“Do you mean that I ought to hire a girl to run up and down stairs, and laugh in the corridors, as Lola used? O, George, how can you!” exclaimed Mildred, beginning to cry.
“No, no, dear. I had no such thought in my mind. I was thinking of Randolph’s daughter. You seemed to like her when she and her sister were here two years ago.”
“Yes, she was a nice, bright girl then, and my darling was pleased with her. How merry they were together, playing battledore and shuttlecock over there by the yew hedge! Don’t ask me ever to see that girl again, George. It would make my heart ache.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that, Mildred. I was going to ask you to have her here on a good long visit. Now that Rosalind is married, Pamela has no home of her own. Rosalind and her husband like having her occasionally—for a month or six weeks at a time; but Sir Henry Mountford’s house is not Pamela’s home. She would soon begin to feel herself an incubus. The Mountfords are very fond of society, and just a little worldly. They would soon be tired of a girl whose presence was no direct advantage. I have been thinking that with us Pamela would never be in the way. You need not see too much of her in this big house. There would be plenty of room for her to carry on her own pursuits and amusements without boring you; and when you wanted her she would be at hand, a bright companionable girl, who would grow fonder of you every day.”
“I could not endure her fondness. I could not endure any girl’s companionship. Her presence would only remind me of my loss.”
“Dearest, I thought we were both agreed that, as nothing can make us forget our darling, it cannot matter to us how often we are reminded of her.”
“Yes, by silent, unreasoning things like Kassandra,” touching the dog’s tawny head with a caressing hand; “or the garden—the trees and flowers she loved—her books—her piano. Those things may remind us of our darling without hurting us. But to hear a girl’s voice calling me—as she used to call me from the garden on summer mornings—to hear a girl’s laughter——”
“Yes, it would be painful, love, at first. I can understand that, Mildred. But if you can benefit an orphan girl by having her here, I know your kind heart will not refuse. Let her come for a few weeks, and if her presence pains you she shall stay no longer. She shall not be invited again. I would not ask you to receive a stranger, but my brother’s daughter is near me in blood.”
“Let her come, George,” said Mildred impulsively; “I am very selfish—thinking only of my own feelings. Let her come. How strangely this talk of ours reminds me of something that happened when I was a child!”
“What was that, Mildred?”