Aunt Dora came down into the hall before they left, to kiss them and say good-bye; but her face was so white and drawn that Vivian almost shrank from her in fear, and the hopes that Ronald would have expressed for his little cousin’s recovery died away on his lips. It was such a contrast to the bright, happy woman who had been like a playmate to them ever since they arrived.
They drove through the lighted streets in silence, for Dr Armitage was deep in thought, thinking about the sorrow that was threatening his favourite sister, and wondering if Sir Antony Jones, whose experience in such cases was very great, could possibly give her a ray of hope. At Victoria he bought the boys a handful of illustrated papers; but the light in the carriage was so uncertain that they soon stopped looking at them, and sat back in their corners, staring into the shadowy darkness as it rushed past.
Ronald’s mind was full of problems which he could not solve, the problems of life and death, which are so mysterious that in the face of them the oldest and wisest among us are but children, and can only trust where we cannot see; while Vivian was slowly fighting his way to a decision, which was very real and tangible, but which seemed so far above what his courage could attain to that as yet it was only a dream.
‘Here we are, boys; gather up your things. It is a cold night, and I do not want to keep Black and the horse waiting.’
Both boys started at their father’s words, and jumped up so quickly that they were flung against each other as the train drew up with a jerk at the well-known little station, and old Timms the porter came along the platform swinging his lamp, and crying out ‘Sitt-ingham, Sitt-ingham!’ at the top of his familiar voice.
He stopped when he came to their carriage and opened the door. Apparently they were the only passengers who were going to alight.
‘Well, young gentlemen,’ he said heartily, lifting out the rugs, ‘and how have you enjoyed yourselves up in London? And how did you leave Miss Dora—I beg her pardon, Mrs Osbourne? The other name always comes most familiar to me; ’twas the name we knew her by when she used to come and help the missus to nurse the little ones the year they were all down wi’ the fever. Maria often says that if it hadn’t been Miss Dora’s soups and puddings Belinda wouldn’t have been alive to-day.’
‘Then Maria must think of Miss Dora to-night, Timms,’ said the doctor sadly, ‘for she is in great trouble. Her little girl, her only daughter, is very ill—almost hopelessly so, it seems to me. I have just been up to see her, and have left my wife there.’
‘Eh, but I’m sorry to hear you say so, sir; very sorry!’ said the old man, shouldering the portmanteau, and turning through the little white gate to where the carriage was standing; ‘and so will Maria be when she hears. The only little lass, say you? But that is a heavy sorrow. It seems to me, sir, it’s always the best beloved that’s took first. Though we’ll hope that the little miss may be spared yet awhile. Children get over a lot.’
‘I hope so, I’m sure. Good-night, Timms. Remember me to Maria.’