“Because I am quite ready to go. I have been ill, and it has made me unmindful of many things; but I am better now. Papa, I will try and be a good daughter to you. I have nobody but you.”
She spoke quietly and softly, bending her head upon his grey hairs. He kissed and blessed her. She kissed me, too, as she passed, and then went away to bed, without any more explanation.
But from that time—and it is now three days ago—Penelope has resumed her usual place in the household—taken up all her old duties, and even her old pleasures; for I saw her in her green-house this morning. When she called me, in something of the former quick, imperative voice, to look at an air-plant that was just coming into flower, I could not see it for tears.
Nevertheless, there is in her a difference. Not her serious, almost elderly-looking face, nor her manner, which has lost its sharpness, and is so gentle sometimes that when she gives her orders the servants actually stare—but the marvellous composure which is evident in her whole demeanour; the bearing of a person who, having gone through that sharp agony which either kills or cures, is henceforth settled in mind and “circumstances,” to feel no more any strong emotion, but go through life placidly and patiently, without much further change, to the end. The sort of woman that nuns are-made of—or-Sours de la Charité; or Protestant lay-sisters, of whom every village has some; and almost every family owns at least one. She will, to all appearance, be our one—our elder sister, to be regarded with reverence unspeakable, and be made as happy as we possibly can. Max, I am learning to think with hope and without pain, of the future of my sister Penelope.
One word more, and this long letter ends.
Yesterday, papa and I walking on the moor, met Mrs. Cartwright, and learnt full particulars of Lydia. From your direction, her mother found her out, in a sort of fever, brought on by want. Of course, everything had been taken from the Kensington cottage, for Francis's debts. She was turned out with only the clothes she wore. But you know all this already, through Mrs. Ansdell.
Mrs. Cartwright is sure it was you who sent Mrs. Ansdell to them, and that the money they received week, by week, in their worst distress, came from you. She said so to papa, while we stood talking.
“For it was just like our doctor, sir—as is kind to poor and rich—I'm sure he used to look at you, sir, as if he'd do anything in the world for you—as many's the time I've seed him a-sitting by your bedside when you was ill. If there ever was a man living as did good to every poor soul as came in his way—it be Doctor Urquhart.”
Papa said nothing.
After the old woman had gone, he asked if I had any plans about Lydia Cartwright?