"O, I didn't think of packing anything of mother's excepting what she will be requiring now. I mean," adds Honor with a little tightening of her lips, "that I do not think it would be right to keep any of mother's handsome dresses, and certainly not her jewels. Doris and I have, of course, very little in that way; but," with a little threatening look at her sister, "I shall expect her to do as I do, and give up everything that is of value."
Doris does not look highly pleased at this proposition, but she says:
"Of course, Honor," meekly enough, though she is immensely relieved at her aunt's next words:
"What you say about the jewels is quite right, Honor,—that is to say, your mother's; in fact we have already talked over the subject together. Little personal gifts, and indeed any jewellery your mother had before she was married, she will, however, keep," adds Aunt Sophia rather decidedly. "And Doris and you must keep the little trinkets you have; which are, I suppose, most of them birthday presents. You say yourself they are not worth speaking of. As to the dresses, you are really quite quixotic, Honor; no one would expect such a sacrifice; and when you all go out of mourning it is more than probable that you will feel very thankful that you have taken my advice. Now I really must go, or I shall be late." And shaking hands with Miss Denison and the two gentlemen, Lady Woodhouse leaves the room.
Those left behind immediately enter on a discussion touching the question of the new house. Mr. Hobson has cut out one or two advertisements which on consideration are not found to be particularly unsuitable, which, perhaps, is something, in the matter of house-hunting! One of them states that there is a nine-roomed house to let—good drainage, large garden, hen-house, and pig-sty. Low rent to careful tenant.—Apply to Messrs. E. & B. Talboys, care of Messrs. Gilmore, solicitors, High Street, Edendale Village, &c.
Taking it altogether, this sounds hopeful. So Honor sits down, and with Mr. Hobson's assistance answers the advertisement, while Doris and Miss Denison leave the room with Mr. Trent, whom Mrs. Merivale is now equal to seeing "just for a few minutes," prior to her departure with her sister next day for London. For the rest of that day and all the morning of the next Honor and Miss Denison are engaged in packing and directing all that is theirs to take, and with the assistance of Lane and of the school-room maid (who has begged with tears to be allowed to remain with the family, at any rate until they are settled in the new house) they get through a great deal. And when at last they have watched the departure of the carriage containing Mrs. Merivale, Lady Woodhouse, Doris, and Daisy to the station, they enter the house again, to see if all is in order for the sale which is so soon to follow their own departure, with that feeling of blank melancholy attendant on that much-to-be-pitied condition of having "nothing to do." Dick and Bobby are already established next door with their good friends the Hortons—Molly to follow later, according to the kind suggestion made a few days before by Mrs. Horton; and there they are to remain until the family plans shall be more settled.
While Miss Denison and Honor are making a last pilgrimage round the house, Molly stands disconsolately at the dining-room window pressing her little retroussé nose against the pane. Suddenly she sees a telegraph-boy running up the steps, and her nerves being all unstrung by recent grief and sorrow Molly rushes with pale affrighted face to the door, fearful of more trouble to come perhaps, to take the message from the boy. She gives a little sigh of relief, however, as she glances at the direction and sees her governess's name upon it, and her long legs soon carry her upstairs to her mother's boudoir, where Honor and Miss Denison are. As Miss Denison reads the telegram her face changes, and in a voice trembling with agitation she says:
"My poor girls! I shall have to leave you directly after all. This is from Frank's mother saying that he is dangerously ill, and that I must get there without a moment's delay. O, how unfortunate, to be sure! I cannot bear to leave you all alone at such a sad time; and nothing but this would induce me to do so. But you see, Honor—you see—how imperative it is. Indeed I fear even now that I may be too late;" and thinking of her own trouble for the first time Miss Denison breaks utterly down, and with her pupils' arms round her, their tears mingling with hers, she sobs uncontrollably for a few seconds.
Active steps have to be taken, however, and in less than an hour the remaining occupants of the house have left it for ever, and Honor and Molly are standing on the platform at the station by the locked door of the compartment in which Miss Denison is seated, looking down upon them with wet and sorrowful eyes. One last hand-clasp and a half-stifled sob, and the train moving slowly from the platform leaves the two girls standing, hand in hand, desolate and alone.