Poor Honor sighs at the hopelessness of the situation; but with a feeling of desperation she is just about to speak when the door opens, and to her great relief Lady Woodhouse enters the room.
"O, Sophia!" exclaims Mrs. Merivale with a little hysterical gasp, "I am so glad you have come in, my dear. Here is Honor talking the most outrageous nonsense; trying to make out that all our property is gone, and—well, in fact that we are as poor as church mice!"
"Well, and so you are," remarks Lady Woodhouse, sitting down and untying her bonnet-strings with a jerk, "the child has said nothing but the truth. I am sorry," she adds, softening a little on seeing the cambric handkerchief drawn from her sister's pocket preparatory to a fresh burst of grief—"I'm sorry to have to speak so plainly; but it seems to me that poor James did his best to make you understand the state of affairs in his conversation with you the night of his death; and considering all he said to you then, I must say it passes my comprehension that you can still be ignorant of your true position. Mr. Trent begged me to speak to you on the subject, and that is why I have come now, because I think it is so much better than putting it off until after the funeral; for I am sure there will be little or no time to arrange anything then. Now, Mary, be sensible, my dear, and let us talk quietly over a comfortable cup of tea."
Mrs. Merivale, however, is not in a humour to do anything quietly, and Lady Woodhouse on her way to ring the bell for tea is suddenly electrified by a sound behind her, partaking of the nature of a scream, a gasp, and a convulsive laugh all at once. In plain words, the trying nature of the past conversation has reduced Mrs. Merivale to a violent fit of hysterics; and Lady Woodhouse, deeming it advisable that she should be left alone with her sister for a time, takes the smelling-salts from Honor's hand, and whispering "Leave her to me, child, and I will bring her round," signs to the girl to leave the room.
On going downstairs Honor sees Hugh Horton standing in a hesitating sort of manner on the door-mat; a wreath of rare white flowers in one hand, and a note in the other.
"I told William I wouldn't see anyone, Honor," he whispers, coming forward and laying the wreath on the hall table, "but he would go off to see if there was anyone about, and as I wanted to leave a message from mother I was obliged to wait till he came back. How are you all, Honor dear? No, I won't come in," he adds, as the girl silently motions him towards the dining-room; "I won't really. I only wanted to give you that (nodding towards the wreath), with love from us all. And I was to tell you, Honor, that mother will come in to-night after dinner to have a talk with Mrs. Merivale and Lady Woodhouse about a suggestion she wants to make."
"It is very kind of her," says Honor simply. "She has been such a comfort to us all;" and with a little stifled sob she buries her face in the wreath which she has taken up. "White violets, how beautiful! and the flower that father loved best. How good of you, Hugh!"
"I remembered that when mother and I were giving orders for it this morning, and I knew you would like them. How is Molly, Honor?"
"She is a little better now, I think; but her grief has been something terrible. Poor girl! She idolized father almost, and the shock has been almost too much for her. She is so highly sensitive, and she feels the loss so much, never having seen him alive again after dinner on that dreadful evening. Doris and I were both with him, you know; and of course it was just chance that Molly was not there too. At first she was nearly wild with grief, then she sank into a sort of dull apathy, taking notice of nothing and of nobody. Miss Denny has been kindness itself to her, as she has to us all, indeed; and to-day Molly seems more like her old self."
"I am so glad," Hugh says feelingly, "Good-bye, Honor, for the present; let me know, mind, if there is anything I can do for any of you;" and hastily pressing the girl's hand the young man runs down the steps and out of sight.