“Ill news travels fast,” says the proverb. “The birds of the air shall carry the matter,” says Holy Writ; and it is so. No bolts nor bars, no promises nor precautions, can long shut out a great calamity from the ears it is to blast, the heart it is to wither. The very air seems full of it, until it falls.
Rosa's child was more than a fortnight old; and she was looking more beautiful than ever, as is often the case with a very young mother, and Dr. Philip complimented her on her looks. “Now,” said he, “you reap the advantage of being good, and obedient, and keeping quiet. In another ten days or so, I may take you to the seaside for a week. I have the honor to inform you that from about the fourth to the tenth of March there is always a week of fine weather, which takes everybody by surprise, except me. It does not astonish me, because I observe it is invariable. Now, what would you say if I gave you a week at Herne Bay, to set you up altogether?”
“As you please, dear uncle,” said Mrs. Staines, with a sweet smile. “I shall be very happy to go, or to stay. I shall be happy everywhere, with my darling boy, and the thought of my husband. Why, I count the days till he shall come back to me. No, to us; to us, my pet. How dare a naughty mammy say to 'me,' as if 'me' was half the 'portance of oo, a precious pets!”
Dr. Philip was surprised into a sigh.
“What is the matter, dear?” said Rosa, very quickly.
“The matter?”
“Yes, dear, the matter. You sighed; you, the laughing philosopher.”
“Did I?” said he, to gain time. “Perhaps I remembered the uncertainty of human life, and of all mortal hopes. The old will have their thoughts, my dear. They have seen so much trouble.”
“But, uncle dear, he is a very healthy child.”
“Very.”