When Mr. Force had looked at this packet he showed neither surprise at its existence or impatience to read it. Without breaking the seal, he slipped it into his pocket, and went quietly down to the parlor in search of his troubled young people.
He found them all seated as if they had been at a funeral.
Odalite and Le occupied one of the small sofas. Old Capt. Grandiere sat in a large armchair, with his little niece, Rosemary, on his knees, her head on his shoulder and her arms around his neck. She had sobbed herself into exhaustion, and therefore into quietness, and was listening calmly to the consolation the old skipper was trying to give her, and which was something like this:
“I tell you, my pet, he may be as stubborn as a mule, and hold his tongue until he loses the use of it, but I know that, not two months since, he was taken prisoner off my ship, along with me and all the crew, and so far from being the pirate’s mate, he was the pirate’s prisoner. I’ll tell my own story, and it will clear Roland as sure as it will hang Silver.”
This, in every form and variety of language, was the oft-repeated consolation that the old skipper was offering to his little niece, and not without effect.
Elva and Wynnette were seated with the earl, who was talking to them in a low voice, and evidently trying to keep up their spirits.
As soon as the squire entered the room his daughters all hurried to meet him, with anxious looks.
“My dears,” he said, “the doctors speak hopefully of your mother’s condition. Let us be patient and trust in Providence; and for the present, my children, you must control your feelings and keep away from her room.”
But this did not satisfy the daughters of Elfrida Force. They plied their father with questions:
“What is the matter with mamma?”