“I had no idea that Pollie cared a bit for me,” observed her master. “I thought she regarded me as a wage-paying machine, and that you and the boy were the idols. It is quite flattering to find that I came in for a bit of the adoration.”
“Of course Pollie cares for you after living in the house with us for seven years, and you always so considerate and polite,” said Lucy.
“Considerate and polite!” echoed Charlie. “Well, I do hope I’m not quite a brute in my own home, and I don’t know how many other fellows I’ve rebuked for calling their landladies’ servants ‘the slavey.’ And they’ve often said to me, ‘Well, but it’s true,’ and I say, ‘Then it oughtn’t to be true.’”
“Of course it should not be true,” Lucy responded.
“It is quite touching to think Pollie cares for my going away,” Charlie went on. “But I tell you, Lucy, it occurs to me that it is not my going that has grieved her, but the thought of your being left alone.” He paused for a moment. “She thinks you’ll be so dull,” he said, fearing lest his words might have brought to Lucy’s mind the idea they had wakened in his own—to wit, that probably Pollie regarded this temporary separation as likely to be for the earthly forever. “Well, I can only say again,” he went on, “that my greatest comfort is that she is with you. What a blessing we have not changed our servant perpetually as the Brands do! How could I go off and leave you with an utter stranger, who might desert you the next week?”
“We never know what changes may come,” said Lucy, to whom silence began to seem criminal. “But we must trust God to provide for emergencies. They never are so bad as they look beforehand.”
“That is quite true,” answered Charlie, “and that’s just how I feel—a special trial has come to us, and a special blessing is prepared for it in the shape of Pollie.”
Lucy could endure no more. She jumped up and went out of the room so hurriedly that Charlie thought she must have heard a ring at the door-bell. She really went to little Hugh’s bedroom, and sat down in the darkness beside the cot where he was already asleep. She began to revolve schemes. She would get Charlie to go with her and the boy to spend the interval before his departure at the seaside. That would take him away in safety from Florence’s chatter and Pollie’s tears. It had other substantial recommendations, too, such as she could urge. It was highly desirable that before his great journey Charlie should shake off the little ways and weaknesses of invalidism as a “change” helps a convalescent to do. Then she would add what she knew would be a supreme argument with him—that her teaching duties at the Institute would begin at the Christmas quarter, and that she ought not to take up these labours when below par in nerve and health after her anxious nursing. She would plead, too, the charm of the little family of three being together quite by themselves in a strange place, where they would be safe from any calls or condolences or curiosity, and could wander about or rest, just at their own sweet will. Of course, this trip would cost a little money, but not very much, and apart from all its other charms, Lucy felt that it would soothe her own heart in the pain of having been forced to refuse to accompany her husband to his port of departure.
“You are a funny little woman,” said her husband, when she went downstairs again and made these suggestions. “What else will you think out so cleverly? I shall like this of all things; and all the while I am away, it will be so much cheerier to have last thoughts of each other taking quiet holiday by the sea, than of each of us mewed up in a sick-room, coddling and being coddled.”
“And I’ll be able to do two or three sketches,” Lucy went on. “I should like to do them with you looking on, to know if you think my hand has lost any of its cunning. It will get me up to the mark, too. I daresay I may do something that will more than pay for our trip.”