Edina: A Novel

by Mrs. Henry Wood

[CHAPTER II.]

JEALOUSY

The room was smartened up for the occasion. At least, as much as a room furnished with cane-seated chairs, a threadbare carpet not half covering the boards, and a stained green-baize table-cover, can be smartened. It was Mrs. Raynor's birthday. Frank Raynor and his wife had come down to wish her many happy returns of it and to take tea with her; Alice had been invited; Charles had said he would be home early. But tea was over, and neither Charles nor Alice had put in an appearance; and the little fête, without them, had seemed a failure to their mother.

Mrs. Raynor was altered: worn, spiritless, always ailing, in the past year she had aged much. Disappointment and straitened circumstances told on her health as well as on her mind. It was not for herself she grieved and suffered, but for her children. For Charles especially. His prospects had been blighted; his standing in the world utterly changed. Edina's hands were full, for Mrs. Raynor could help very little now. What Mrs. Raynor chiefly did was to gather the young ones around her, and talk to them, in her gentle voice, of resignation to God's will, of patience, of that better world that they were travelling on to; where there will be neither sickness nor sorrow, neither mortification nor suffering. The children needed such lessons. It seemed very hard to them that they should sometimes have nothing but dry bread for dinner, or baked potatoes without meat. Even with all Edina's economy and with Charles's earnings, meat could not always be afforded. The joint must be carved sparingly, and made to last the best part of the week. They generally had a joint on a Sunday, and that was as much as could be said. Clothes cost so much: and Charles, at least, had to be tolerably well-dressed. But there are many items in a household's expenses besides eating and drinking; and this especially applies to fallen gentlepeople, whose habits have been formed, and who must still in a degree keep up appearances.

If the Raynors had needed discipline, as some who knew them at Eagles' Nest had declared, they were certainly experiencing it in a very marked degree. Twelve months had slipped by since they took up their abode at Laurel Cottage, and there had been no change. The days and the weeks had drifted on, one day, one week after another, in the same routine of thrift, struggle and privation. Charles was at Prestleigh and Preen's, working to that firm's satisfaction, and bringing home a sovereign a-week: Alice was teaching still in the school at Richmond. Alfred went to a day-school now. Edina had sought an interview with its principal, and by dint of some magic of her own, when she told him confidentially of their misfortunes, had persuaded him to admit the lad at an almost nominal charge. It was altogether a weary life for them, no doubt; one requiring constant patience and resignation; but, as Edina would cheerfully tell them, it might have been worse, and they had many things to be thankful for even yet.

October was passing, and the falling leaves strewed the ground. The afternoon was not sunny, but warm and dull; so sultry, in fact, as to suggest the idea of tempest in the air. They had gathered in the square patch of ground at the back of the house, called by courtesy a garden: Frank, his wife, Edina, Mrs. Raynor, and the children. Some of them stood about, looking at the bed of herbs Edina's care had planted; Mrs. Raynor was sitting on the narrow bench under the high window. For this garden had to be descended into by several steps; and as you stood in it the back-parlour window (Mrs. Raynor's bedroom) looked perched quite a long way up.

"Herbs are so useful," remarked Edina, as they praised the bed. "When a stew is nothing in itself, thyme or mint will give it quite a fine flavour. Do you remember, Frank, how poor papa liked thyme in the Irish stews?"

"And very good they used to be," said Frank. "Eve calls them ragoûts. I often tell her they are not half as good as those I had at Trennach. Remember, Daisy, it is thyme Eve's ragoûts want."

Daisy, playing with little Robert, turned round with dancing eyes. She was as pretty as ever, in spite of the distasteful existence in Lambeth. And she had put on for this occasion one of her old grand silks.

"I'll try and remember, Frank," she laughed. "I hope I shall not say rue instead of thyme. What did you plant this great bush of rue for, Edina?"