THE INVITATION.
HAT a pleasant sight it was to see Madge's face, when Raymond was able to sit up. It was still quiet and calm, but there was a deep gladness in it that was beautiful; and the thoughtful care for her brother, the way in which every wish or desire of his was forestalled, showed plainly that her love had rather been increased than diminished by that long nursing. She made allowance for all the fretfulness of convalescence, which is so prevalent after severe illness—especially in men or boys, who feel the depression of extreme weakness peculiarly trying—and was always patient and bright. One day Raymond, after watching her for some minutes gliding about the room and making things comfortable for him, said to her, "Madge, which is the best life, yours or mine?"
"Mine at present; and yours is going to be," she answered, with her own quiet smile.
"I've begun to doubt that. Do you know, I've nearly come to the conclusion that I would change with you, and that your unselfish life is more noble than all the fame and glory I could heap together."
Madge stopped in her work, and looking earnestly at her brother, replied,—
"If that fame and glory is the only object of your life, Raymond, it is not what I thought and hoped it was going to be."
"What do you mean?" he asked, half laughing at her gravity.
"I can't put it as plainly as I want to do; but, Raymond, I mean that your painting will not be only for your own glory, if you use it rightly."
Raymond was silent, and his face became very thoughtful. "Madge," he said presently, "I don't want that arrowroot. Come over here."
"Wait one moment, dear. I know my duty as nurse better than that. If I leave this too long it will get quite thin, and then you will call it 'horrid stuff,' and not taste it."
Raymond laughed. "You are getting quite tyrannical, Madge. You take an unfair advantage of my weakness."
"I must make the most of my brief authority," she answered merrily; and in another minute she had brought the little tray to his side. "Now what is it, Raymond?"
"Well, Madge, I've been thinking a great deal, and I've come to the conclusion that it's right for me to go to the shop. I can't rise to fame in painting without some teaching, and I can't get that, and I must earn money for you."
"But, Raymond, that picture is sold. You know Mr. Smith brought the money the other day. Why should not others be sold also?"
"And what are you to do meantime, little woman?"
Madge was amused at the grave elder-brother tone, and answered, "As I have done before. But let us consult Mr. Smith."
"Very well; but he can't know both sides of the question. Nobody but an artist could understand what it is to me to give up painting—not even you, Madge."
Now Mr. Smith had charged Madge to keep it a strict secret from Raymond that he was an artist. He wished to watch him quietly, for there was a little scheme of benevolence in the good man's head, which he wanted to carry out if possible. Many a time had Madge found herself on the point of telling Raymond about the sitting, and Mr. Smith's studio, and the lovely pictures about it; but she kept her counsel bravely, and had her reward. Raymond often questioned her as to how she had made acquaintance with Mr. Smith, but she always told him it was through Mr. Jeffery, and turned the conversation; and by degrees his curiosity abated, he became content to receive him as an old friend, and learned to look forward to his visits as one of his greatest treats.
But with this secret in her possession, it was hardly to be wondered at that Madge smiled when Raymond deplored Mr. Smith's probable want of sympathy in his favourite pursuit; but she only said, "He must have some taste for painting, or he would not have bought your picture."
"You little flatterer! he probably did that because he had a fancy for you."
At this moment Mrs. Smiley entered the room. She was the bearer of a letter which had just been left by the postman.
It bore a foreign post-mark, and the children knew that it was their father's hand-writing. It contained but a few lines, evidently written in haste.
"My Dear Children,—I have got an appointment abroad, which will detain me for a long time,—for how long I cannot say. I wish I could have you with me—but this is impossible. I send you £5. It is all I can do at present. Raymond must give up his dabbling, and set to work like a man. I hope you will get on well. I shall see you some day.
—Your affectionate father, Raymond Leicester."
And this was all! They had looked forward to his coming home. They had watched for him day by day. In Raymond's heart there was a strange yearning to see the face of his only living parent; to know if he would be glad that he had been restored, when he was so near death; and these few hurried words were all! They read them through several times. Then Madge clasped her hands, and hid her face with a low cry.
"Don't, Madge, don't," said Raymond, though his own voice was trembling with emotion. "I cannot bear to see you like that."
"O Raymond, will he never come back?"
"Yes; don't you see he says that he will, some day. Meanwhile, we will do our best."
"You will never leave me, Raymond?"
"Never, if I can help it," he said, laying his long thin fingers on her hair.
"Poor father! Raymond, I did want to see him so much."
"So did I."
They did not speak much more. For some time they only sat holding each other's hands, and thinking mournfully of the future. Everything seemed very dark and gloomy that evening, both within and without. A heavy rain was falling, and the sight of wet roofs and chimney-pots gleaming in the twilight is never very enlivening. Raymond at last gave a long, deep sigh, at the sound of which Madge started up.
"That won't do, Raymond. I'm forgetting my duty as nurse, and it is very bad for a patient to get vapourish! Oh, here's Mr. Smith!"
He came in, in his own pleasant, friendly way, but his quick eye soon discovered that something was wrong, for Madge's quiet little face was troubled, and Raymond looked tired and moody.
Mr. Smith sat down, and began in a lively tone,—"Well, Raymond, my boy, how have things gone to-day? are you any stronger?"
"Not much, sir," he answered mournfully.
"And I don't expect you will be, while you are up here. You want change of air to set you up."
"I must get well as soon as possible," he said, with a very determined look.
"You must not be in too great a hurry. People want a great deal of patching up after an illness like yours."
"I must be at work!" said Raymond.
"Yes, when you are well. What is the cause of this extreme impatience? You were quite content yesterday to lie back in your chair and let Madge nurse you and pet you to her heart's content."
Raymond answered by holding out his father's letter. Mr. Smith read it silently. He made no remark when he had finished it, but handed it back to the boy.
"And now, sir, what are we to do?"
"Get well and strong, my dear boy, in the first place."
"But about the shop, sir? My father said the place was ready, and I could take it."
"You are not fit for it at present."
"At present!" Then Mr. Smith thought he ought to go when he was well! The thought was very bitter, and Raymond bent his head in his hands, and tears came dropping one by one through his fingers. They came from his extreme weakness, and he was very much ashamed of them, so much ashamed that he did not look up until he had banished them. Then Mr. Smith spoke:—
"Little Madge, do you think Raymond is well enough to have a change?"
"There is no place for him to go to, sir," she answered, while there was a quick throb of pain in her heart at the thought of being separated from him.
"I have a country-house in the Isle of Wight. Will you both come and pay me a visit there, and see my little daughter Lilian?"
Madge's face lit up instantly. "Raymond, do you hear? The country—the country—and the beautiful sea—and you will get strong there!"
"But I don't know how we could do it, sir?" said Raymond doubtfully, but in a tone of gladness which showed how much he liked the proposition.
"You must let me be your father for the time, and I will see to it all," replied Mr. Smith kindly. "Mrs. Nurse, don't you think it would be the best thing possible for your patient?"
"Oh, yes," she answered gladly.
"Then you must be ready by the end of next week," said Mr. Smith; "and consider that it is a settled thing. Lilian will be in such delight."
