"She is earning money, and her aunt is glad to have her, and takes care of her, and she says she never saw any girl so expert with her fingers and display so much taste in bonnets as Rosaline. But that does not mend the matter here, Mr. Frank, and is no excuse for her being such a goose. 'Come and take a room in Falmouth, mother,' were her last words when I was leaving. But I'd like to know what a poor lone body like me could do in that strange place."
"Well, good-evening, Mrs. Bell," said Frank, escaping to the door. But the loquacious tongue had not quite finished.
"When I was coming back in the train, Mr. Frank, the thought kept running in my mind that perhaps Bell would have got home whilst I'd been away: and when I looked round the empty house, and saw he was not here, a queer feeling of disappointment came over me. Do you think he ever will come back, sir?"
Some "queer feeling" seemed to take Frank at the question, and stop his breath. He spoke a few words indistinctly in answer. Mrs. Bell did not catch them.
"And whether it was through that—expecting to see him and the consequent disappointment—I don't know, Mr. Frank; but since then I can't get him out of my mind. Day and night, Bell is in it. I am beginning to dream of him: and that's what I have not done yet. Nancy Tomson says it's a good sign. Should you say it was, sir?"
"I—really don't know," was Frank's unsatisfactory reply. And then he succeeded in making his final exit.
"I wish she wouldn't bring up her husband to me!" he cried, lifting his hat that his brow might get a little of the fresh wind, which blew less fiercely under the cottages. "Somehow she nearly always does it. I hate to cross the threshold."
A week or two went on: a week or two of charming weather and calm blue skies: The day fixed for the departure of Mrs. St. Clare from The Mount came and passed, and she was still at home, and likely to be there for some time to come. "Man proposes, but Heaven disposes." Every day of our lives we have fresh proofs of that great fact.
On the very day of Daisy's impromptu wedding, her sister Lydia showed herself more than usually ailing and grumbling. She felt cold and shivery, and sat in the pink cloak all day. The next morning she seemed really ill, not fancifully so, was hot and cold alternately. Dr. Raynor was sent for. The attack turned out to be one of fever. Not as yet of infectious fever—and Dr. Raynor hoped he should prevent its going on to that. But it was rather severe, and required careful watching and nursing.
Of course their departure for foreign lands was out of the question. They could not leave The Mount. Mrs. St. Clare, who was very anxious, for she dreaded a visitation of infectious fever more than anything else, spent most of her time in Lydia's room. Once in a way, Frank Raynor appeared at The Mount in his uncle's place. Dr. Raynor was fully given to understand that his own attendance was requested, not his nephew's: but he was himself getting to feel worse day by day; he could not always go over, walking or riding; and on those occasions Frank went instead. Mrs. St. Clare permitted what, as it appeared, there was no remedy for, and was coldly civil to the young doctor.