“I shall do nothing mamma will disapprove of,” said Grace; and she parted with stateliness from this friend who had been the only one to succour them in their trouble.
As for Milly, she was very deprecating and tearful as she held out her two hands to him. “Do not be angry!” she said with her beseeching eyes. It was all the doctor could do not to stoop down and kiss this peace-maker as he went away. He had thought her a little nobody at first, but he did not do so now. “I declare she is as like Laura as one flower is to another,” he said to himself as he went down-stairs. Now Laura was the doctor’s favourite child—and what more could be said?
When he was gone, Grace returned to her previous occupation with her father’s papers; but her heart was gone out of her search. “We might have asked him at least to recommend some lawyer to us,” she said, which was the only observation she made to Milly on the subject. Milly, indeed, was dismissed altogether from the employment she had been trusted with before Dr Brewer came in. Grace continued to look over the papers, to put one on this heap, and the other on that; but she no longer required Milly’s pen to write down and describe what each was. For at least an hour they sat silent, the younger sister looking wistfully on, the elder rustling the papers, bending over them with puckers of careful consideration over her eyes, affecting to pause now and then to deliberate over one or another. At length Grace gathered them all together, with a sudden impatient movement, and, putting them back into the despatch-box, concluded suddenly without any warning by an outburst of tears.
“To think,” she cried, when Milly, greatly alarmed, yet almost glad thus to recover her sister, hurried to her—“to think that we should be going over all these things that were his private things just the other day—not for love, or because it was necessary, but for business, and about money! Oh, how hard we are, how heartless, what poor wretched creatures! I could not have believed it of myself.”
“Dear,” said Milly, soothing her, “it is because everything is so strange; and to do anything is a little comfort; and for the children’s sake.”
“I wish now,” said Grace, with her head upon her sister’s shoulder, “that we had telegraphed at once to mamma.”
“Perhaps it would have been better,” said Milly; “but you thought it would be so dreadful for her, without any warning.”
Grace wept less bitterly when this instance of her own self-denial was suggested to her. “It is so long to wait—so long to wait,” she cried. And then a sense of their desolation came over them, and the two forlorn young creatures clung to each other. Their nerves were overwrought, and they were able for no more.
[CHAPTER XII]
THERE was not very much more happiness under the roof of the house in Grove Road. Geoffrey, as has been said, sat half the night through in his study, with his head in his hands, pondering vainly what he ought to do. Though he said to himself that it was only just that they should produce their proofs, that they should establish their claim before anything was done, he jumped at the conclusion all the same, and took it for granted that the claim would be established, and that his own fate was certain. And after that what was he to do? He was as confused, as down-cast as ever, when, in the middle of the night, he made his way through the darkness of the sleeping house and went to bed, but scarcely to rest. His mother, whose thoughts also had kept her awake, and who had cried, and pondered, and dozed, and started up to cry and doze again, heard him come up-stairs, and with difficulty restrained herself from going to him, to see that he was warm in bed, and had taken no harm from his vigil. She did not do it, fortunately remembering that Geoff was not always grateful for her solicitude; but her fears lest he should have cold feet mingled with and aggravated her fears lest he should fall in love, and marry and go from her—and altogether overshadowed her concern about their fortune and the chances that their money might be taken from them. Miss Anna, on her side, was wakeful too. That is, she lay among her pillows in profoundest comfort, with the firelight making the room bright, and candles burning in dainty Dresden candlesticks at her bedside, and one or two favourite books within reach, and turned everything over in her active mind, until she had decided what course to pursue. Not one detail of all the luxury round her would Miss Anna part with without a struggle. She was determined to fight for her fortune to the very last; but if there was any better way than mere brutal fighting, her mind was ready to grasp it and weigh all its possibilities. She, too, heard Geoff, so late, a great deal too late, come up-stairs to bed, but only smiled at it somewhat maliciously, not without an enjoyment of the uneasy thoughts which no doubt had kept him from his rest, and no concern whatever about his cold feet. She lay thus, with her eyes as wakeful as the stars, till she had concluded upon her plan of action. As soon as she had done this she carefully extinguished the candles in an elaborate way of her own, so that there might be no smell, turned round to the fire, which had ceased to flame, and now shot only a ruddy suppressed glow into the curtained darkness—and shutting her eyes fell asleep like a baby. But even she, the most comfortable in the house, was far outdone, it need not be said, by the two poor young agitators in the hotel who had filled Grove Road with so many anxieties and cares. Hours before, Grace and Milly, crying and saying their prayers in one breath, had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, and knew no more about their troubles nor about the possibilities before them, nor anything else in the world, till the morning sunshine awoke them after eight long hours of perfect repose.