Chapter Twenty Five.
A Turn of the Wheel.
“This changing, and great variance
Of earthly states, up and down,
Is not but casualty and chance
(As some men say is without ressown).”
Robert Henrysoun.
It did “pass off” again. The next day Mr Western seemed nearly as well as usual, though to Mary’s eyes there was a tired and unrestful expression on his face with which she could not feel familiar.
“He is not looking well. He does not seem like his old self, I am certain,” she said in her own mind over and over again. But what could be done? He declared there was nothing really wrong; the very mention of sending for Mr Brandreth irritated him unaccountably, and he was most urgent with Mary to say nothing to arouse her mother’s anxiety. So the utmost Mary could do was to please him in all the small ways ready affection can always suggest, to exert herself to be even more cheerful and entertaining than her wont.
She wrote to Lilias, begging her to let most of her letters be to her father, and urging upon her the desirability of meeting with all possible cordiality Mrs Brabazon’s friendly overtures. But for some days Lilias had nothing more to tell of the new-found cousins.
A week passed, a week of pretty hard work for Mary. What with “the children’s” extra calls upon her patience and attention, her anxiety about her father, and unusual efforts to seem cheerful and light-hearted, its close found her really tired and dispirited.
“Far more tired than with nursing Alys,” she said to herself, when on Saturday afternoon she was taking Brooke and Francie a walk, thankful to know that the more troublesome members of her charge were safely disposed of for the rest of the day in a holiday expedition to old Mr Halkin’s farm. “That was play compared with the worry and fret of the last few days. And why should I feel it so? There is something not right about me just now. I am changed, though I blame the children. I have grown captious and discontented. I do believe that fortnight at the farm spoiled me—the being thanked and praised for everything I did. What a silly goose I am, after all! How I do wish I could hear how Alys is—I do think she might write again, but I suppose it is my own doing,” with a little sigh.