TOM FULLER RETURNS.
The next day Elsie was still stronger and better. She consented to lie in bed all the morning, making it a condition that she might get up and be carried downstairs to pass the evening.
"That is the dreariest time," she said; "it drags on so heavily."
Mellen promised her, and she was childishly happy.
"You shall have an early dinner, Grant, and then we'll take tea in the evening, and eat toast and jam just as we did when I was a child."
"Yes, that will be very comfortable."
He had tried to say pleasant, but he could not speak the word. The day was so warm and bright that a little after noon he took her out for a short drive, then she lay down to rest again, resolved to be strong and pass the evening below. The change was pleasant to her—she felt quite elated, as she always was in health, at the idea of amusement.
They got through the day rather quietly, and Elsie did not have a single relapse of her nervous tremors.
When she awoke from her afternoon nap it was growing dark. She cried out quite joyfully when she saw Grantley sitting by the bed:
"It is almost evening at last!"
At that moment Victoria appeared at the door.
"Come in," Mellen said; "what do you want?"
Victoria entered on tip-toe, though she knew plainly enough that her young mistress was awake, and whispered in the doleful semitone she reserved for sick rooms:
"If you please, Mister Fuller's just arrived, and he's a asking after all of you in a breath."
Elsie started up on her pillows, and the brother and sister looked at each other in blank dismay when they thought of the blow that must be inflicted upon the warm, honest heart of Elizabeth's cousin.
"Go and say that we will be down," said Elsie, recovering her presence of mind.
Victoria departed, and Grantley cried out passionately:
"How can I tell him? Poor Tom, he will nearly die."
"You must not tell him yet," said Elsie, "not one word—just say Bessie is absent."
"Such prevarication is useless, Elsie, he must know the truth."
Elsie began to cry.
"There, you are contradicting me already. I won't go down—I shall be sick again—my head swims now."
"Don't distress yourself, dear, don't."
"Then let me have my own way," she pleaded.
"What do you wish? Anything to content you."
"That's a good brother," said Elsie. "Go down and merely tell Tom I have been very sick, and that Bessie has gone to New York—anywhere—not a word more."
"But he will wonder at her absence during your illness."
"No, he never wonders; it doesn't make any difference."
"I detest these white lies, Elsie."
"Oh, well, if you want to kill me with a scene, go and tell Tom," she exclaimed, throwing herself back on her pillows; "I shall be worried to death at last."
Mellen was anxious to soothe her, and against his judgment submitted.
"I'll go, darling; I'll go."
"Good Grant; kind brother! Send Victoria to me; I will be all dressed when you come back."
Mellen went out and called the servant, then he passed downstairs, and in the hall met Tom, who rushed towards him, exclaiming:
"The woman says Elsie is very sick; is she better; what is it?"
"She is much better; don't be frightened; she will be downstairs in a few minutes."
"Thank God," muttered Tom, his face still white with fears that Victoria had aroused.
Mellen was too much preoccupied to notice his extreme agitation, or speculate upon its cause if he had observed it.
"I only got back this afternoon," said Tom, "and I hurried over here at once. How is Bessie?"
"She—she is not at home," faltered Mellen.
"Not at home and Elsie sick?"
"She was gone," said Mellen, "and I did not send for her."
Tom was too much troubled about Elsie to reflect long upon anything else, and directly Mellen broke from his eager questions, saying:
"Go into the library, Tom; I'll bring Elsie down."
He went upstairs, and knocked at his sister's door.
"You may come in," Elsie called out; "I am ready."
When he entered she was sitting up in an easy chair, wrapped in a pretty dressing-gown of pink merino, braided and trimmed after her own fanciful ideas, a white shawl thrown over her shoulders, the flossy hair shading her face, and looking altogether quite another creature.
For the first time since Elizabeth's departure, a feeling of relief loosened the oppression on Mellen's heart.
"You look so well again; God bless you, darling!"
"Of course I'm pretty!" she cried childishly, pointing to herself in the glass. "I shall make a nice little visitor."
"You will always be one, my sunbeam," he said.
She shivered a little at his words, but she would not permit herself to think, determined to have her old carelessness, her old peace back, if she could grasp it.
"How is Tom?" she asked.
"Dreadfully anxious about you, poor fellow."
"Did he ask for Bessie?"
"Yes—yes."
"But you said nothing?"
"No, Elsie; he knows nothing."
"That is right," she said; "I can tell him better than you. Be kind to him, Grant."
"Yes, dear; he saved your life; Tom is very dear to me; poor fellow."
"I am to be a visitor, remember," she said childishly; "You must not forget that."
"I will forget nothing that can give you pleasure, be certain of that," he answered, kindly.
"Now you shall lead me downstairs," she said.
"You must not walk; I will carry you."
"No, no; I am so heavy."
But he took her in his arms and carried her downstairs, as he had so often done in her childhood, while Victoria followed with cushions and shawls to make her perfectly comfortable.
"I am your baby again, Grant! Don't you remember how you used to carry me about?"
"Indeed I do; you are not much larger now."
"You saucy thing! I would pull your hair only I am afraid you would let me fall."
He carried her into the library and laid her on the sofa. Tom sprang forward with a cry of terror at the change his absence had made in her appearance, but a gesture from Mellen warned him that he must control his feelings lest his anxiety should agitate her.
"I am so glad to see you, Tom, so very glad," she said, clasping her delicate fingers about his hands, and so filling him with delight by her look and words that he could not even remember to be anxious.
"It has seemed an age to me since I went away," said Tom. "And you have been sick, little princess, and Bessie gone! that is strange."
"There, there," cried Elsie; "you must not talk about my appearance or sickness or anything else! Just tell me how pretty I look, and do nothing but amuse me."
"You seem like an angel of light," cried Tom, looking wistfully at her little hand, as if he longed to hide it away in his broad palm.
The fire burned cheerfully in the grate, the chandeliers were lighted, the tea-table spread, and everything done to make the room pleasant which could suggest itself to Dolf and Victoria, in their anxiety to please the young favorite.
"It is so pleasant," she said, with a sigh of relief; "so pleasant."
Then Victoria brought her a quantity of flowers Dolf had cut in the greenhouse, and she strewed the fragrant blossoms over her dress and wreathed them in her hair, making a beautiful picture of herself in her rich wrappings and delicate loveliness.
"Now we will have tea," she said, "bring all sorts of nice things, Victy."
"Yes, 'deed. I will, Miss! Clo she's ben a fixin' fur yer! Laws, it jis' makes my heart jump to see you up agin."
As the girl left the room Mellen said:
"How she loves you! Everybody does love you, Elsie."
"They must," she answered; "I should die if I were not petted. Oh, Grant, it's so nice here; don't you like it?"
"Yes, indeed; you make the old room bright again."
Her spirits had risen, she was really quite like her old self, and that without effort or pretence.
Then the tea was brought in, and she insisted on at least tasting everything on the table. Clo was well acquainted with her dainty ways, and the varieties of preserves and jellies she had brought out from her stores was marvellous.
Elsie fed Tom with bits of toast, made him eat everything he did not want, and beg for all that he did, and was so bright and peaceful that Mellen himself grew quiet from her influence.