But Aunt Sophia is not there, so Honor has to open the door and go in alone. Mrs. Merivale is seated at a little writing-table, which is strewn with deep black-edged paper and envelopes. She is not writing, however, but leaning back in her chair looking drearily before her. As Honor enters she rouses herself, and wiping away the tears which stand in her eyes she motions the girl to come and sit beside her.
"I wanted to speak to you, dear," she says, taking Honor's hand in her own, "and I was just going to send Lane for you. Now that I am better you must tell me a little of what has been done. How have you managed about the mourning?"
"Miss Renny has been here, mother, ever since—ever since it happened, and all our dresses are nearly finished now, and I expect yours from Mrs. Carey will be home to-night. We couldn't disturb you the other morning about it, so aunt and I together chose a style we thought you would like. Ours are all alike—cashmere and crêpe made quite plainly; and yours, dear mother, will be of crêpe cloth, and of course heavily trimmed with crêpe."
"Yes, dear; that is all quite right. Only I wish Mrs. Carey had made all your dresses as well. Miss Renny would have made you others for common wear afterwards, you know. But now, dear, this is what I wanted to consult you about, you are so much more clear-headed and sensible than Doris. About my better dresses, dear,—I mean those that Madame Cecile will have the making of. I shall not have any dinner dresses made at present, because I shall not be going out or receiving for some time to come, but I was just going to write to Cecile to ask for patterns."
"Dear mother," says Honor gently, "I am so glad you spoke to me about this first, because it would have been so awkward if you had already sent."
"Why awkward, dear? What do you mean, Honor?"
"Don't you remember, dear mother, the sad news poor, dear father had before this other dreadful trouble came upon us?"
"Well, of course I do," Mrs. Merivale answers rather testily; "but I don't really see why you should take this time to remind me of it, and I must say, Honor, I think it very inconsiderate and unfeeling of you to come and worry me like this, and your poor, dear father not yet laid in his grave. I should think I have gone through grief and trouble enough," continues Mrs. Merivale, weeping, "without my children making things harder for me!"
"Dear mother," cries poor Honor, sobbing in concert, "pray, pray do not think I mean to be unkind; but Mr. Trent has been talking to aunt and to me, and it seems, dear mother, as if we shall hardly have enough to live upon when everything is settled up."
"Hardly enough to live upon!" repeats Mrs. Merivale, sitting up and drying her eyes. "My dear child, don't talk nonsense. As if I did not know more about these things than you do. I know we shall have to cut down our expenses, and diminish our household probably; do with a servant or two less, I mean. But as for being poor, Honor, you are talking ridiculous nonsense, child, as I said before. Why, even if your father's money were all lost—which I should say is very unlikely, people do exaggerate so,—but even if that were all gone, there is my fortune, which if necessary we could very well manage with somehow."