Miss Lestrange rose to her feet; she looked agitated, plain, and awkward; her hands trembled and she gathered her sewing materials together. (There was the making of an excellent actress about Miss Lestrange.)
“My dear boy,” she said solicitously, “I haven’t liked to bother you about it while you were away--these things are so intangible--but Dr. Bossage isn’t quite pleased with Leslie’s health, his constitution is so delicate; he takes after Annette. You know I have been almost excessively careful of him. I spoke to Bossage last week about the impending change, and he said it would be a very serious matter unless the boy really took to her. I blame myself, Horace, for not having conquered my feelings and spoken to Leslie strongly in her favor; but the Lestranges have always been sincere; there was this story against her. I was too cautious. I waited. I am afraid I may have done incalculable harm--” She stopped breathless. Horace eyed her gravely.
“Is that all?” he asked as she finished.
“You had better go and see Bossage yourself,” said Miss Lestrange; “he strongly advised my taking the boy to live in the country or by the sea for a year or two, till he becomes definitely strong. I daresay you remember my having mentioned it to you in my last letter? Of course, should you think it best, I will take him with pleasure. I have already told you that I will send to Mallows for all my little things.”
“You know you needn’t do that, Etta; Mallows is as much your home as mine. Edith and I will run down when we like, but I most certainly wish you to remain there,” interrupted her brother.
Miss Lestrange bowed her head.
“That is like your generosity, Horace,” she replied slowly. “I accept. Now I am sure you wish to go and see Edith before it is too late.” (“Edith” was a distinct concession, but Miss Lestrange knew the value of inconclusive concessions.) “By-and-by you will tell me what you two are going to do about the boy. I hope, even if you decide to disregard Bossage, you will let him come away with me after your marriage, till you get settled, and it is convenient for you to have him back.”
After all, she hadn’t put him in a corner--she hadn’t tied him down nor asked him for a promise, or made a scene. She had done none of the things he had feared; she had merely given him “rope enough to hang himself,” and then let him go to accomplish the performance.
Horace did not know what had happened; he felt, indeed, vaguely uncomfortable. There was the strange story about Edith--pure folly but still strange--and there was this news of his boy’s health and his evident frightened horror of the new relationship. He might go and see Bossage, but he had a horror of going to see doctors--a horror born of terrible useless hours, while hideous, unavailing efforts were being made to stop the feeble ebbing of Annette’s little life. No, he wasn’t going to see doctors! But Edith was so keen to have the little chap. It was hard on Edith. (He did not consider it was hard upon himself--he was not apt to take that view of misfortune.) They had talked about him for hours, and it had all been so natural and right and easy--their future life together had been built around Annette’s son; the picture seemed suddenly a piece of vacant canvas brushed out by ineffaceable hygienic whitewash.
There was only one thing to be done. He would dismiss Flinders.