Clara’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, he told me,” she said; “but you were so cheerful, I thought perhaps it was not as bad as he said.”
“No; you must not comfort yourself with that,” said Jeannie. “But comfort her, if I may suggest it, in little ways. You see, she still cares for little things. She has not lost interest in life at all, it seems to me. Do not do or say anything that will remind her of what she is suffering from. My dear Miss Clara, it is not that I do not realize it that I recommend you this, but just because I do. All we can do is to help her in little ways. It is just that we can do.”
Poor Miss Clara looked bewildered and puzzled.
“But these things matter so little now,” she said. “I cannot understand Phœbe caring for her songs and her mandolin now. To be sure, she was never very fond of going to church, and she always says there are a great many black sheep who are clergymen. But now, Miss Avesham. Oh, to think of her playing Funiculi!”
Miss Clara delivered herself of this incoherent dissatisfaction with shaking head and trembling lips. It was all she could do to keep herself from bursting out crying, and the effort tied her face into hard knots. Phœbe had evidently taken up her mandolin again, for its little metallic notes came from the drawing-room, playing Funiculi, and in a few bars her quavering voice joined it. They had been speaking in low tones for fear Phœbe should hear them, but when the song began again Jeannie spoke louder.
“It seems to me such a great thing that she can still take an interest and a pleasure in things,” said Jeannie. “I would encourage her all I could to continue to do that.”
“But it seems so strange,” said Clara. “I know my poor mother saw a clergyman every day for six weeks before she died. And when I suggested this morning to Phœbe that I should ask Mr. Crawshaw to call she got quite angry, and said, ‘What for?’ So as any agitation, Dr. Maitland told me, is bad for her, I didn’t urge it. But my conscience has pricked me ever since.”
Jeannie smiled.
“Put it in a pin-cushion, then,” she said. “Oh, how little I should want to see a clergyman if I was going to die soon. Fancy wanting a clergyman when you were dying,” she said, half to herself.