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 is very strange,” 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, she was so kind; whether she’s spoilt or not, whatever she is, I shall always say she is very, very kind.”
“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 of my state 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 what will become of it, but what should. 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 of him, 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.