“Fiddler’s?” he said, with a sick look of dismay. “Another—another! What do I want with books, when I have not a penny to pay my expenses, nor a place to hide my head?”
“Oh, father, don’t talk so: only have patience, and everything will come right,” cried Dora, with the facile philosophy of youth. “They are great big books; I am sure they are something you wanted very much. It will amuse you to look at them, at least.”
He did not consent in words, but a half motion of his head made Dora bring in, after a little delay to undo the large parcel, two great books covered with old-fashioned gilding, in brown leather, frayed at the corners—books to make the heart of a connoisseur dance, books looked out for in catalogues, followed about from one sale to another. Mr. Mannering’s eyes, though they were dim and sunken, gave forth a momentary blaze. He put out his trembling hands for them, as Dora approached, almost tottering under the weight, carrying them in her arms.
“I will put them beside you on the table, father. Now you can look at them without tiring yourself, and I will run and fetch your beef tea. Oh, good news!” cried Dora, flinging into Miss Bethune’s room as she ran downstairs. “He is taking a little interest! I have just given him the books from Fiddler’s, and he is looking a little like his own self.”
She had interrupted what seemed a very serious conversation, perceiving this only now after she had delivered her tidings. She blushed, drew back, and begged Miss Bethune’s pardon, with a curious look at the unknown visitor who was seated on the sofa by that lady’s side. Dora knew all Miss Bethune’s visitors by heart. She knew most of those even who were pensioners, and came for money or help, and had been used to be called in to help to entertain the few callers for years past. But this was some one altogether new, not like anybody she had ever seen before, very much agitated, with a grey and worn face, which got cruelly red by moments, looking ill, tired, miserable. Poor lady! and in deep mourning, which was no doubt the cause of her trouble, and a heavy crape veil hanging over her face. She gave a little cry at the sight of Dora, and clasped her hands. The gesture caused her veil to descend like a cloud, completely concealing her face.
“I beg your pardon, indeed. I did not know there was anybody here.”
Miss Bethune made her a sign to be silent, and laid her hand upon her visitor’s arm, who was tremulously putting up her veil in the same dangerous overhanging position as before.
“This is Dora—as you must have guessed,” she said.
The lady began to cry, feebly sobbing, as if she could not restrain herself. “I saw it was—I saw it was,” she said.
“Dora, come here,” said Miss Bethune. “This lady is—a relation of yours—a relation of—your poor mamma.”