CHAPTER X.
“I TRUST THEM TO YOU, MERLE.”
ith the early summer came a new anxiety; Joyce was growing very fast, and, like other children of her age, looked thin and delicate. She lost her appetite, grew captious and irritable, had crying fits if she were contradicted, and tired of all her playthings. It was hard work to amuse her; and as Reggie was rather fretful with the heat, I found my charge decidedly onerous, especially as it was the height of the season, and Mrs. Morton’s daily visits to the nursery barely lasted ten minutes.
Dr. Myrtle was called in and recommended change for both the children. There was a want of tone about Joyce: she was growing too fast, and there was slight irritability of the brain, a not uncommon thing, he remarked, with nervous, delicately organised children.
He recommended sea air and bathing. She must be out on the shore all day, and run wild. Fresh air, new milk, and country diet would be her best medicine; and, as Dr. Myrtle was an oracle in our household, Mr. Morton at once decided that his advice must be followed.
There was a long, anxious deliberation between the parents, and the next morning I was summoned to Mrs. Morton’s dressing-room. I found her lying on the couch; the blinds were lowered, and the smelling salts were in her hand. She said at once that she had had a restless night, and had one of her bad headaches. I thought she looked wretchedly ill, and, for the first time, the fear crossed me that her life was killing her by inches. Hers was not a robust constitution, and, like Joyce, she was most delicately organised. Late hours and excitement are fatal to these nervous constitutions, if only I dared hint at this to Dr. Myrtle, but I felt, in my position, it would be an act of presumption. She would not let me speak of herself; at my first word of sympathy she stopped me.
“Never mind about me, I am used to these headaches; sit down a moment; I want to speak to you about the children. Dr. Myrtle has made us very anxious about Joyce; he says she must have change at once.”
“He said the same to me, Mrs. Morton.”
“My husband and I have talked the matter over; if I could only go with you and the children—but no, it is impossible. How could I leave just now, when our ball is coming off on the eighteenth, and we have two dinners as well? Besides, I could not leave my husband; he is far from well. This late session tries him dreadfully. I have never left him yet, not even for a day.”
“And yet you require the change as much as the children.” I could not help saying this, but she took no notice of my remark.
“We have decided to send them to my father’s. Do you know Netherton, Merle? It is a pretty village about a mile from Orton-on-Sea. Netherton is by the sea, and the air is nearly as fine as Orton. Marshlands, that is my father’s place, is about half a mile from the shore.”
I heard this with some trepidation. In my secret heart I had hoped that we should have taken lodgings at some watering-place, and I thought, with Hannah’s help, I should have got on nicely; but to go amongst strangers! I was perfectly unaware of Mr. Morton’s horror of lodgings, and it would have seemed absurd to him to take a house just for me and the children.
“I have written to my sister, Merle,” she continued, “to make all arrangements. My father never interferes in domestic matters. I have told her that I hold you responsible for my children, and that you will have the sole charge of them. I laid a stress on this, because I know my sister’s ideas of management differ entirely from mine. I can trust you as I trust myself, Merle, and it is my wish to secure you from interference of any kind.” It was nice to hear this, but her speech made me a little nervous; she evidently dreaded interference for me.
“Is your sister younger than yourself?” I faltered.
“I have two sisters,” she returned, quickly; “Gay is much younger; she was not grown up when I married; my eldest sister, Mrs. Markham, was then in India. Two years ago she came back a widow, with her only remaining child, and at my father’s request remained with him to manage his household. Domestic matters were not either in his or Gay’s line, and Mrs. Markham is one who loves to rule.”
I confess this slight sketch of Mrs. Markham did not impress me in her favour. I conceived the idea of a masculine, bustling woman, very different to my beloved mistress. I could not well express these sentiments, but I think Mrs. Morton must have read them in my face.
“I am going to be very frank with you, Merle,” she said, after a moment’s thought, “and I do not think I shall repent my confidence. I know my sister Adelaide’s faults. She has had many troubles with which to contend in her married life, and they have made her a little hard. She lost two dear little girls in India, and, as Rolf is her only child, she spoils him dreadfully; in fact, young as he is, he has completely mastered her. He is a very delicate, wilful child, and needs firm management; in spite of his faults he is a dear little fellow, and I am very sorry for Rolf.”
“Will he be with us in the nursery?” I asked, anxiously.
“No, indeed: Rolf is always with his mother in the drawing-room, to the no small discomfort of his mother’s visitors. Sometimes he is with her maid Judson, but that is only when even Mrs. Markham finds him unbearable. A spoilt child is greatly to be pitied, Merle; he has his own way nine times out of ten, and on the tenth he meets with undesirable severity. Adelaide either will not punish him at all, or punishes him too severely. Children suffer as much from their parent’s temper as from over-indulgence.”
“I am afraid Rolf’s example will be bad for Joyce.”
“That is my fear,” she replied, with a sigh. “I wish the children could be kept apart, but Rolf will have his own way in that. There is one thing of which I must warn you, Merle. Mrs. Markham may be disposed to interfere in your department; remember, you are responsible to me and not to her. I look to you to follow my rules and wishes with regard to my children.”
“Oh, Mrs. Morton,” I burst out, “you are putting me in a very difficult position. If any unpleasantness should arise, I cannot refer to you. How am I to help it if Mrs. Markham interferes with the children?”
“You must be firm, Merle; you must act in any difficulty in the way you think will please me. Be true to me, and you may be sure I shall listen to no idle complaints of you. I wish I had not to say all this; it is very painful to hint this of a sister, but Mrs. Markham is not always judicious with regard to children.”
“Will it be good for them to go to Netherton under these circumstances?”
“There is nowhere else where they can go,” she returned, rather sadly; “my husband has such a horror of lodgings, and he will not take a house for us this year—he thinks it an unnecessary expense, as later on we are going to Scotland that he may have some shooting. All the doctors speak so well of Netherton; the air is very fine and bracing, and my father’s garden will be a Paradise to the children.”
We were interrupted here by Mr. Morton.
“Oh, are you there, Miss Fenton?” he said, pleasantly (he so often called me Miss Fenton now); “I was just in search of you. Violet, your sister has telegraphed as you wished, and the rooms will be quite ready for the children to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” I gasped.
“Yes,” he returned, in his quick, decided voice; “you and Hannah will have plenty of work to-day. You are looking pale, Miss Fenton; sea air will be good for you as well as Joyce. I do not like people to grow pale in my service.”
“I have been telling Merle,” observed his wife, anxiously, “that she is to have the sole responsibility of our children. Adelaide must not interfere, must she, Alick?”
“Of course not,” with a frown. “My dear Violet, we all know what your sister’s management means; Rolf is a fine little fellow, but she is utterly ruining him. Remember, Miss Fenton, no unwholesome sweets and delicacies for the children; you know our rules. She may stuff her own boy if she likes, but not my children,” and with this he dismissed me, and sat down beside his wife with some open letters in his hand.
I returned to the nursery with a heavy heart. How little we know as we open our eyes on the new day, what that day’s work may bring us! I think one’s waking prayer should be, “Lead me in a plain path because of mine enemies.”
I was utterly cast down and disheartened at the thought of leaving my mistress. The responsibility terrified me. I should be at the tender mercies of strangers, who would not recognise my position. Ah! I had got to the Hill Difficulty at last, and yet surely the confidence reposed in me ought to have made me glad. “I trust you as myself.” Were not those sweet words to hear from my mistress’s lips? Well, I was only a girl. Human nature, and especially girl nature, is subject to hot and cold fits. At one moment we are star-gazing, and the majesty of the universe, with its undeviating laws, seems to lift us out of ourselves with admiration and wonder; and the next hour we are grovelling in the dust, and the grasshopper is a burthen, and we see nothing save the hard stones of the highway and the walls that shut us in on every side. “Lead us in a plain path.” Oh, that is just what we want; a Divine Hand to lift us up and clear the dust from our eyes, and to lead us on as little children are led.
These salutary thoughts checked my nervous fears and restored calmness. I remembered a passage that Aunt Agatha had once read to me—a quotation from a favourite book of hers; I had copied it out for myself.
“Do as the little children do—little children who with one hand hold fast by their father, and with the other gather strawberries or blackberries along the hedges. Do you, while gathering and managing the goods of this world with one hand, with the other always hold fast the hand of your heavenly Father, turning to Him from time to time to see if your actions or occupations are pleasing to Him; but take care, above all things, that you never let go His hand, thinking to gather more, for, should He let you go, you will not be able to take another step without falling.”
Just then Hannah came to me for the day’s orders, and I told her as briefly as possible of the plans for the morrow. To my astonishment, directly I mentioned Netherton, she turned very red, and uttered an exclamation.
“Netherton—we are to go to Netherton—Squire Cheriton’s place! Why, miss, it is not more than a mile and a half from there to Dorlecote and Wheeler’s Farm.”
“Do you mean the farm where your father and your sister Molly live?” I returned, quite taken aback at this, for the girl’s eyes were sparkling, and she seemed almost beside herself with joy. “Truly it is an ill wind that blows no one any good.”
“Yes, indeed, miss, you have told me a piece of good news. I was just thinking of asking mistress for a week’s holiday, only Master Reggie seemed so fretful and Miss Joyce so weakly, that I hardly knew how I could be spared without putting too much work upon you; but now I shall be near them all for a month or more. Molly had been writing to me the other day to tell me that they were longing for a sight of me.”
“I am very glad for your sake, Hannah, that we shall be so near your old home; but now we must see to the children’s things, and I must get Rhoda to send a note to the laundress. I had put a stop to the conversation purposely, for I wanted to know my mistress’s opinion before I encouraged Hannah in speaking about her own people. How did I know what Mrs. Morton would wish? I took the opportunity of speaking to her when she came up to the nursery in the course of the evening. Hannah was still packing, and I was collecting some of the children’s toys. Mrs. Morton listened to me with great attention; I thought she seemed interested.
“Of course I know Wheeler’s Farm,” she replied at once; “Michael Sowerby, Hannah’s father, is a very respectable man; indeed, they are all most respectable, and I know Mrs. Garnett thinks highly of them. I shall have no objection to my children visiting the farm if you think proper to take them, Merle; but of course they will go nowhere without you. If you can spare Hannah for a day now and then I should be glad for her to have the holiday, for she is a good girl, and has always done her duty.”
“I will willingly spare her,” was my answer, for Hannah’s sweet temper and obliging ways had made me her friend. “I was only anxious to know your wishes on this point, in case my conduct or Hannah’s should be questioned.”
“You are nervous about going to Netherton, Merle,” she returned, at once, looking at me more keenly than usual. “You are quite pale this evening. Put down those toys; Hannah can pack them, with Rhoda’s help; I will not have you tire yourself any more to-night.”
“I am not tired,” I faltered, but the foolish tears rushed to my eyes. Did she have an idea, I wonder, how hard I felt it would be to leave her the next day. As the thought passed through my mind she took the chair beside me.
“The carriage has not come yet, Anderson will let me know when my husband is ready for me; we shall have time for a talk. You are a little down-hearted to-night, Merle; you are dreading leaving us to-morrow.”
“I am sorry to leave you,” I returned, and now I could not keep the tears back.
“I shall miss you, too,” she replied, kindly; “I am getting to know you so well, Merle. I think we understand each other, and then I am so grateful to you for loving my children; no one has ever been so good to them before.”
“I am only doing my duty to them and you.”
“Perhaps so; but then how few do their duty? How few try to act up to so high a standard. I am dull myself to-night, Merle. No one knows how I feel parting with my children; I try not to indulge in nervous fancies, but I cannot feel happy and at rest when they are away from me.”
“It is very hard for you,” was my answer to this.
“It is not quite so hard this time,” she returned, hastily; “I feel they will be safe with you, Merle, that you will watch over them as though they were your own. I know you will justify my trust.”
“You may be assured that I will do my best for them.”
“I know that,” returned my mistress, gently. “You will write to me, will you not, and give me full particulars about my darlings. I think you will like Marshlands; my sister Gay is very bright and winning, and my father is always kind.”
“Mrs. Markham?” I stammered.
“Oh, my sister Adelaide; she will be too much occupied with her own boy and her own affairs to trouble you much. If you are in any difficulty write to me and I will help you. Now I must say good-night. Have I done you any good, Merle? Have the fears lessened?”
“You always do me good,” I answered, gratefully, as she put out her slim hand to me; and, indeed, her few sympathising words had lifted a little of the weight. When she had left the nursery I sat down and wrote a long letter to Aunt Agatha, bidding her good-bye, and speaking cheerfully of our intended flitting. When the next day came I woke far more cheerful. The bright sunshine, Joyce’s excitement, and Hannah’s happy looks stimulated me to courage. There was little time for thought, for there was still much to be done before the carriage came round for us. Mrs. Morton accompanied us to the station, and did not quit the platform until our train moved off.
“Remember, Merle, I trust them to you,” were her last words before we left her there alone in the summer sunshine.
(To be continued.)
