“As if he would remark what you are wearing! But I must go and see that Steward has unpacked. It is true there will be black enough before we are done with it, and once in mourning, I always say you never can tell when you may take it off,” said Mrs. Bellingham; “but I will not let you come into the sick-room in that rustling dress. He was always fidgety at the best of times. He would not put up with it. There’s your muslins, if you are not afraid of taking cold; but I won’t have silk,” said the elder sister, peremptory and decided.
Miss Leslie came to Margaret, and put an arm round her where she stood at the window, as the other went away.
“Dearest child, you must not cry so,” she said. “He is not suffering, you know. What a blessing that there is no pain, that he is comfortable, as he says. Dear Jean seems to be a little hard, but she means it very well; and now that we are here, you will be able to rest; you will not have so much responsibility.”
“Oh, do you think I want to rest? am I thinking of myself? It is because you are all wrong—you are mistaken. The doctor did not say so. It is not true!”
Miss Leslie shook her head, and gave a little moan.
“Dearest child!” she said, putting her cheek against Margaret’s wet and tear-stained cheek. “But I must go and see about my things too,” she said. “Steward never thinks of me till she has done everything for Jean. I am very glad of that, of course; it is just what I like; but it gives me a little more to do. Come with me, dear, and tell me what to put on. It will amuse you a little to see my things, though I haven’t got anything new—not a thing all this year. You see, dear Ludie told us of dearest papa’s uncertain state of health, and what was the good? There is nothing more provoking than having got a supply of colored things just before a long mourning. Alas! it is bad enough without that,” said Grace, with a deep sigh.
After they had made their toilet, the ladies dined, and not without appetite, while Margaret sat unable to swallow a morsel, unable to escape to her father’s room for the tears which she could not suppress. In the mean time it was Bell that had taken the place of watcher. Bell’s heart was heavy too; but she exerted herself to amuse her patient, to tell him all the circumstances of his daughters’ arrival.
“They’ve but a box apiece,” said Bell, “and that’s wonderful for our ladies. But they’ve minded this time that it’s not that easy to get trunks up our stairs. They’ve minded and they’ve no minded, Sir Ludovic: for Mrs. Bellin’am’s is that big that no mortal, let alone John, could get it up the stair. Her woman has had a’ the things to carry up in armfu’s. And oh, the heap o’ things a leddy wants when she gangs about! It’s just a bondage—gowns for the mornin’ and gowns for the evenin’, and gowns to put on when she’s dressing hersel’, and as mony fykes of laces and collars, and caps for her head—if they ca’ thae vanities caps.”
Sir Ludovic laughed.
“Poor Jean and poor Grace!” he said. “I hope they think mourning is becoming to them, Bell, for they will not stint me of a ribbon; I know my daughters too well for that. They will give me everything that is due to me, to the very last scrap of crape.”