"It is wonderful to see the progress he has made—so far, entirely through imitation and handwork. He begins to have some notion of counting and numbers—he has learnt to crochet and thread beads—-poor little lad of fifteen!—he has built not only a tower but something like a house, of bricks—and now his enthusiastic teacher is attempting to teach him the first rudiments of speech, in this wonderful modern way—lip-reading and the like. He has been under training for about six weeks, and certainly the results are most promising. I believe his mother protested to Lord Buntingford that he had not been neglected. Nobody can believe her, who sees now what has been done. Apparently a brain-surgeon in Naples was consulted as to the possibility of an operation. But when that was dropped, nothing else was ever tried, no training was attempted, and the child would have fared very badly, if it had not been for the old bonne—Zélie—who was and is devoted to him. His mother was ashamed of him, and came positively to hate the sight of him.
"But the tragic thing is that as his mind develops, his body seems to weaken. Food, special exercise, massage—poor Lord Buntingford has been trying everything—but with small result. It is pitiful to see him watching the child, and hanging on the doctors. 'Shall we stop all the teaching?' he said to John the other day in despair—'my first object is that he should live,' But it would be cruel to stop the teaching now. The child would not allow it. He himself has caught the passion of it. He seems to me to live in a fever of excitement and joy, as one step follows another, and the door opens a little wider for his poor prisoned soul. He adores his father, and will sit beside him, stroking his silky beard, with his tiny fingers, and looking at him with his large pathetic eyes … They have taken him to Beechmark, as you know, and given him a set of rooms, where he and his wonderful little teacher, Miss Denison—trained in the Séguin method, they say—and the old bonne Zélie live. The nurse has gone.
"I am so sorry for Lady Cynthia—she seems to miss him so. Of course she goes over to Beechmark a good deal, but it is not the same as having him under her own roof. And she was so good to him! She looks tired of late, and rather depressed. I wonder if her dragoon of a sister has been worrying her. Of course Lady Georgina is enchanted to have got rid of Arthur.
"I am very glad to hear Lord Buntingford is going to Wales. Miss Pitstone has been evidently a great deal on his mind. He said to John the other day that he had arranged everything at Beechmark so that, when you and she came back, he did not think you would find Arthur in the way. The boy's rooms are in a separate wing, and would not interfere at all with visitors. I said to him once that I was sure Miss Helena would be very fond of the little fellow. But he frowned and looked distressed. 'I should scarcely allow her to see him,' he said. I asked why. 'Because a young girl ought to be protected from anything irremediably sad. Life should be always bright for her. And I can still make it bright for Helena—I intend to make it bright.'
"Good-bye, my dear Mrs. Friend. John and I miss you very much."
A last sentence which gave Lucy Friend a quite peculiar pleasure. Her
modest ministrations in the parish and the school had amply earned it.
But it amazed her that anyone should attach any value to them. And that
Mr. Alcott should miss her—why, it was ridiculous!
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Helena, returning to the inn along the river bank, with Bobby clinging to her skirt.
"Take him in tow, please," said Helena through the window. "I am going to walk a little way to meet Geoffrey."
Bobby's chubby hand held her so firmly that he could only be detached from her by main force. He was left howling in Mrs. Friend's grasp, till Helena, struck with compunction, turned back from the bend of the road, to stuff a chocolate into his open mouth, and then ran off again, laughing at the sudden silence which had descended on hill and stream.
Through the intermittent shade and sunshine of the day, Helena stepped on. She had never held herself so erect; never felt so conscious of an intense and boundless vitality. Yet she was quite uncertain as to what the next few hours would bring her. Peter had given a hint—that she was sure; and she was now, it seemed, to be wooed in earnest. On Geoffrey's former visit, she had teased him so continuously, and put so many petty obstacles of all kinds in his way, that he had finally taken his cue from her, and they had parted, in a last whirlwind of "chaff," but secretly angry, with each other or themselves.