair sits patiently, his large hand clasped tightly by Daisy's little thin one, until he becomes too cramped almost to move, though not all the agony in the world would have induced him to do so at the risk of rousing his little patient.
But presently, with the dawn, comes the knowledge that the little girl will live, for she still sleeps soundly. It is only then that Honor (on the doctor quietly persisting in her doing so) consents to give up her place to Molly, and with a thankful heart she goes to take the rest which, now that the suspense is over, she is obliged to confess that she sadly needs. As the doctor returns to his own house that same morning, he looks in at the Rosery, and delights the two old gentlemen with the good news he has to tell them. Not very long afterwards the brothers walk up to the Rookery together, but declining to stir an inch beyond the doorstep, make their inquiries of Doris—who comes out to see them—in a hushed, low voice, and having intrusted her with the lovely posy of spring flowers which they have brought for Daisy, go softly down the steps and gravel-walk on tiptoe, that no sound may reach the room above, where lies the little sufferer.
Daisy, now having taken a turn for the better, makes rapid progress for a little while; but once having left her bed, an intense weakness and lassitude set in which take the united strength of the whole family to battle against. For Daisy will not eat, unless someone stands over her and compels her to do so. She becomes fretful too; and being too young herself to see the necessity of trying to take the strengthening food that is brought to her at intervals, she gets quite cross, telling them all plainly that it is very unkind to tease her so, and that if she likes to give the greater part of her dainty food to Timothy (who is always in close attendance at meal-times), she doesn't see why she shouldn't. So Mrs. Merivale implores, the girls coax and persuade, and the doctor scolds a little sometimes, till finding he must exert his authority, he proceeds to do so in a manner which astonishes no one so much as the little lady herself.
The effort once made, Daisy's appetite improves little by little, until at length she gives very practical illustration of that sensible French proverb, "L'appetit vient en mangeant."
Every one (with the exception of Timothy, perhaps) is delighted with this improvement, and it is now that Honor has reason to be so grateful to the Mr. Talboys; for when once the little invalid is sufficiently convalescent to take such things, jellies, both sweet and savoury, strong soups, good old port (a hint as to which, perhaps, Dr. Sinclair is answerable for), and, indeed, all the nourishing things that can be thought of, are showered down upon the household for little Daisy's benefit.
It is a subject for deep thankfulness to Mrs. Merivale and her elder daughters that, in their days of adversity, they should have been thrown amongst such generous, warm-hearted friends; for although no one actually puts the thought into words, they all know full well in their secret hearts that were it not for the generosity of their two kind old landlords, little Daisy would never have thrown off the terrible weakness which assailed her when the actual illness was a thing of the past.
The day of the Messrs. Talboys' first visit to their little favourite was an occasion to be remembered by all; so overcome with emotion were they at first, and then so almost boyishly delighted when they found that Daisy could manage to chat with them a little. Both the old gentlemen's handkerchiefs did active duty for a few minutes at first, but they soon recovered their spirits in presenting the child with the little gifts, with which, as a matter of course, they had come laden.
The time allowed for the first visit soon slips away, however; but it is arranged that directly Daisy is well enough to sit up for any length of time, the Mr. Talboys shall come to tea with her one day. They take their departure quite satisfied therefore, looking back and nodding and smiling so many times that Mr. Ned, who is gradually backing towards the stairs, is only saved from shooting headlong down by Doris, who, appearing on the scene just at the critical moment, grasps his arms and restores his balance before he knows where he is.
From this time the days go on monotonously enough. The doctor comes and goes, though not every day now, of course; and the two old gentlemen trot backwards and forwards, always bringing something for the little invalid, until her mother and sisters have to tell them that they are fast doing their best to spoil their pet.
Household matters also go on very much as before; and now that the greater trouble is lifted off their shoulders, the same little everyday annoyances and vexations begin to harass and worry the girls again. Clothes wear out, especially boots and shoes. Then Becky one day, with her cap more awry even than usual in the excitement of the moment, suddenly announces the startling and pleasing intelligence that "There ain't no more coals in the cellar than what'll light the kitchen fire to-morrow morning!"
Honor, too, begins to worry terribly about the entire cessation of Dick's studies. Daisy (before her illness) and Bobby, she and the other girls could very well manage between them, but Dick they feel to be altogether beyond them; and many an hour is spent by Honor at night, tossing and turning, and wondering what can be done for the boy.
One Saturday, when Daisy is promoted to the sofa in the sitting-room, and, domestic work being over for the day, the others are all seated delightedly round her with work, books, &c., Dick suddenly bursts into their midst, wildly waving his cap in the air.
"Hooray! hoo-ray!" he shouts. "You'll never guess what news I've brought you, not if you guess for a hundred years! No more bothering and thinking for you, Miss Honor, as to how you can contrive to get your reprobate brother a decent education! Hooray!" and up goes his cap to the ceiling, greatly to the peril of the gas globes.
When the boy can be persuaded to calm down and talk like a reasonable being, the good news is gradually extracted from him, and proves to be as follows:—
The night before being Friday, and therefore practice-night at St. Luke's, Dick had been prowling round the church as usual, in the hope of having a musical treat from the organ, which in the hands of a promising young musician (a native of the village), pealed forth harmonies which flew straight to Dick's music-loving soul. As he entered the half-lighted church, and made for a secluded corner where he was in the habit of enjoying the choir-practice unseen, he suddenly ran full tilt against the vicar, who was emerging from the vestry.
"Ah, my lad!" exclaimed Mr. Bolton, with a little gasp at the collision; "have you come to listen to our practice? Perhaps you sing yourself, do you?"
"A little, sir," answered Dick shyly, as they moved more towards the light together; "but I amveryfond of it," he added with enthusiasm.
"Why, now I see you better," exclaimed the vicar suddenly, "I am sure I know your face! Don't you come with your sisters to church every Sunday and sit just about there?" pointing with his stick. "Ah, I thought so; and I have noticed how very much you seem to enjoy the music, and that you have a fine clear voice of your own."
And then it ended in Mr. Bolton asking him how he would like to join the choir; and afterwards, greatly to his delight, he was actually given a stall in the chancel and allowed to follow the choir as best he could, one of the boys good-naturedly sharing his music-books with him. All through the practice Mr. Bolton kept a sharp look-out on Dick, noting with what evident enjoyment the boy joined in anything that he was familiar with, while listening with rapt attention to all that he was not.
After it was all over he came up to the boy, who (the choir having dispersed) was standing aloof, wondering whether he ought to thank the vicar for his kindness, and placing his hand on his shoulder kindly said, "I have asked Mr. St. John to stay behind after the others have gone, I want him to try your voice;" and motioning to the boy to wait, he disappeared into the vestry.
Mr. St. John, the organist, expressed himself delighted with Dick's voice, and when at last after a little kind encouragement and pressing on the part of the young man he sang with genuine feeling and taste Handel's thrilling recitative, "There were shepherds abiding in the field," the delight of both gentlemen knew no bounds.
After questioning the boy a little Mr. Bolton closed the interview by telling him to come and see him on the afternoon of the next day.
"And now comes the cream of the whole thing!" cries Dick excitedly, after having given the foregoing information in a series of short, spasmodic sentences.
"After I had told Mr. Bolton that I most distinctlyshouldlike to join the choir, he asked me all the questions imaginable about my education, and, oh, ever so many things that I can't remember now. But to continue (as the books say), I let out that you were all worrying about my schooling having to stop, and directly I said that he quite brightened up, and told me that if I liked he thought he could be of service to me about that. It seems, you see, that he generally gives his chief choir-boys about four pounds a year; but that would not be of very much use to me, he said (I thought to myself it justwould, though). And so he proposed that in return for my services—myservices, mind—he would carry on my education with his own boy and the two pupils he has living at the vicarage. 'The more the merrier, my boy,' he said; 'and Mr. Holmes and I can as well tacklefouras three youngsters like you.' Mr. St. John is to train my voice, of course; and now, which of you girls can make a surplice? And, oh yes, I forgot, Mr. Bolton is coming to see you about it all to-morrow, mother. There now! don't you think I have done a good day's work?Ido!" And up goes the cap to the ceiling once more. "Ah! you little thought," he goes on, suddenly calming down—"you little thought what I meant some time ago when I said I had a plan in my head about something; but, honestly, you know, I didn't expect it would turn out in this stunning fashion. What I intended doing was to offer myself for the choir, you see, because I guessed they paid something, though I didn't know what. And that is the reason I have been going to the practices so much lately, trying every time to screw up my courage to speak to Mr. Bolton. But now, I suppose, you girls and mother will all think the education plan the best, though I must say I think it rather hard on a fellow. But still," he adds magnanimously, "if it takes a load off all your shoulders, of course I shall be very glad."
It need hardly be said with what delight Dick's news is received by every one, and as she lays her head upon her pillow that night, Honor thinks of her brother's words, and feels that a "load" is indeed lifted off her heavily burdened shoulders.
It is a lovely, warm day at the beginning of June, and Doris, having made the beds in conjunction with Molly, and afterwards drifted round the rooms with a duster in a desultory sort of fashion which, had she seen her, would have driven energetic Honor well-nigh crazy, presents herself in the kitchen where her sister is engaged in certain culinary matters.
"That soup smells good!" she remarks, as Honor, pepper-caster in hand, gives a final stir round the saucepan over which she is bending, and turns to confront her sister.
"There is not much in it besides the pea-flour, and a flavouring of carrots and onions—oh, and the bacon bone, which has been stewing ever since the early morning. But it's cheap," Honor winds up with a sigh; "and really Dick's and Bobby's appetites seem to grow larger every day, to say nothing of Becky's!"
"Well, I came to tell you that I can not stay indoors any longer on such a lovely morning as this. I know it's no use asking you to come too, because you would be certain to find some very good reason against it. So, as Molly is going to the vicarage to give Dolly Bolton her lesson, I shall just take my book and go and sit in Lord What's-his-name's woods for a time."
"He is not a lord, I tell you," says Honor rather testily, "any more than you or I. He is only a baronet.—Sir Something Somebody, I forget what now. It was only the other day that Mr. Edward Talboys was pointing out the house (The Court, I think he called it) to me, and he said that the owner was nearly always abroad, and that it had been shut up for years in consequence."
"All the better for us," remarks Doris. "Well, I'm off. Good-bye, Honor; if I find any flowers worth having, I'll bring you some."
Walking briskly along, Vic bounding forward in advance, elated at the idea of a prolonged hunt, Doris and she soon come to the woods, and climbing over a little stile, strike off down a path to the right which they both seem to be familiar with. Following this for some distance, Doris turns suddenly to the left, and in another instant is in the most lovely little glade imaginable. The girls have named it their "parlour," for it is carpeted with a rich emerald turf, which is dotted over at intervals with numberless wild flowers of the woods. Several trees have been felled at this spot, and the moss-covered stumps afford capital resting-places, especially one stump, which has two straggling sort of boughs behind it, thus forming quite an inviting arm-chair.
Opposite this is a curiously-shaped tree, which when once climbed into makes a luxurious lounge for anyone who is lazily inclined.
There being no one to embarrass Doris on this particular occasion by watching her ascent into the tree, she is established there in a very few seconds, and ordering Vic (greatly to the animal's surprise and indignation) to "lie down," she opens her book and leans back comfortably in her leafy couch. The minutes fly quickly, and the book being an interesting one, Doris hardly raises her eyes from it until a whole hour has sped away. Not till then does she become aware that Vic has entirely disappeared from view, and is not to be heard any more than seen. Doris sits up and looks round, with no satisfactory result, however; and she is just screwing up her mouth to whistle, when she is startled by a shrill cry away in the distance, followed by a shout in a man's voice of "Drop it, drop it, you brute!"
Then in another moment Vic, with a young rabbit in her strong jaws, bursts through the thicket to the right, runs across the glade, and is at once out of sight again. She is closely followed by a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, who, while making one last abortive attempt to rescue the unfortunate rabbit from its captor, catches his foot in a straggling briar and measures his length on the soft turf, almost at Doris's feet.
"Now or never!" thinks the girl to herself, preparing to descend—for with an exclamation which would doubtless have been suppressed had he guessed his close proximity to a lady, the young man commences to pick up first himself and then his hat.
With a desperate jump Doris alights safely on the stump below; but, as with a little less caution she prepares to leave that also, an unkind branch above hitches itself into one of the bows of her hat and whisks the whole erection off her head, so that when the young man suddenly turns round he finds himself confronted by a hatless young lady, who has apparently sprung from nowhere! They both look up at the hat, then they look at each other, and burst into a merry laugh.
Lifting his hat, which he has just replaced on his head, the young fellow says, "Really I must apologize for my very abrupt appearance. I had not the least idea that anyone was here. I hope I did not startle you very much. May I be permitted to inquire if you have dropped from the clouds?"
Doris indicates with a wave of her hand the place from which she has descended, and without paying attention to the words addressed to her says, "O, I wish you had been a little quicker! Do you think the poor thing was dead?"
His manner changes the moment he sees the genuine anxiety in the young face looking up at him, and he answers gently, "O, yes, I think so, certainly; and even if not then, I am very sure it must be dead now. I wish too that I could have been quicker, though for my own personal comfort I was rather disastrously so. I am afraid it is no use going after them now. It is a game little dog: does it belong to you?"
"Yes, the wretched little creature! Who would have thought of her going off hunting like that? I told her to lie down too."
An amused twinkle comes into the young man's eyes. "You could hardly expect her to do that, I think," he says, "especially in a place like this. It would not be in dog's nature to do it, you know. Have you been here long?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I have," says Doris, glancing furtively at her hat, which is wholly out of her reach. "My book was interesting, and I forgot all about time and Vic too. I suppose itwashardly reasonable to expect her to keep quiet all that time."
"I think so," says her companion with a smile. "Let me put in a word for her and intreat your pardon on her behalf. But dear me, how thoughtlessly I am behaving! allowing you to stand bareheaded in the sun and never making an attempt to recover your hat for you."
"Itisrather hot," remarks Doris somewhat reproachfully. "The sun penetrates even this shady nook after a time;" and then she watches with keen interest the jumps and snatches which are being made at the refractory hat. "We call this our 'parlour,'" the girl goes on. "Isn't it pretty here? But I really think you had better get up on one of those stumps. I don't think you will ever get it down with your stick."
This advice being followed, the hat is captured in due course of time and handed to its owner. Then jumping down he says, "O, your 'parlour' you call it? Well, I am sure it is a very lovely one. How beautiful those shadows are! Do you know these woods well? do you often come here?"
"Yes, pretty often," replies the girl briskly. "Haveyouever been here before?"
"O yes, I know the place well; in fact I spent a good part of my boyhood here. Will you think me very unpardonably curious if I ask your name, and how long you have been living in Edendale? I know Sir Charles Ferrars, and I don't remember his having ever spoken of any new arrivals; and he generally keeps himselfau courantwith the affairs of the neighbourhood, though he seldom honours it with his presence. That is why I ask."
"No, I don't suppose hewouldhave spoken of us even if he had been at the Court when we came here," says Doris a little bitterly. "We didn't arrive here with a flourish of trumpets exactly. But I am not paying attention to your questions. My name is Doris Merivale, and we have been here, let me see, rather more than four months, oraboutfour, I think. Now, I think you ought to tell meyourname. One good turn deserves another, you know."
"Exactly. My name is Ferrars—Lancelot Ferrars," he says carelessly and a little absently. "In fact I am a distant relation of Sir Charles."
"Oh," says Doris, and subsides into silence.
"Merivale!" repeats Mr. Ferrars softly to himself. "Have you an aunt living in London, Miss Merivale, by name Lady Woodhouse? I am sure I have seen your face somewhere before, and I can only think that it was in a frame on one of her tables."
"Very likely," remarks the girl sadly. "She used to be rather fond of talking about her eldest niece, who was to have been presented at the first drawing-room this season. Yes, she is our aunt. And so you know her? Did she tell you of our come-down in the world?"
"She told me," says Mr. Ferrars, looking kindly at the flushed face, which showed the girl's bitter thoughts and emotions, "of the sudden misfortunes of a sister and her family—not of anycome-down, as you express it. One need not necessarily come down with adversity, you know."
Doris looks gratefully at him, then swallowing the lump in her throat she says, trying to smile, "No, perhaps not; but it makes one very cross and discontented, I think."
"Does it? You do not look either the one or the other, so far as I can see."
"O, you don't know what I am at home," says the girl shaking her head gloomily. "Now, although I have certainly enjoyed my morning out here, I have an uncomfortable sort of feeling (conscience, I suppose) that I ought to be at home domesticating. But I am not above confessing that I cordiallyhateanything of the kind; and so I was wicked and played truant and left poor Honor to do all the work by herself."
"Honor!—what a pretty name!" says Mr. Ferrars, while he industriously peels off the bark from a little stick. "Is she your domestic?"
Doris breaks into a rippling laugh. "Honor is my sister," she says, "and the dearest old girl in the world."
"Is she much older than you?"
"Older?—-she isyoungerthan I am!" exclaims Doris, fairly laughing out this time.
"I beg your pardon," begins Mr. Ferrars, looking a little vexed, "but I thought I understood you to say 'old girl' in reference to your sister just now."
"O, yes, I daresay I did," replies Doris checking her laughter; "but that is a way we all have of speaking of her. She seems like a little mother to us all, and appears to take a delight in all those things whichIhate. Honor has always been the industrious one of the family, and it was just the same in the school-room. Miss Denny (our late governess) used to complain dreadfully of my laziness over my lessons; and although I was supposed to be 'finished,' and was going up to town for my first season, I amsureI couldn't speak a whole sentence in French without at least two mistakes. I used to tell them all not to bother about me, because I had made up my mind to marry a duke after I was presented and had 'come out;' then, you see, I could have done just as I liked, and should always have had everything done for me."
"You couldn't have had French spoken for you though," objects Mr. Ferrars smiling up at the girl, who is seated in state in the arm-chair; "and I fancy even a duchess would sometimes be called upon to speak another language than her own. Wouldnothingless than a duke do?"
Doris shakes her head solemnly.
"I hadquitemade up mind to be a duchess, nothing more nor less. But that is all at an end now," she adds with a little sigh. "I suppose I shall remain plain Doris Merivale to the end of my days."
"O, I don't know; why should you?"
"Well, you see, all chance of a duke or anybody of that sort is quite at an end now, and no ordinary person would care to have me."
"Why not?"
"Because I am such a useless sort of girl. Now, Honor, and even Molly (Molly is another of my sisters), would I think make good wives for poor men, because they seem to be able to turn their hands to anything, whereas every single thing I undertake, no matter what it is, is bound to fail. No, it's no use. I must make a good marriage or live and die an old maid. Aunt says that is all I am fit for, and she ought to know."
"Which, a good marriage or an old maid?" the young man inquires mischievously.
Doris suddenly stops and laughs.
"What dreadful nonsense I am talking!" she says half apologetically, and blushing a little. "I never can stop myself when I once begin, and I get dreadfully scolded at home for it. It is really quite an event to have someone to talk to though, out of the family I mean; and we are so horribly dull at home. I hope you don't think me dreadfully silly?"
"Silly! why should I?" says Mr. Ferrars kindly. "On the contrary I like to hear anyone talking naturally, and I assure you I have been very much interested in all that you have told me. Are you fond of pictures?"
"Yes; that is, I like looking at themverymuch, but I don't understand them in the least. Honor is the one for that sort of thing."
"Does your sister paint, then?"
"Yes, she really paints well, I believe; and just before poor father died, and we became so horribly poor, she was going to have lessons from some good artist. But of course it all came to nothing. Poor Honor was bitterly disappointed."
"I amsureshe must have been," says Mr. Ferrars feelingly. "I know what I would have felt under the circumstances."
"Why, doyoupaint, then?" inquires Doris, opening wide her bright blue eyes.
"Yes, oh yes; I paint a little," he answers smiling.
"Then you are an artist, I am sure!" exclaims the girl eagerly. "I was trying to settle in my own mind whether you were in the army or an artist. I was sure it was one of the two. Ah, you wretched little creature, here you are at last!"
This last remark is addressed to Vic, who with depressed tail and ears has suddenly appeared before them, looking guilty to the last degree.
"Don't scold her now, poor creature!" says Mr. Ferrars, stroking the dog's head encouragingly. "You promised to let her off, don't you remember?"
"Very well," says Doris, "I'll forgive her this time. Good gracious!" she exclaims after a little pause, "just look where the sun has got to. Why it must be one o'clock or more!"
"It is a quarter past," says Mr. Ferrars consulting his watch; "and that reminds me if I don't put my best foot foremost I'll not catch my train."
"Are you leaving Edendale then?"
"Yes, I am only passing through the place; but I could not resist taking a walk in the woods on this lovely morning. Are you in a hurry too?"
"My goodness, yes!" exclaims Doris excitedly, "I ought to have been home ages ago."
"I am so sorry," says Mr. Ferrars holding out his hand, "that I cannot accompany you home; but I fear it is impossible. I shall hope to meet you, however, some day at your aunt's. Good-bye, and thank you for the pleasant hour's talk we have had, and which I have thoroughly enjoyed." And first stooping to pick up Doris's book from the grass, on which it has been lying unnoticed ever since it fell there, he lifts his hat and walks away at a brisk pace, looking back once, before he turns off the path, to smile and wave his hand to her.
"A nice unaffected little girl," thinks Lancelot Ferrars to himself as he walks quickly towards the station. "I hope I shall see her again some day, poor child!"
And Doris, as she calls Vic to follow her, says softly to herself, "Lancelot! Lancelot Ferrars! What a pretty name! And what a nice, gentlemanly fellow he seems. Just the sort of man poor father would have liked, I think. I wonder if I shall ever see him again. I suppose not."
When Doris gets home she finds them all seated at dinner, partaking of the pea-soup, which appears to be popular. Honor and Molly seem to be rather elated about something concerning themselves, and Doris is inclined to be put out at the scant attention they give to the account of her adventure in the wood.
Only Dick and Mrs. Merivale appear at all interested in her story; the former beginning without loss of time to tease his sister about her "knight of the woods." When there is once more a little quiet, it transpires that the postman has arrived in Doris's absence, and besides bringing letters for Mrs. Merivale and Molly, from Hugh Horton, telling them of his having obtained his commission, and of the probability of his leaving soon for Ireland after all, there is one for Doris from her aunt, and also a newspaper with an advertisement marked with a large cross in red ink, to which Lady Woodhouse begs Honor will give her particular attention.
This is to the effect that persons with any knowledge of painting can easily earn a pound weekly, by painting on tin—the latest novelty in art, and greatly in demand. Then the advertisement goes on to say that by applying at a certain place in the town, those desirous of taking up this very remunerative employment can be instructed in this branch of art in two lessons, at one-and-six each.
"So you see I have made up my mind to go and inquire about it all this very afternoon if I can get away," says Honor folding up the paper. "Just think, if I can earn a pound a week, what a difference it will make to us! With that and what Molly makes by her teaching, we shall really be getting along quite famously. O, and that reminds me: have you told Doris about your probable new pupil, Molly?"
"No, but I was just going to. It seems that some new people have taken the house opposite the Vicarage, and Mr. Bolton has spoken to them about me. There are several children, I believe, and he seems to think that if I get the eldest girl on well (if I have her at all, that is) I may have the others when they are old enough. I fancy they are not very aristocratic sort of people: retired bakers or something, but they have lots of money, so I shall hope to get good terms. I shall have to bring all the dignity I can muster to the fore, I expect, for Mr. Bolton said in his quaint, quiet way that he was 'afraid they were not very good children from all he heard;' so if he confesses to that much you may depend upon it they are pretty bad. I am going to call on Mrs. Hallam, that is the bakeress's name" ("Molly!" exclaims her mother), "to-morrow," continues that young lady unmoved, "so then I shall know all about them. O, by the by, Hugh says he shall very likely run down to-morrow afternoon. What does aunt say, Doris?"
"Aunt?" says Doris, who has been absently looking out of the window. "Oh, she tells me she may want me to join her next week; but uncle's business is still a little uncertain, so it may not be till the week after. She has sent me five pounds to get myself a few new things. Kind of her, isn't it?"
"O, you lucky girl!" exclaims Molly. "How I wish someone would give me five pounds to rig myself out with!"
"You will beearningas many soon, Molly, and that will be better," says Doris with a little flush. "If I were not such a poor useless creature I might be at home doing something too, instead of going away from everybody for ages!" and to everyone's surprise the girl suddenly bursts into tears.
The general consternation caused by this unexpected end to the conversation does not prevent plenty of loving sympathy being shown towards Doris. Poor little light-hearted Doris! who, though overwhelmed with joy at first at the prospect of travelling, now discovers down in the depths of her soft little heart a feeling which amounts to nothing less than dismay, now that she is brought face to face with the fact that before many more days have passed over her head she will have to say good-bye to the mother, sisters, and brothers from whom she has never before been separated beyond a week or two.
Molly comes to the rescue presently with one of her short, practical remarks, having first suppressed Dick, whom she—not Doris fortunately—has heard to mutter something to the effect that his sister "is fretting because she will never see her 'knight' again."
"Well now, cheer up, my girl," she says briskly. "Eighteen months or even a couple of years will slip round and carry you with them before you have time to look about; and just think what an awfully jolly time we shall all have when you come home again! Now," proceeding coolly to tuck up her frock and pin it behind her, "who's coming with me to help Becky clear away the dinner things and prevent her smashing them all? O, dear me, Dick, how you do worry!Dogo out; there's a good boy. Now, Honor, if you want to catch that next train you had better be off to dress. We will leave mother and Daisy to rest quietly together, and Doris will come with me, won't you?"
Thus running on she carries her sister off with her, and it is not long before plenty of laughter is heard from the regions of the kitchen, Becky having retired into the depths of the wood-cellar to black Honor's boots.
No. 3 Prospect Road, which is the address given in the advertisement, does not look a very flourishing sort of place in Honor's idea. There are a few little insignificant pictures in the window, chiefly water-colour and crayon drawings, very indifferently executed; a portrait of a severe-looking lady, half of it very dark, half restored presumably to its former state; some frames, looking rather the worse for wear; and a few artists' colours scattered about indiscriminately. Behind these a dirty-red curtain is drawn, giving a sort of private air to the interior of the shop.
Honor had expected to see some imposing studio, where perhaps photography was carried on also, and it is with a feeling of disappointment that she turns the handle of the door, after having looked once more at the advertisement to make sure she has made no mistake.
As the girl enters the shop, a fat little man emerges from behind some lumber which is piled up at the other end, and coming forward and rubbing his hands begins to talk very quickly, with a strong German accent. Gesticulating and chattering the whole time, Mr. Nathan (that being this gentleman's name) proceeds to show Honor some specimens of the painting on tin, which are certainly very pretty. Some, about a foot square, representing charming little winter scenes, consisting merely of a foreground of snow, innumerable firs, a frozen stream with a rustic bridge, a church, through the windows of which a comfortable-looking red light streams, and a background of peaky snow-clad hills. Others represent waterfalls, with the usual surroundings, and others are simple rustic scenes.
Now, Honor is quick enough to see that beyond the knowledge of preparing the tin for the application of the colours, there is no instruction needed at all; at least for herself, and in the course of conversation she is more than once led to suspect that she knows more about painting than Mr. Nathan himself. So she plainly tells the man that the two lessons mentioned in the advertisement will not be required in her case, and that if he will supply her with the tin, and tell her the secret of the preparation, that will be all she needs, finishing up with the inquiry of how many little pictures he expects her to do for the stated pound a week.
"I have everything else that I require," says Honor, anxious to conclude the bargain. "You will see by these that I know something about painting;" and with very pardonable pride she places before the astonished little man several sketches which her former master, who was no mean artist, had pronounced "excellent."
Mr. Nathan looks with supreme and undisguised astonishment first at the sketches and then at Honor. Then he pulls himself together, and with many "hums" and "haws" and waves of the hands he says, "But pardon me, my dear young lady, will you be so obliging as to look once again at my advertisement, which I fear you do not rightly comprehend?—or stay, I have a paper here;" and running his dirty, fat forefinger down one of the columns he at length stops and points out to Honor the words, "One pound a week may be earned," &c. &c. "You see, mees, it does not say I myself will give one pound. I give two lessons, one-and-six each; then my pupils paint the views, four, six, what they please, and I put them in my window and on my counter, so; then customers will come, and one will say 'I will buy this,' and another 'I will buy that.' And sometimes many are sold, and sometimes alsonone. It depends much"—with a little shrug—"on the merit of the painting, without doubt; and therefore, my dear young lady, yours would sell well,ve-rywell, I should say. The commission I charge is not much, and—" But here Honor, who begins to see through the old impostor, interrupts him, and moving towards the door says, "Thank you, I think it is useless to continue the conversation. I understood from your advertisement that you could offer employment for which you would give certain payment. But it seems to me," she adds with justifiable warmth, "that the onlycertainpart in the matter is the fact that your possible pupils would be payingyoufor the two lessons, which I notice are made rather a point of in the advertisement. Good-afternoon!" And poor Honor, trembling with suppressed indignation and disappointment, hurries out of the shop and is out of sight before the old man can recover from his astonishment. Thoroughly disgusted and discouraged by the result of her expedition to the town, poor Honor gets back to the station with all possible speed, and before long is safely ensconced in a corner of a third-class carriage, where, finding herself alone, she indulges in a good cry, which somewhat relieves her feelings; though she cannot, poor girl, forget the dreadful fact that the three shillings expended on her fare there and back have been utterly wasted and thrown away. She has dried her eyes again, and is trying, with her usual common sense, to reconcile herself to the loss, which cannot now be helped, when suddenly, just as the train is about to start, the door of the compartment is flung wide open, and a stout little elderly gentleman shoots past her right to the end of the seat opposite, while a good-natured-looking porter, who is standing on the step closing the door, says, touching his cap, "There weren't no time for the 'firsts,' sir; they be right at the other end." "Thank you, thank you," gasps the old gentleman, sitting up and straightening his hat, "this will do very nicely, very nicely indeed. Dear me, now, what a fortunate, I may say providential thing, that my brother was not with me! Why, bless my soul, if it's not Miss Honor!" And leaning forward Mr. Edward Talboys, for he it is, seizes the girl's two hands and shakes them up and down in such a kind, affectionate manner that Honor, still feeling a little hysterical, has hard work to keep her tears from rising again. "And now," says Mr. Ned, who, though he appears not to do so, notices the girl's pale cheeks and swollen eyelids—"now, you must tell me where you have been and what you have been doing. Wait a minute, I mean to have a guess. You have been, perhaps, to see your kind old friend Mrs. Horton? or perhaps that very excellent old gentleman Mr. Dobson—no, Hobson, who came down with you when you paid your first visit to the Rookery?" Honor smiles and shakes her head. "Then perhaps," says the old gentleman, with his head on one side, "you have been doing a little shopping?"
"No, not shopping, Mr. Talboys," says the girl with a tremulous voice; and then, longing for a little sympathy, she tells the whole history of the advertisement from beginning to end.
Mr. Ned works himself into a regular heat over the story, and for some time Honor scarcely knows which predominates—indignation at the man or pity for herself. First he is for taking the next train back again and giving Mr. Nathan "a good round piece of his mind," as he expresses it. Then he calms down a little, and shaking his head solemnly, says, "A hoax, my dear—nothing but a rascally hoax to extort money. You may see the advertisements every day in some form or another. The paper is full of them. Now, if only you had come and asked our advice about it. But dear me, how should a young girl like you know that there are such cheating rogues in the world!" Then, after a few more remarks of a similar character, Mr. Talboys leans back in his seat for a while quite lost in thought, and it is not until they are nearing the little station of Edendale that he rouses himself again.
He startles Honor, who has also been wrapped up in her own thoughts, by suddenly leaning forward and saying, "Now, can you find time, my dear, to run up to us to-morrow morning—any time, any time after breakfast that is convenient to yourself, you know? I am inclined to be interested in this painting on tin of which you have been telling me, and I should like to know more about it. I should like my brother Ben to hear something about it too. With his artistic taste, I am sure he will be deeply interested in the subject. Now, what time would you like to fix, Miss Honor,—shall we say eleven? Are youquitesure that will be convenient?" Honor satisfying Mr. Talboys on this point, they part outside the station gates; and while the old gentleman trots off to the village on some suddenly-remembered business, Honor, with a heart lightened and cheered by his kindness and sympathy, goes her way towards home.
On arriving at the Rosery the next morning Honor finds the two old gentlemen waiting in the garden to receive her, both in an unwonted state of excitement. For they have been arranging a little plot together, which they are burning to disclose (partially) when the right moment shall arrive.
Mr. Edward had gone home the evening before with his thoughts running on the tin painting, and pinning his brother Ben by the button-hole without loss of time he told him of a plan which he had thought of for Honor's benefit, and which only required discussion with him, Mr. Benjamin, to be carried into instant effect.
"And although I should still like to break Mr. Nathan's head with this stick," says Mr. Edward to his brother, and shaking the said stick menacingly, "I cannot help feeling grateful to the rogue, Ben, for having, as it were, paved the way for our helping Miss Honor, poor child, in a manner which cannot possibly hurt her feelings. That was a good thought of yours, Ben, a capital thought, about Spaull the picture-dealer. If this tin painting is to come into vogue for a time—and I suppose it will from what Miss Honor said—he will be just the man to place the paintings with; and of course we must bind him over to strict secrecy as to our part in the business, eh, Ben?" and Mr. Ned nudges his brother playfully with his stick.
"Yes," answers Mr. Benjamin, nodding and smiling.
"Why, bless me," adds Mr. Ned, "we shall have to do quite a nice little piece of acting. But here comes Miss Honor. Now we shall see what she says to our plan. Mind you must be very careful, Ben, not to let the cat out of the bag—you run on at such a rate sometimes, you know; and it would never do for her to think we were paying for the paintings in the first instance, though of course it will be quite the same to us when Spaull refunds the money." And here they trot forward to open the gate for Honor, who has just reached it.
After inquiring rather breathlessly as to the welfare of the roses at the Rookery, and Molly's real, honest opinion about them, they dash straight into the subject of the painting.
"We have been talking it all over, Brother Ben and I, and it seems to us that with your gift for painting, my dear, you might make a very nice thing of this. Now, we happen to know a man in the picture-dealing trade, a Mr. Spaull, a most respectable man, who would be just the very person to suit our purpose; and what we propose—"
"Yes, what we propose," repeats Mr. Ben, nodding at Honor.
"Is," resumes Mr. Ned, "that you shall paint so many pictures, varying in size and style perhaps, for a fixed price, which will be paid—be paid by—by—"
"By theparty," says Mr. Ben, frowning a little at his brother.
"Exactly—by the party," repeats Mr. Ned.
"Mr. Spaull," quietly suggests Honor with a smile.
"Just so, just so—Mr. Spaull, of course!" cry both the brothers together. "Dear me, how very warm it is this morning!" continues Mr. Ned. "Did I say that this—er, thispersonwould pay for the pictures at once, on completion, you know? and sell them at his, that is to say, Mr. Spaull's convenience?" And Mr. Ned, concluding rather abruptly, looks helplessly towards his brother for encouragement.
"The fact is," remarks Mr. Ben, coming nobly to the rescue, "my brother is apt to become a little confused when speaking of this firm. There are partners—"
"Yes, yes; partners!" cries Mr. Ned delightedly. "Two partners!"
"Three," corrects Mr. Ben; "although only the one name, that of Spaull, appears. I think my brother wants you to go up to the town with him to-morrow, to the proper art shop there, where, he says, you can provide yourself with the necessary materials, and get what information you require respecting the preparation of the tin at the same time."
"Yes, that is exactly what I mean, my dear Miss Honor," says Mr. Ned, nodding approvingly at his brother. "And while you are seeing toyourbusiness,Iwill go and have a talk with Mr. Spaull. You see, I think it will be so much more pleasant if you transact your business with himthroughme, as it were. So what do you say to going with me to-morrow? When I say 'me,' of course I meanus. Brother Ben will like to give his opinion as well, I am sure, and we all know what a valuable one it is on a subject like this. Don't we, Ben?"
It is useless to try to describe poor Honor's delight and gratitude at this kind thought of her old friends. As they all go down the little drive together, she tries to say a few words of thanks, first to one, and then to the other; but the brothers have so much to say on their own account that she cannot get a word in edge-ways. When they reach the gate, Mr. Benjamin takes Honor's hand, and tapping Mr. Edward on the shoulder with his walking-stick, says:
"My brother here is taking such an active part in the management of this little affair, that I hope, my dear, you will allowmeto purchase for you all the materials which you are likely to require; merely as a set off against his part in the business, you know," he adds hastily, "for I can see plainly that he will become quite conceited if he haseverythinghis own way."
Honor, with her almost over-scrupulous objection to accepting anything which actually costs money, hesitates a moment, but she sees such a look of disappointment creeping over the old man's countenance that she quickly changes her mind, and thanks him for his kindness with such a beaming face as to effectually set at rest any fears he may have had at first of having offended her.
As Honor walks home she takes herself to task about what some people have called herfaultof independence.
"I wonder whether Idocarry it too far sometimes," she says to herself. "Mother and Molly say I do, and Molly at any rate has a very fair amount of independence inhercomposition. I suppose if shown too much it amounts to ungraciousness, as I know it did with dear Mr. Ben just now, though I do hope I made up for it afterwards. Yes, I suppose I overdo it sometimes; and I know Dr. Sinclair thought so the other day, when he spoke so kindly of there being plenty of time for sending in his bill. IknowI answered him ungratefully, and as if we had ten thousand a year at least, when he knows just as well as I do, I daresay, that ten thousand pence is much nearer the mark. I felt what an idiot I had made of myself, with my nasty, false pride; for where in the world the poor man is to get his money from at allIcan't see, unless anything really comes of this painting and I can save up. Yes, it is all very well; but where, I wonder, would I have got the money for the tin and things, if good old Mr. Ben had not taken it upon himself to buy them. I am sure I am thankful enough now that he told me he would, especially after wasting those three shillings yesterday. O, dear me, I hope the Mr. Talboys know how grateful I am to them! I wonder what would have become of us all since we came here if it hadn't been for them. Ah, well! I must try and remember in future that real, proper independence is a perfectly different thing from the feeling which I know has been growing on me lately, and which I amsurenow is false pride. Aunt was quite right in what she said to me the other day; I am afraid I do not consider the feelings of others enough sometimes."
Therefore it comes about that Honor has a softened manner with her from this time. Not that it is in the girl's nature ever to be anything but gentle and kind to every one around her. But, nevertheless, there is asomethingdifferent now which causes her mother to say, "Ah, poor girl! anyone can see what a load is lifted from her shoulders, now that she has the prospect of making a little money."
And Doris says to Molly one day, "Honor is not so excruciatingly particular in the spending of a penny or so as she used to be, is she Molly? Poor old girl! I'm afraid the struggle to make the best of our poverty has been a hard one for her—-harder than we think, I expect, for she is not one tosaymuch, you know. She never talks openly about what she feels, as some people do."
"No," says Molly. "Honor's a little brick, there's no doubt about that; and it is plain to see that this painting, for which she is sure to be properly paid, is an immense relief to her mind."
It is now that the attic which the Horton boys had taken such pains to fit up, comes to be thoroughly appreciated.
Honor and the Mr. Talboys have paid their visits respectively to the ironmonger's (where Mr. Benjamin was with difficulty prevented from purchasing a whole roll of tin), to the art material shop, and to Mr. Spaull's the picture-dealer. To this last, however, Mr. Edward preferred going alone, telling his brother with a very palpable nod and wink that he is sure Miss Honor will like to have a look at the shops, and that it will save time, therefore, if they separate for a while.
Well supplied with everything she can possibly need, Honor now snatches every spare moment and spends it in the "studio," painting away with an energy which Doris and Molly declare takes their breath away. Sometimes Daisy sits up there, cosily curled up in the most comfortable arm-chair. But this does not happen very often, as the smell of the oils and turpentine turn the child faint.
Molly, however, who has taken to "reading herself up," as she calls it, is often up there, and may be found in her favourite attitude when particularly absorbed in anything—her elbows planted on the table, and her fingers buried in her hair.
Doris at this time is much taken up with needlework, her five pounds having been expended chiefly in materials for underclothing, boots and shoes, and other really necessary things for a prolonged visit abroad.
"I would far rather your aunt found you a little badly off as regards dresses or hats, than in linen and such things," said Mrs. Merivale sensibly. "Your aunt is a generous woman, and if she finds that her present has been wisely spent, I do not suppose she will let you suffer in the matter of dresses."
So between them all they had managed to cut out these garments, and Mrs. Merivale and Doris are busily engaged in making them, with occasional assistance from the others.
Doris, therefore, is often to be found upstairs also; and Honor and Molly, having suddenly awakened to the necessity of their sister being able upon her arrival on foreign shores to say a sentence or two in French without utterly disgracing herself, they form a sort of class, which Doris (under protest) is made to join.
"And for one whole mortal hour," said Doris, complaining to Hugh Horton afterwards, "did we sit like three noodles, hammering away at French conversation, Molly with a huge dictionary at her elbow, and both she and Honor pretending they liked it. You may imagine thatmyremarks were few and far between. They call it 'rubbing up' my French, you know; and I'm sure it is all labour thrown away, for all the rubbing up in the world, even with the best French polish, would never make me express myself decently in any language but my own. And to tell you the truth, Hugh," lowering her voice, "I am not always soveryconfident of doing that. It's dreadfully shocking, of course, but none the less true."
And so there is often quite an industrious party to be found up in the attic studio, with the windows wide open, letting in the sweet soft air, laden with the scent of the rich grass (so soon to fall beneath the scythe), and the multitudes of early summer flowers; and the girls feel that they are happier in their busy useful life, even though there are still crosses and trials for all to bear at times, than in former days, when living a life of luxury and ease. There is one never-to-be-forgotten sorrow which all share, however, and though some time has elapsed now since their kind and indulgent father passed away, his memory is still as fresh as ever in their young minds. It is, indeed, a common thing with them all, even still, to study what probably would have been his wishes in settling little matters concerning their own affairs, saying to themselves, "I wonder if father would have approved," or "I think that would have pleased father," showing, therefore, that the good influence of his gentle though firm training still remains with them.
The month of June goes on auspiciously both out-of-doors and in at the Rookery. Besides having brought the rose-trees to a state of perfection, which charms and delights the Mr. Talboys beyond measure, Molly has secured not only one, but two of the retired baker's daughters for music pupils. Indeed, Mrs. Hallam is so charmed with the progress that Violet and Lilian (who are really musical by nature) are making in the hands of their clever little instructress, that she, Molly, is promised the whole family (which is numerous) in succession so soon as each one becomes old enough.
To be sure, Violet and Lilian Hallam give poor Molly a good deal of trouble between them, their tempers being anything but sweet; but she is not a girl to brook the slightest disrespect or impertinence from anyone, much less from a child who is under her own control for the time being. The consequence is, that having found this out for themselves in their very first lesson, and discovered that their usual method of treating their governess is not practicable in Miss Merivale's case, they take it out of each other. On duet days especially they often actually come to blows, and on these occasions the music, it is to be feared, sometimes obtains scant attention; Molly's whole time being taken up in preventing the sisters from doing one another an injury.
Their mother they rule with a rod of iron. The head nurse, who has been with Mrs. Hallam since the birth of her first child, is in a chronic state of giving notice, though she is generally persuaded into staying on by her master and mistress, and yet the young rebels, though such termagants in a general way, have at heart warm and affectionate natures. Not one governess has ever been known to stay beyond the first quarter, so that Mrs. Hallam, coming suddenly into the room one day and seeing her daughters hanging round Molly, to whom they have taken an immense fancy, throws up her hands in amazement.
"I cannot think how you manage them so well, Miss Merivale! You never give way to them, and yet they always seem as docile as lambs with you, and they are so fond of you too! I never can get them to attend to a wordIsay. Their father is the only one in the house that can manage them."
Molly smiles, and while pinning on her hat mutters something about their mother being "too indulgent perhaps." She does not say what is really in her mind, however, that the very fact of her not giving way to her obstreperous pupils is probably the reason that they are better behaved with her than anyone else.
Besides the Hallams, Molly has one or two other pupils in prospect, so that before long she hopes to help very considerably with the household expenses. As it is, indeed, she contributes a nice little sum from time to time, her pride and delight being unbounded when, having completed her first course of lessons to Dolly Bolton, she brings home her first earnings and pours the little pile of money into Honor's lap.
Honor also is now making a steady little income every week by her painting on tin, which has become most popular, especially in the immediate neighbourhood. Besides the stipulated number of landscapes for Mr. Spaull, which are taken up at stated intervals by Mr. Edward Talboys with most elaborate care, Honor has a good many odd orders; for the old gentlemen were so charmed and delighted with the effect of the pretty little scenes that they immediately made a round of calls, with a view to showing their specimen to all their friends and perhaps getting some pupils for theirprotégé.
The time is now rapidly drawing near when Doris is to join her aunt in town, previous to their departure for the Continent.
The weather having taken a capricious fancy to be extremely hot, in fact more like late July or August than June, the girls sit out-of-doors a great deal with their work and their books.
Although no one speaks openly of it, there is a feeling with them all that Doris cannot be made too much of in these last few days before her long separation from them. Doris's pillow is often wet with the tears which she quietly sheds at night, when she thinks Honor is asleep, at the thought that to-morrow will bring her one day nearer to the parting she so much dreads.
Time marches on, however, in his inexorable fashion, and the last day having really come, all go about their work with an elaborately indifferent air, each one making heroic efforts to keep up for the others' sake. The whole family (with the exception of Mrs. Merivale, who has taken leave of her daughter at home quietly) is now standing by the door of a third-class compartment in the London train, in which Doris, surrounded by small packages, is standing up, with tear-bestreamed face, a large smut on her forehead, and a general limpness which extends itself to the handkerchief in her hand, which just now is doing double duty as it were, as are those of all the others.
Doris has been kissed by each one in turn several times, and the usual last questions have been asked and answered, and now the guard comes along with his key, and having locked the door quietly moves them all back a little; with no lasting result, however, for they are all crowding round again the moment he is gone.
"Are yousure," says Honor with a trembling voice, "that you have got everything?"
"O yes,everything!" answers Doris with a gasp of despair.
Honor looks round incredulously, for each one has been carrying to the station a bag, basket, or something belonging to her sister, and as her careful eye travels round she suddenly pounces on Molly, who is discovered still clinging desperately to Doris's umbrella, her thoughts being entirely taken up with the direful fact that the dreaded moment has indeed arrived at last! The umbrella is handed in through the window, and kissing being now rather a daring thing to attempt after the stentorian "Stand away there!" of the guard, Honor and Molly are reaching up their hands for a final squeeze, when Doris, first feeling wildly in the little pocket of her jacket, then diving after her purse, exclaims:
"Good gracious! my ticket; who's got it? I haven't!"
In the excitement of the search Doris overturns her little luncheon basket, and, oblivious of the fact that the cork of her travelling flask has come out, and the milk it contains is quietly spreading itself out on the cushion until it comes to a little ridge in the leather, where it collects in a nice little pool, she leans distractedly out of the window to see the result of the hurried search which they are all making in all sorts of impossible places.
But at this critical moment, and just as the guard is about to blow his whistle, Dick, who has strolled off to look at the advertisements, appears on the scene, and Honor, suddenly remembering that she had intrusted him with the money for the ticket when first they arrived at the station, rushes at him and grasps his arm wildly.
"The ticket!" she gasps; "you've forgotten to take the ticket!"
"I haven't," returns Dick, much injured. "I thought I gave it to you. Oh, here it is; better late than never!" and with supreme indifference at the anxiety depicted on every face he hands it up to Doris, and at the same moment the train moves.
They all run along beside it for a second or two, but its pace soon gets beyond theirs, and they are left disconsolately on the platform, waving their hands to a white handkerchief which is fluttering from one of the windows, and is literally all of Doris that is now to be seen.
* * * * * * * * *
That same afternoon Hugh Horton runs down to bid them all farewell before leaving for Ireland the next day. He is naturally not in the best of spirits, and looks so gloomy and melancholy while reminding Molly of her promise regarding the slippers, that that young lady tells him plainly that if he cannot look a little more cheerful over it he shall not have them at all.
"Don't be unkind, Molly," remonstrates Honor.
"I'm not," replies the girl, reddening; "besides he is not going to Kamtchatka. I said I would make them if he went there, or to some other outlandish place."
"It does not matter, Molly,whereone goes particularly, when leaving all one loves behind;" and Hugh sighs heavily. "It would be just as painful to me to take up my quarters in the next village merely, if I knew for certain that I should not see my mother or—or any of you for some long time to come."
Molly looks a little abashed.
"But you will have leave," she says.
"O yes, of course I shall have leave; but not very often, I suppose."
"You must write to us as often as you can," says Mrs. Merivale kindly. "You know I take just as much interest in all you boys as if you were my own."
Molly strolls down to the gate with Hugh when he has taken leave of all the others; but he is very silent, and she, thinking that perhaps she has hurt his sensitive feelings with some of her random talk, is silent also.
In a minute or two Hugh rouses himself, however, and says:
"Molly, I have never told you how awfully glad I am that you are all getting on so much better now, as to funds and all that sort of thing, you know. I do think you have all shown yourselves such good girls in having met your misfortunes so bravely; and I cannot tell you how glad I feel that you have all had your reward, and have a little more peace and comfort now than you had. Mother is always talking about you all, and saying how much she admires the spirit and unselfishness with which you turned to and made the best of everything."
"I'mnot unselfish!" cries Molly, looking surprised. "Why, I'd take a footstool or an easy-chair from anybody! It's no use saying I don't care about being comfortable, because Ido!"
Hugh takes no notice of this interruption, but goes on as if nothing had been said.
"Yes, we were talking about you last night, mother and I, and what do you think she said about you, Molly, particularly?"
Molly shakes her head.
"I don't know," she says.
"She told me she considered that you had had quite as much to do with influencing me for good as she had. I told her of some of your lectures too, and she says you are a right-minded, good girl, and she admires you for what she calls your 'spirit' in taking me to task as you did."
Molly blushes up to the roots of her chestnut curls at this praise from one whose opinion is to be valued.
"Did you tell her about thedust?" she inquires.
"Of course I did!" replies Hugh, laughing, "and she enjoyed the story immensely. And now, Molly, you will write to me while I'm away, won't you? You can lecture and blow me up as much as you like, only let me go away thinking that my little mentor will still take the same interest in scapegrace Hugh that she has hitherto."
"Yes, I will, Hugh; here's my hand upon it. Of course it is all nonsense," she adds suddenly; "but if—if I have really been of any use in—in urging you on, you know, I amveryglad. And now, would you like me to tell you a secret? Well, the slippers are more than half done already! Good-bye; be a good boy!" and without waiting for another word she runs back to the house, never stopping till she has reached the steps, when she turns round and waves her hand with rather a feeble smile.
She is notquitesure whether it is Hugh still standing where she left him, or whether it is only the gate-post, for there are two large tears trickling down the now saddened and softened face of plain-speaking little Molly, which seriously obstruct her vision.
There is quite a feeling of desolation all through the house after this second departure, for although not actually one of themselves, Hugh and his brothers have so often been down to see them that he is missed as much as if he were almost.
In a few days Doris's first letter arrives, and they are all relieved to find that she is less home-sick than might have been expected. Their own spirits rise in proportion therefore.
Part of Doris's letter runs thus:—
"We had a bad passage across, at least so aunt says. I didn't feel it a bit though. Uncle disappeared mysteriously, and as he looked rather pale when he reappeared on our reaching Calais, I strongly suspected he was not very flourishing either. I have made a grand discovery, however, through this bad weather. Nothing more nor less than the reason why aunt will never take off her bonnet unless she has a cap at hand to put on immediately. Aunt, I must tell you, very soon expressed her intention of going down into the cabin, so I went with her and made her as comfortable as circumstances would permit. It was such a dreadfully close, stuffy atmosphere that I was thankful to get up into the air again. After a time I thought I ought to go down and see how poor aunty was getting on; so after a good deal of stumbling and floundering (for the boat was rolling very much) I at last managed to get down, and there I found her in a truly pitiable state. She had been dreadfully ill, but so it seems had been nearly all the other people, and I suppose the stewardess could not pay much attention to so many, for I found aunt in a miserable state, half on and half off the sofa, and looking as pale as death. 'O, Doris child!' she gasped faintly, 'if ever I get out of this boat alive I will never go into another, if I have to live all my life in France!' Well, I raised her up and placed her a little more comfortably, and in doing this her bonnet fell off, and—you girls won't believe me, perhaps, but I daresay mother knows—there, as plain to see as anything, was a little bald patch, about as big as half-a-crown, on the top of her head! Poor aunt! she was in far too great misery to think about such trifles then, and only told me to put her feet a little higher and to bring her smelling-bottle. But I shallalwaysthink of it whenever anyone asks her to take her bonnet off! By the by, aunt says she knows Mr. Ferrars quite well. She calls him 'A very estimable young man!' Howdreadful! She says, too, we may meet him somewhere or other abroad. He told her he was going to 'knock about a little' on the Continent. The expression did not come spontaneously from aunt; I dragged it out of her, under protest! I wonder if weshallsee him!"
Mrs. Merivale folds up the letter. "I wonder if they will!" she says.