So it was settled, and Florry, a pretty good girl, who was wild with delight at the idea of going into the country, promised to do her best.
No news had been heard of uncle Bryan. I cannot say that, after my anger had cooled, I was not anxious about him. It was impossible for me to be indifferent as to his fate, and I made inquiries quietly, but without result. He had disappeared most effectually, and had left no trace behind. My principal reason for wishing to find him was to let him know that we were leaving his house, and that we should not return; I had made up my mind on this point. Josey West and I had a long conversation about him.
I believe he will never come back, my dear,' said Josey, 'never, under any circumstances. Of course you have heard what some of the neighbours say--that he has made away with himself; but that's all nonsense. He's not a man of that sort. He'll rub on grimly and grumly to the end. Why, my dear, if it was to happen that he was to starve to death--which he wouldn't do willingly, and without trying to get bread--he'd starve quietly and without a murmur. Ah, he's a wicked old man, I daresay, and I know that you have cause to hate him, but I can't help liking him a bit for all that. What I shall do about the shop is this, unless you object. I shall shut up our house--there's no business doing, my dear; I don't lend out a wardrobe a month--and all the children shall come round here to live. It will be good fun for them. I shall keep the accounts as square as I can, although the figures are getting into a mess already, and I'm beginning to be bothered with them--but never mind, there's the money, so much paid out, so much coming in; it'll be simple enough to reckon what's left. And if I do hear anything of your uncle, I'll be off to him at once, and bring him back, tied up, if he won't come any other way.'
I could see no better plan than this, and I thanked Josey cordially.
'Where are you going to first?' she asked, interrupting me abruptly.
'To Hertford, where I was born,' I replied.
She nodded, and said she thought it was the best place, and that I must be sure and keep her informed of my whereabouts, as she would want to write to me regularly. The next morning we were off.
We reached Hertford by easy stages. Josey was quite right in insisting that I should take Florry with me. I soon learnt that I could not have done without some one, and I found Florry to be so quietly and unobtrusively useful that I grew very fond of the little maid. I took lodgings in a pleasant suburb, from the windows of which we could see the river Lea, and the barges gliding indolently along. Florry said it was heavenly. My mother bore the journey well, and was no worse at the end than when we started. I was very thankful for that, for I feared she might not be strong enough to bear it; but we were very careful of her, and if she had been my sister Florry could not have been more attentive and affectionate. But my mother knew no one, and saw only the pictures and figures which her fevered imagination conjured up. I selected for her bedroom a large room on the first floor, and placed her bed so that she could see the river from it. I fixed my table for work so that when she opened her eyes, and looked towards the river, she could see me also. I had been fortunate enough to obtain sufficient work to last me for three or four weeks, and I was sure of more to follow.
On the very first day I observed what I thought was a favourable change in my mother. Awaking from a restless sleep she opened her eyes, and saw a white sail passing along the river; she watched it quietly until it was out of sight, and then closed her eyes and slept again, but more peacefully than before. She did not seem to see me, although I turned my face to her and smiled. It was soon evident that she took pleasure in the prospect of the river, for before two days had passed I observed her lie and watch it restfully. It appeared to act like a charm upon her, bringing peace to her troubled heart in some strange way. In London, during her illness, scarcely an hour had passed, day and night, without her rest being broken by sobs; but here in Hertford, after she grew accustomed to the sight of the river, her days were quiet and peaceful, and it was only in the night that she was disturbed. During the first week I left her but twice; once to go to the house in which I was born, and once to visit the old churchyard in which my father was buried. The house was the same as I remembered it, and the churchyard had a few new gravestones in it; there was no other change. All my childish experiences came vividly to my mind, and I should scarcely have been surprised, as I peeped through the parlour-window, where I used to sit in my low armchair with my grandmother, listening to her monotonous heavy breathing, to see her sitting in state, in her silk dress, with her large fat hands folded in her lap! I did see a woman who reminded me of Jane Painter, our servant, and I crossed the road quickly and walked away from her. In the churchyard, I went to my father's grave, and then to the grave of Snaggletooth's little daughter. I found it quite easily, but the inscription upon it was no longer discernible. I remembered so well every incident of that day that I could see myself carried out of the churchyard in Snaggletooth's arms, and I closed my eyes as I thought how I fell asleep there.
These scenes and remembrances soothed and consoled me; I seemed to be lifted out of a fever of unrest.