“Sit still.”
Murchison’s voice was fierce in its suppressed impatience. Jack crumbled into his corner, while his mother soothed Gwen and stroked her hair. A distant church clock chimed the quarter as the cab turned a corner slowly, and stopped before the blank-faced villa. Murchison climbed out and took Gwen from his wife’s arms. He unlocked the door, and laid the child on the sofa by the window, before returning to pay the man his fare.
“How much?”
“Two bob, sir.”
Murchison felt in his pockets, and brought out a shilling, a sixpence, and two half-pennies. The little cash-box in Catherine’s desk had to be unlocked before the cab rattled away, leaving a solitary candle burning in the front room of Clovelly.
In half an hour the two children were in bed; Gwen feverish, restless, Jack reduced to silence by his father’s quiet but unquestionable authority. Murchison examined Gwen anxiously as she lay with her curls gathered up by a blue ribbon. He made her up a light draught of bromide, sweetened it with sugar, and persuaded the child to drink it down. Master Jack Murchison was ordered to lie as quiet as a mouse. Then Catherine and her husband went down to a plain and rather dismal supper, cold boiled mutton, rice-pudding, bread and cheese.
When the meal was over, Catherine glided up-stairs to look at Gwen. She found both children asleep. Jack curled up like a puppy, the girl flushed, but breathing peacefully. In the dining-room Murchison had drawn an arm-chair before the fire, and was stirring the dull coal into a blaze. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder as he heard his wife’s step upon the threshold. Catherine was struck by his lined and thoughtful face.
“Well?”
“Both asleep.”
Her husband continued to stir the fire, his eyes catching a restless gleam from the wayward flicker of the flames.