“It would be a nice little change for you, Sydney, and Eugenia would be so pleased to see her little nephew. Her letters are full of questions about him. I have a great, mind to write to her myself, and ask what time next month would be convenient for her to receive us. I think my doing so would please her. I should be sorry for her to think we had not taken the first opportunity of going to see her. They are sure to be at home next month?”
“Yes,” said Sydney, “I remember Eugenia’s saying in one of her letters, that they were not going to town this year. I don’t know why, for not long ago she said something about their probably buying a house in town. Well, father dear, baby and I—and Frank too, I dare say—will be ready whenever you arrange for it with Eugenia.”
But Mr Laurence never wrote. The very next day—it was early in May now—the Thurstons got a message, asking Sydney to go to see him as soon as she could. There was “nothing very much the matter,” said the note, which he had written himself—“a slight return of the old symptoms,” that was all; but it was enough to send his daughter to him without loss of time. Enough, too, to make the doctors look grave, and warn Mrs Thurston that there was every appearance of a long and trying illness before them, unless the next day or two brought a decidedly favourable change. No such change came. Divided between anxiety for her father and for her little infant, Sydney had almost more upon her hands than she could overtake. A few days after the commencement of Mr Laurence’s illness, the Thurston household took up its quarters temporarily in Sydney’s old home, that she might be the better able to give to her father the constant care and attention he required. At first he seemed to improve again, and Sydney was able to send a better report to Eugenia. But another week saw a change for the worse. Nothing very serious, said the doctors—nothing to cause immediate anxiety—but sufficiently discouraging, nevertheless. And then there came the usual injunction, “At all costs, the patient’s spirits were to be kept up, his every wish complied with.”
One morning Mr Laurence woke out of an uneasy sleep in a state of feverish agitation unusual to him.
“Sydney,” he said, excitedly, when his daughter entered the room, “I have had a painful dream about Eugenia. It seemed to me that she was unhappy. I must see her at once. If I were well I would go to her. As it is, you must send for her. Do you think she can come to-day? I cannot rest till I have seen her.”
Sydney was greatly startled, but she retained her presence of mind.
“I will see about it at once,” she replied, soothingly, “and no doubt she will come immediately. I wish I had thought of it before, dear father; but we fancied you would enjoy seeing her more when you were a little stronger.”
“Never mind,” he said: “it will be all right if you will send at once now.”
Two hours later Sydney came back to tell him it was done. A messenger had already started for Halswood. “I thought it better than telegraphing,” she said; “they are so far from the station;” but Mr Laurence did not seem to care to hear any details. He was quite satisfied with knowing that the thing was done, and before long he fell asleep again and slept calmly.
About three o’clock that afternoon a Chilworth fly drove up to the front entrance of Halswood; a gentleman alighted, rang the bell, and inquired if Captain Chancellor were at home. He was answered in the negative, the master of the house was out, would not be in till between four and five.