"Well—some people sometimes—perhaps. Soft folks need a lot of bolstering up, and hard ones take a lot of knocking down. I've had most of the knocking down work. Not much of feather-beds or dainty pillows. And I've needed it, of course, or I shouldn't have had it. People aren't bothered without reason. My corners had to be scraped off, I suppose; and they're not all off yet," added the good lady, showing unusual self-knowledge. "That's why this has come, just when I thought I was settled for life. Nobody ought ever to think that, I do believe; for there's never any knowing what will come next. The Trevelyans haven't much softness about them; and you are a Trevelyan. You won't be tucked up on a feather-bed all your life. There's more to be got out of you than that."
"I hope so!"
"Anyhow, I'd sooner be the one to do things for other people, than be one of the logs that make things for others to do," said Madame Collier. "Till I'm old and ill, I mean. There's the whistle."
"Only for this train."
"And I believe it is mine, after all. Look at the clock. Well—too late now," resignedly. Then, reverting to a former remark, "No, I don't want you all the way down to Folkestone. What's the good? I've no notion of dragging out good-byes. When a leg has to be cut off, the sooner it's done, the better! There's one thing I want to say to you, Jean. About your father—"
"Yes."
"He isn't so young as he was. Only sixty, and that's not old. At least, it needn't be. A man with your father's constitution, who has lived as he has lived, needn't be old at seventy. But he ought to have common-sense, and not expect to do everything the same as he did at thirty. You needn't fancy things are wrong—only keep watch, and be reasonable for him, if he won't be reasonable for himself."
One of the inevitable changes, which come sooner or later to us all as life rolls on, had come to Jean Trevelyan, after years of a steady jog-trot in one groove.
Madame Collier had received an unexpected call to a new sphere of work. Her husband's only brother, M. Arnaud Collier, died suddenly, leaving a semi-invalid wife and nine children, with small means. The widow was weak and incapable, and the older children were boys, none over sixteen in age. An appeal for help, made to Madame Collier, met with a prompt response.
Why not? She was no longer a necessity at Dulveriford Rectory; her work there might be looked upon as accomplished. Not a doubt could exist as to where lay the greater need. Jean at twenty was fully competent to manage her father's small household: the widow was not competent; and Madame Collier, at fifty-five, was a strong woman still.