"And mother? Poor mother!" says Honor at length, when, a long and violent fit of crying over, she leans back against her pillows, calm, though pale and exhausted.
"She is better now, dear. We had great trouble with her at first—or rather Lane and Doris and the doctor had, for I was with you, dear. She went from one fit of hysterics into another; and now, of course, she is utterly worn out. Your Aunt Sophia took her in hand directly she came (it is really most providential that she was so near); and then kind Mrs. Horton has been such a comfort to her. I sent in to her, you know, and she came herself the moment she got my message."
"But how came aunt here to-night?" asks Honor, putting her hand to her head and knitting her straight little brows. "I can't remember clearly, but surely I spoke of to-morrow morning in my telegram."
"Yes, dear; so you did. But when this happened I got Doris to write a hasty line which I sent off with the brougham to the Pagets', and your aunt came back in the brougham. She will be a great help to you all till your mother has got a little over the shock; she always had great influence over her, you know. And now, dear Honor, I shall give you the little draught the doctor ordered for you, and then I will leave you to sleep, for that will bring you strength to bear your trouble better than anything else. I shall be within call, for I have promised Doris to sleep with her to-night; so we will put the door ajar between your rooms. Now, dear, God bless you! And you must promise me, Honor, to be brave, and not to fret any more to-night. You know you told me your dear father's last words to you were of thankfulness for the comfort and help he was sure you would be to him. And now, more than ever, you must prove that you are worthy of the trust he placed in you—for a trust it is, dear Honor—and one, I know, that with God's help you will faithfully discharge. Your poor mother will need a long time to recover from so severe a shock. And although Doris is older than you, she is younger in ideas and character, and has not, I fear, so much common sense as my little Honor. But now, dear child, good-night once more. I shall not let anyone else come near you, as I am most anxious you should get to sleep." And kissing the girl most affectionately, Miss Denison softly leaves the room.
A little later and the house which but a short time since was the scene of so much happiness and rejoicing is wrapped in silent gloom; and as nature asserts its rights with the younger members of the family, giving them temporary relief from their sorrow in blessed sleep, older heads are resting on their pillows with wide-open, sleepless eyes, looking vaguely into the future which has changed so quickly from sunshine into shadow.
* * * * * * * *
Three days have passed since Mr. Merivale's death and Honor has already taken most of the cares and responsibilities of the family and household upon her young shoulders with a quiet dignity and gentle patience which amaze her mother completely. The old family solicitor, Mr. Trent, has already called several times and had long and serious talks with Honor—Mrs. Merivale having sent down a message to the effect that she was too completely prostrated to see anyone, and would he say anything he had to say to Honor, as it would be quite the same thing. It was doubtful whether Mr. Trent entertained the same idea on this subject, for whereas he had before quaked in his shoes at the bare idea of the task which lay before him of trying to make his late client's widow understand certain facts which he felt morally certain she was incapable of grasping, he now found that he had a very different sort of person to deal with—one, in fact, to use his own expression, "with her head screwed on the right way." With a kindness and delicacy which went straight to poor Honor's heart, he took all the arrangements for the funeral upon himself, and proved indeed a most kind and valuable friend in more ways than one.
"You and your aunt, my dear Miss Honor," the kind little gentleman had said, "will have to put things clearly, so to speak, before your mother, since she cannot see me. It will, I fear, be very difficult to make her understand that all—literally all—she has now to depend upon is £50 a year; and that is only owing to a fortunate chance, the money having been invested in some other concern; of course had it been placed in the bank it would have gone with the rest. To be sure there is your own little bit of money left you by your godmother, but that only amounts to about £20 a year. Dear me, dear me! it is terrible; a paltry sum of £70 a year to bring up a large family upon, and without a stick or a stone to start with!"
And now Honor is standing just where the old lawyer has left her after the foregoing conversation, gazing dreamily into the fire. "You and your aunt must make her understand"—those are the words which keep repeating themselves over and over; but to a girl of Honor's sensitive nature the task of doing so is no light one.
"Ah me!" sighs the girl as she leaves the room and slowly mounts the stairs, "I wish Aunt Sophia were here!"