"Now I should like to know the future of that woman," he said, "She understands all about it as well as I do."
Perhaps she did, but then she possessed a marvellous buoyancy of temper, and disbelief in the infallibility of doctors.
Fortunately for her, and somebody else.
CHAPTER IX.
THE FIRST MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM.
"Dear Aunt,—(thus Mrs. Mortomley to Miss Gerace)—I have been a little ill, and I am here by the doctor's advice for change of air and scene; but I find that the moaning of the sea and the howling of the wind depress me at night, and I think I should get well quicker if I were at Dassell in my own old room.
"May I go to you—will you have me? Lenore is with me at present, but I will not trouble you with her. She shall go back to her papa at Homewood, if you say you have a corner still in your house for your affectionate niece,
"Dolly."
It is no exaggeration to say Mrs. Mortomley waited with a sickening impatience for the answer which should justify her in starting forthwith for Dassell. She believed she should get well there at once. She longed to hear the solemn silence of the woods; to behold once more the familiar landscape; to run over to the Court, and talk to Mrs. Trebasson; in her matronhood, to stop for a moment and rehabilitate the beauty of her girlish life—where it had once been a breathing presence.
Perhaps in the new notion of economy which possessed her, she desired to be strengthened in her purpose by a glimpse of the land where she had been content with so little of the world's wealth. Anyhow, let the reason be what it might, Dolly wanted to go back home—as she mentally phrased it—and waited anxiously for Miss Gerace's letter. It came: it ran as follows:—
"My dear Niece,—I grieve to hear of your ill-health, although I cannot marvel you have broken down at last; you know my opinions. They may be old fashioned; but, at all events, they carry with them the weight of an experience longer and wiser than my own.
"Health and undue excitement are incompatible. You left me blessed with a strong constitution; you have ruined it. You were a robust girl; you are a delicate woman. But I refrain, aware that my remarks now must be as distasteful as my previous advice has proved.
"When you were married I told you my home, so long as I had one, should always be yours. Though you have changed, I have not—and therefore, if you really think this air and place likely to benefit so fashionable a lady as yourself—pray come to me at once.
"Do not send your little girl back to Homewood, because you fear her giving trouble to a fidgety old maid. If you remember, I was not in my first youth when I took sole charge of you; and if I failed to train you into a perfect character, I do not think the blame could be laid altogether at my door. But I will have none of your fly-away, fine-lady servants, remember that. You and the child are welcome; but there is no place in my small house for London maids or nurses.
"I hope you will take what I have written in the spirit in which it is meant, and
"Believe me,
"Your affectionate Aunt,
"M. Gerace."