Chapter Thirteen.
From across the World.
I have reached, I see, the thirteenth chapter of my story! And thirteen is supposed to be an unlucky number. Nevertheless, I scarcely think it would be fair to any children who have read to the end of chapter twelve, to stop short there, even though things are now in a much happier position in the little house at Spenser Terrace than they were a few chapters back.
Besides, I really have something more to tell about my small hero and his family, and though at first it may not sound very cheerful, I think, before we have to say good-bye to each other, you will agree with me that this time the number thirteen does not bring bad luck with it. So now I will go on with this family history.
That early summer, even in the rather dull out-skirt, where Spenser Terrace is situated, was really bright and pleasant, and for some weeks after the return from the seaside no one felt specially anxious about Jasper, though he certainly did not gain strength very satisfactorily.
“It takes a good while for a rather delicate child to recover thoroughly from such an extremely sharp attack as his was,” said the doctor when he called one day. “Of course it would have been better to have kept him much longer at the seaside or in the country. But no doubt, when the weather becomes hot, you will be planning another change for him. It would not do for him to be in London if it grew oppressively warm.”
And Mrs Fortescue did not like to say how exceedingly difficult it would be to manage any change of any kind for any of them! The expenses of the illness and all it brought about had already exhausted the very small sum they were able to scrape together, beyond what was actually necessary for every-day life, and the prospect of sending Roland to Winton by the autumn was growing sadly uncertain. But to Dr Wilkins, though he was such a very old friend, poor “Mumsey” said nothing.
“It would look,” she thought, “as if I was hinting for him to invite Jasper to his own country house—and even if he did so, I could not let the darling go without a nurse or a maid of some kind, and Mrs Wilkins is rather too old to be troubled with children. It was most good of her to have Roley, but of course he is able to look after himself.”
So indeed—remembering his seven years only—was Jasper; quite wonderfully self-helpful and independent. Or rather he had been so before his illness. But of late, more than once, his mother had said to him, laughingly, that he was “growing into a baby again;” he was so clinging and quiet, though always sweet and unselfish.
“Everything’s so tirin’, Mumsey darlin’,” he said, “and Lelly and Chrissie does spoil me so. They’se always fetchin’ my fings, and they won’t never let me run messages, scarcely. But please, Mumsey darlin’, might I not go out a walk to-day, but just stay here ’aside you?”