“Poor dear! Oh, God help her, poor dear! I know what it is myself; but I was with him till the last moment. She will think if she had been here it would never have happened. Oh, God help her, poor dear! Then,” she added a minute after, as if this had been a reason, “you must get your boxes ready and come with me at once, my poor children; I cannot leave you here. I tell you I don’t know whether I shall be glad or sorry, if it is settled that you are Leonard Crosthwaite’s children. Sorry, I suppose, because I shall lose my money; but now that I know you I should be almost as sorry to lose you.”
This, though it was sudden, was real and true; for the kind woman felt that she had done them injustice. They were not dangerous adventuresses, hunting Geoff, but good girls, breaking their hearts for their mother, and counting the days till she should hear that terrible news. Mrs Underwood jumped into enthusiasm for them because she had been so much afraid of them before.
“You shall not lose either us or the money,” said Grace. “We had resolved before Mr Geoffrey was here, that we should do nothing more and think nothing more about it. If papa had meant us to do anything he would have said so. We made up our minds to this—this morning, before Mr Geoffrey was here.”
“My dears!” said Mrs Underwood, bewildered. She had no head for business, and she could not understand more than one thing at a time. She withdrew her arm a little and said doubtfully, “Then Geoffrey has been here?”
“He came—in the most generous, noble way. I am so glad, I am so thankful,” cried Grace, “and so is Milly—that we had quite made up our minds before.”
Mrs Underwood breathed forth a sigh of resignation. “I must hear all about this after,” she said, faltering; “but, my dears, the fly is standing at the door, and it is no use keeping it waiting. Put up your things as quickly as you can. Anna thinks—I mean I feel quite sure that you ought not to be staying at an inn in your circumstances. If your luggage is too heavy for the fly the heavy boxes can be sent afterwards. Of course you have all your coloured things, poor dears; and to go into such deep mourning with nobody to advise you! The best thing will be to bring just what is necessary. Run and put your things together and I will wait here.”
Then there passed between Milly and Grace a final consultation, several volumes in one glance. “Do you really mean that we are to go with you—to go home with you? Do you really want to have us?” said Grace with quivering lips.
“Oh, my dear, of course, of course I want you! And Anna—well, we need never mind Anna. You will amuse her too. She is very fond of clever people, and you are clever; at least you are clever, my dear,” Mrs Underwood said, patting Grace upon the shoulder; “and you are the little silly one, you will just do for me,” she said, putting her arm through Milly’s. Then her countenance clouded over. The girls did not know what to make of it. They could not hear the voice which was in Mrs Underwood’s ears—her own voice, saying, “I wonder why he should always be going to see the old lady—when he has me?” She gazed into Milly’s face and wondered wistfully whether it would frown at her, and find fault with Geoff for his attention to his mother. “It is nothing, my dear, nothing,” she said, recovering herself; “a little pain that I am quite used to. Go and get ready, like dear children; it will be such a surprise for Geoff.”
Thus Mrs Underwood carried out Miss Anna’s plans. That lady smiled when she heard the arrival, the boxes carried up-stairs, the sound of the young voices in the house. She thought it was all her doing, and that Geoff was a young precisian and his mother a fool, and she herself the only member of the family capable of doing anything in its defence.