“I only wish you could come back to us, Miss Fenton,” he went on, so kindly that I was ashamed of giving way so. “The home feels very empty, and I think it would do my dear wife good to have the children’s feet pattering overhead. She is too weak to have them with her just now, but it would be pleasant to know they were near.”
I pleaded again that we might come home, and he smiled indulgently.
“You must get well first,” he said, gently, “and then I will come and fetch you all back myself. Just now you require nursing, and are better where you are; and it is still hot in London, and the sea breezes will benefit the children a little longer. Come, you will be sensible about this, Miss Fenton.”
And then, as Gay joined us, he turned to her and reiterated his opinion that I must stay at Marshlands until I was well.
Of course, Gay agreed with him; but I thought she was a little graver than usual. I knew Mr. Morton was right. I was no use to anyone just now; but, all the same, it made me feel very unhappy to see him go away and leave us behind. He could not stay any longer, he said, for fear of arousing his wife’s suspicions. He should just tell her he had run down to have a peep at the children; that would please her, he knew. He bade me good-bye very kindly, and told me to keep up my courage, and not lose heart. I could see he was not vexed with me for giving way. No doubt he attributed it all to weakness.
I sat down and had a good cry when he had left us, and there was no denying that I was homesick that night, and wanted Aunt Agatha. I felt a poor creature in my own estimation. Perhaps I was impatient; Dr. Staples told me I was, and his eyes twinkled as he said it; but it seemed to me I recovered very slowly. The burns were healing nicely; in a few more days I could put on my dress and enjoy the country drives; but I did not resume my usual duties for some time.
I could not dress and undress the children; walking tired me, and my spirits were sadly variable. The news from Prince’s Gate did not cheer me: my mistress continued in the same unsatisfactory state. Mr. Morton wrote every day, and both Mrs. Markham and Gay had gone up to town for a few hours. I heard more from Mrs. Markham than from Gay. She thought her sister looking very ill, and considered there was grave cause for anxiety. She had an excellent nurse, and her husband was most devoted in his attentions; she had never seen anyone to equal him. Here Mrs. Markham sighed; but her sister looked dull and depressed, and she thought she missed the children.
The bright September days passed away very slowly. I was growing weary of my banishment; and yet Marshlands and Netherton had become very dear to me, and I had grown to love the quaint old nursery. I was thankful when my strength permitted me to resume our mornings on the beach and our afternoons in the orchard. I felt less restless out of doors, and I liked to have Rolf with me. I saw very little of Gay; just then she was busy with parish work. I heard from her casually one day that Mr. Hawtry had gone to Italy. I suppose I looked astonished, for she said, quickly—
“He called the other afternoon and asked to see the children, but Adelaide had taken you all for a drive. I thought he seemed a little sorry not to say good-bye to them, as he expected to be away some time. He hoped you were better, Merle, and desired his kind regards.”
“And he has gone to Italy?”