Silverthorns
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“You mean to say when my husband’s branch of it came into possession,” said Lady Mildred hastily. “I will listen to no blame of him, Mr Miller.”
Mr Miller smiled a little.
“I do not ask you to do so, Lady Mildred,” he said. “Mr Osbert was misinformed and prejudiced; and there was foolish pride on the other side – reluctance to explain things properly. I blame the old squire’s sister, the late Mrs Waldron, for this, though she was an admirable woman. If you will allow me, I will go over the whole with you, and explain exactly the present position of things.”
Lady Mildred was closeted with Mr Miller for a long time that morning. When he at last left and Claudia rejoined her, the girl saw that she was grave and thoughtful, but not restless or uneasy.
“Mr Miller had melancholy news to give me, Claudia,” she said; “my husband’s nephew, General Osbert’s son, is dead. It is very, very sad for them.” Claudia’s bright face shadowed over.
“Have they no other children?”
“It is not ‘they’ – the old man is a widower. Yes; he has one other son, but he is frightfully delicate,” and Lady Mildred sighed. “I have a good deal on my mind, my dear. I don’t quite see what to do. What should you say to our going abroad; I may have to see the General on business matters.”
“I should like it, of course,” said Claudia; “especially if – please don’t think me selfish – if I could go on with my lessons.”
“Oh, you tiresome child! You have lessons on the brain: yes, of course you would go on with them, and learn more than at Miss Lloyd’s. No, I am not vexed with you; it is right and necessary that you should feel as you do. I wonder, by the bye, how that little fellow is – the little Waldron boy. I hope his adventure has done him no lasting harm; he did look so very thin and delicate. Perhaps the hearing of those unfortunate people’s troubles has made me think of him again.”
“Might I write to his sister to ask how he is, Aunt Mildred?” said Claudia. She would have spoken eagerly, for she felt so, but she knew that with Lady Mildred it was best to be calm.
Rather to her surprise the response was almost cordial.
“Yes; I have no objection. It would seem only natural after our having had him with us. Tell the girl I should like to hear that his exposure in the snow has done him no harm.”
“Thank you, aunt; I will write at once,” said Claudia, flushing with pleasure.
“What do you thank me for, my dear?” said Lady Mildred, with a rather curious smile. “It is rather I that should thank you for writing the letter for me.”
But Claudia saw that she was not vexed, though she could not quite understand her.
“Aunt Mildred is rather incomprehensible sometimes,” she said to herself; “but it is no use minding; she is so very good and kind.”
For it was not by any means Claudia’s way to worry or perplex herself with useless puzzles or wonderings; her heart and mind were too full of pleasanter and more profitable things.
She was not able, much as she wished to do so, to write to Charlotte that day. For she had to go out with her aunt, to write some notes to friends for her, and various other small pieces of business to attend to which made it evening before she had any leisure; and in the evening Lady Mildred disliked to see her occupied. And the next day was Sunday, when, as everybody knows, all the postal arrangements in London go to sleep.
So it was not till Tuesday morning that Claudia’s letter was put into Charlotte’s hands at the breakfast-table.
“A letter for me,” she exclaimed, with some excitement and surprise; for Charlotte’s letters, except on the very rare occasions when she was away from home for a little, were few and far between. “I wonder what it is. I wish it could be anything to please poor Jerry,” she went on speaking half to herself.
For since they had brought him home, Jerry had been ill – confined to bed now for the best part of a week, and it seemed very melancholy without him, even in that busy household. It had not done him any harm to bring him straight home that first day; the harm was done already; the chill had given him a bad feverish cold, and though it was not anything very serious he was much weakened by it.
“He must get up his strength, or we shall be afraid to let him out again till the fine weather comes,” the doctor said; “and that would be a sad thing for a boy of his age.”
Then when he went down-stairs with Mrs Waldron to write a prescription for a tonic, he sat looking thoughtful and pre-occupied for a minute or two. Jerry’s mother was a little alarmed.
“You don’t think there is anything much the matter with him?” she said.
“No, oh no; he has rather lost ground in his general health the last few months. He needed a fresh start or a fillip, and unluckily he has, so to speak, had one the wrong way. But there is nothing to be uneasy about, only considering how wonderfully he has improved in the last few years, I should like to see him still stronger.”
“Yes,” Mrs Waldron agreed; “and in another year or so he will be getting into a higher class at school, and he will have to work harder, that will be trying for him.”
“Exactly,” said the doctor, who had known Jerry since he was a baby; “now’s the time for him to get up his strength. You couldn’t by any possibility, I suppose, manage to send him out of England, to some of the mild health places, for a winter? It would be the making of him.”
Mrs Waldron shook her head. She saw no chance whatever of such a thing and said so.
“Ah, well,” said the doctor, “we must do our best. I dare say he’ll pull up again. It was only an idea that struck me.”
And when he had gone, and Jerry’s mother went up-stairs again, it struck her too that the boy did look sadly in want of something of the kind.
“If only we were rich,” she thought. “When we are all well it does not seem to press so – it is illness that brings small means home to one sorely.”
Charlotte opened her letter, and glanced through it; then made a little exclamation. She had her wish. It was something that would please Jerry.
“What is it?” asked her mother.
“It is,” – Charlotte began with a very slight shade of reluctance – “it is a letter from Miss Meredon to ask how Jerry is.”
“It is very nice of her to have thought of it,” said Mrs Waldron.
“She writes, she says, by Lady Mildred’s wish,” said Charlotte; “they are in London.”
“Well, you may run up-stairs and tell Jerry about it. It will please him,” said her mother.
Chapter Fourteen
Lady Mildred Makes up her Mind
Jerry was sitting up in bed; he was so far better that no serious illness was now to be feared, but he was weak and depressed, feeling vaguely “sorry for himself,” not quite sure what he wanted, nor eager to profit by the doctor’s permission to get up in the afternoon, and go down to have tea in the drawing-room.
He glanced up listlessly as Charlotte came in.
“I have an hour still before I need to go to school,” she said, “so I have come up to you, Jerry: there is a letter about you this morning.”
“About me!” Jerry exclaimed; “anything about school, do you mean? They know I’m ill.”
“No, not from school; it’s from Miss Meredon, to ask how you are; they’re in London.”
“How nice of her!” said Jerry, his eyes brightening. “I’m sure you must see, Charlotte, how nice she is.”
“Yes,” Charlotte allowed; “she is kind and good; I’ll never say she’s not. But it can’t be difficult to be nice when one has everything one wants, like her,” she added, reverting to her old strain.
Jerry looked disappointed.
“I think you are rather unfair, Charlotte,” he said. “If she wasn’t nice you’d say she was spoilt and selfish, and as she is nice you say it’s no credit to her. How can you tell that it isn’t very difficult to be nice and kind to others when one has everything one wants oneself? Papa says it is very difficult indeed not to get spoilt when one’s like that.”
“I’d like to be tried,” said Charlotte.
“Besides,” pursued Jerry, “do you know I’m not quite sure that she has everything the way we fancied.”
Charlotte looked up eagerly.
“What do you mean?” she said. “What can there be that she hasn’t got? We know she’s very rich and clever and pretty; that’s a good deal, any way.”
“But I’m almost sure she has to be away from the people she loves most,” said Jerry; “I know it by some things she said. And I could tell by her ways that she’s used to brothers and sisters – I fancy there’s a lot of them.”
“She is rather to be pitied for that,” said Charlotte half-laughingly, “though it can’t be so bad when people are rich. And then as Lady Mildred has adopted her what can it matter?”
“I shouldn’t like to be adopted away from you all, however grand and rich I was to be,” said Jerry, “and I don’t believe you’d like it either, whatever you say. You make yourself out worse than you are, Charlotte.”
“Well, read the letter,” she said, and Jerry did so. As he gave it back to Charlotte he grew rather red.
“Do you see?” he said; “they’re not coming back – not till after Christmas. Charlotte, you’re sure of the German prize.”
Charlotte’s face lighted up.
“I did not notice that,” she said; “I thought she said something about staying a few days.”
“No,” said Jerry, “she says, ‘We shall not return to Silverthorns till after Christmas, perhaps a few days after, and perhaps not so soon.’”
Charlotte drew a deep breath.
“I see,” she said. “My composition is nearly finished. Oh, Jerry, how I hope I shall get the prize now.”
“You are sure to,” he said shortly.
“Unless,” Charlotte went on, “unless she possibly finishes it there, and sends it back by post.”
“Nonsense,” said Jerry; “I am sure she won’t. She wouldn’t have time for one thing, and – ”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t think she’s the sort of girl to set herself so to win a prize when she’s been so short a time at school with you all,” said Jerry.
“No; perhaps not. Of course it can’t matter to her as it does to me. I dare say she’s forgotten all about it now she’s up in London amusing herself,” said Charlotte in a satisfied tone which Jerry found rather provoking. “I don’t mind her not trying – I mean I’m not too proud to say I know she would have won it if she had. I shall always say so, for she is much further on and much cleverer than any of us. And some of them have been working very hard lately. It isn’t as if I had no one worth trying against.”
Jerry said no more. He was glad for Charlotte, but he did feel it hard that Claudia’s self-sacrifice, which had been just as great and real as if after events had not rendered it unnecessary, should remain for ever unknown and unappreciated.
“I wonder if I shall never be able to tell Charlotte,” he said to himself. “Long after, perhaps, when she’s left off caring about school things. I should like her to know some day,” and his blue eyes gazed out into the future wistfully.
“What are you thinking of, Jerry?” said Charlotte suddenly. “Why do you look so melancholy? The doctor says you may get up this afternoon.”
“I know he did,” said Jerry, “but I don’t think I want to. I’m too tired,” and with a little sigh of weariness he lay down again on his pillows.
Charlotte looked at him in distress.
“Oh, dear,” she said; “how unlucky that snowy day was, though I suppose things might have turned out worse.”
“Yes,” replied Jerry with complacency; “I might have had rheumatic fever, or brain fever, perhaps. But, Charlotte, it wasn’t because I was feverish that I heard those noises that night; I know it wasn’t. And I don’t believe papa thinks so either. It can’t be true about only a member of the family hearing it, for you see there was papa when he was a little boy. I’d like to tell her, Claudia, that.”
“It was very queer,” said Charlotte; “you don’t know how pleased I am to have seen that part of the house, Jerry. I took a good look up the stair to where the tower room must be: there was something melancholy about the house, wasn’t there? How awfully nice it would be with a large family in it, and lots of running about.”
“You wouldn’t mind lots of brothers and sisters then,” said Jerry.
“No, I’d like it; just fancy what fun we could have. But I must go, Jerry. I will write to Miss Meredon when I come home.”
“I think I’d like to write to her myself,” said Jerry. “Ask mamma if I may.”
“Very well,” said Charlotte, rather surprised; “I dare say mamma will be quite pleased that you want to do it.” And so Mrs Waldron was, for Jerry’s lassitude and want of energy were troubling her.
He quite brightened up over his letter.
“You won’t care to see it, will you, mamma?” he asked. “You see she’s such a jolly – an understanding sort of girl; she won’t bother about how it’s spelt, and all that.”
“But you will send a proper message of thanks to Lady Mildred,” said his mother. “It is very good of her to take so much interest in you, and she was very kind to you at Silverthorns.”
“Not as kind as Miss Meredon was,” said Jerry; “but of course I’ll say it properly, mamma.”
Mrs Waldron told her husband that evening of the letter, and Jerry’s replying to it himself.
“I was glad to see him interested about it,” she said; “it is so unlike him to be so listless. How strange it seems that we should be in any way brought in contact with Silverthorns after all these years!”
“Stranger even than you think it,” he replied. “Do you know I heard only to-day that General Osbert’s eldest – or elder, he has only two – son is dead, in consequence of a fall from his horse? He died on the 13th, just the day Jerry was so frightened at Silverthorns. And it was when my old uncle died that I, as a child, was so startled there.”
“You won’t tell Jerry? It would only deepen the impression.”
“Of course not. Besides, there are so many other ways of accounting for what he heard – his own feverish state at the time, in the first place.”
“Perhaps it is on account of this news that Lady Mildred has gone up to town just now,” said Mrs Waldron.
“I hardly think so: there is still the other son, who may be married and have children, or this one, poor fellow, may have left sons himself for all I know. I have never kept up much knowledge of them. You see it cannot matter to us, as it is so very improbable but that Lady Mildred would leave all to her own people if the Osberts died out.”
Mrs Waldron smiled.
“I can’t see it quite that way,” she said; “you are half Osbert, and then you were so associated with the place from being brought up there. I am sure your grand-uncle would rather it had gone to you than to those far-off cousins.”
“Ah, well, it is much better not to think about it,” said Mr Waldron philosophically.
Jerry’s letter took him some time; he was not satisfied with the first production, and being a very particular, not to say “fussy,” little person, he determined to copy it out again. And he was very easily tired still. So it was not till the next day but one that Claudia received the answer to her letter of inquiry.
Her face lighted up with pleasure and amusement as she read it:
“My dear Miss Meredon,” it began —
“I have asked Charlotte to let me write myself, to thank you for writing about me. I am better, thank you, but I am still in bed. The doctor says I may get up this afternoon, but I’m not sure that I’m inclined. It is so cold and I am so tired still; I wish it was summer again. I want to tell you that Charlotte is in very good spirits, and she is working hard, specially at German. I should like to see you again. Perhaps some day I could go to call on you when you come back, for I should like to thank Lady Mildred Osbert too for being so kind to me. Papa and mamma wish me to thank her for wanting to know how I was. I wish you a merry Christmas. I remain, —
“Yours truly, —
“G.T. Waldron.”They were at breakfast when the letter came. Lady Mildred glanced at Claudia’s smiling face.
“Home news, I suppose, to make you look so sunshiny?” she said, in the half-teasing tone that Claudia had learnt not to mind.
“No, Aunt Mildred; it’s a letter from little Gervais Waldron,” she said, and after a moment’s imperceptible hesitation in which she had time to say to herself, – “there is nothing in it which would tell his secret,” – she handed it to Lady Mildred, who read it.
“Poor little fellow,” she said, “it doesn’t seem much as if he were in a very promising way; they should send him abroad for the rest of the winter. He looks to me just the sort of child that might be set up by it. I think it a cruel thing to send away hopeless invalids to those southern places, even if it prolongs their lives a little it too often deprives them of their homes and friends at the last. But it is a very different thing for a delicate child with no actual disease. In such a case it may give a start for life.”
Claudia listened with some surprise. Her aunt’s interest in the subject of this boy was not exactly the sort of thing that Lady Mildred’s usual ways would have led her to expect.
“I dare say it would be a very good thing – the best in the world for him,” she said. “But I am sure they could not possibly afford it.”
“Why? Are they so poor do you think?” said Lady Mildred quickly.
Claudia could not help laughing a very little. “Auntie,” she said, “people needn’t be desperately poor not to be able to send a child abroad for the winter. But I think the Waldrons are poorer than many families who yet would find it very difficult to do that.”
“How do you know – how can you judge? You’ve never been in their house?” said Lady Mildred sharply and almost suspiciously; “and I put you on your honour not to get intimate with the girl or with any of your schoolfellows.”
“I am not intimate with any of them, and with Charlotte Waldron perhaps less than with any; and of course I have never been at their house nor at anybody’s house without your knowing. I would never do such a thing, dear aunt; you know I wouldn’t,” said Claudia gently. “But I can tell quite well that they are poor,” she went on, seeing Lady Mildred’s face clear again; “it is a sort of instinct, because you see I know so well about it myself. Charlotte has had the same dress ever since I have known her, and once or twice, when it had got wet or muddy, she came with a still plainer and much older one. And – other little things that I don’t suppose most girls would notice – I have seen her look quite troubled when her clean cuffs got inked, or when a copy-book was lost and she had to get an extra one. She is a very, very neat and careful girl. Some of the others call her mean – once they began doing so before me as if they thought I would join with them in it, because they fancy I am rich! I did feel so angry; for I know it all so well, you see, Aunt Mildred.”
“Bless the child – she talks as if she were a char woman with half-a-dozen children,” said Lady Mildred. “I suppose you think you know a great deal more of the practical side of life than I do, my dear?”
But though her tone was sharp, Claudia could see that she was not vexed, but on the contrary interested, and even touched.
“I know more in some ways about being poor than you do, I think, Aunt Mildred,” she replied. “Oh, in hundreds of little ways that one would be almost ashamed to put into words, that rich people would really not understand! You see with my being the eldest at home, and mamma always wanting to save papa all the worries she could, I could not but know a great deal. But nothing is too hard when we are together. You can’t know, aunt, how different everything seems now that I can look forward to staying at home, and helping them so beautifully – all thanks to you. There were times when mamma and I used sometimes to think I should have to go away as a teacher in some school, or as a sort of nursery governess even. And now it is so different.”
“I wish it were going to be still more different,” said Lady Mildred. “I wish I could help you all more effectually; but – ”
“Dear Aunt Mildred, you couldn’t have helped us more effectually,” said Claudia, her eyes beaming. “We don’t want to be rich, even if you had a fortune to leave us, we couldn’t wish to be happier than we shall be when I am quite grown-up and able to begin my school, as mamma calls it. And we are all so strong and well, if it wasn’t for papa’s eyes.”
“Yes, that is a blessing,” Lady Mildred agreed: “the Meredons are a very sturdy race, much stronger than the Osberts. And that reminds me, I am sorry about that little Waldron boy; I cannot forget his poor little white face.”
“I hope he will get stronger soon,” said Claudia.
Lady Mildred said no more, and her niece saw little of her for the rest of that day, for there was another long interview with Mr Miller, and Claudia was sent out sight-seeing under the convoy of Lady Mildred’s maid.
It was some days later, Christmas Eve in fact, when the old lady said suddenly to her young companion:
“I see no help for it, Claudia; I must go to Cannes. It is absolutely necessary for me to see General Osbert without delay, and I cannot expect him to come here considering that his only remaining son is dying.”
“His only other son,” Claudia repeated. “Oh, Aunt Mildred, how very sad!”
“Yes; but this they have anticipated for some time. It was John Osbert’s death that was the great blow; and very probably the shock of it has made Frank worse. But it is very hard upon me too, though perhaps it seems selfish to say so; for I am too old to like starting off to the ends of the earth in this sudden fashion. For you I shall take care that it is no disadvantage. Once out of England I may not be in such a hurry to return. And you can have excellent lessons.”
“Oh, aunt, I do hope my being with you will not make it all more troublesome,” said Claudia. “Of course I shall like going better than anything. It is what mamma wished for me more than she could say. But, you know, if it would be easier for you it might be arranged for me to go to school, as mamma once thought of?”
“No,” said Lady Mildred decidedly; “I shall like having you with me. It will be an interest to me, and without it I should feel very lonely I shall not see much of the Osberts, poor people. It is really necessity that takes me there. I have never known much of them. I should like you to write home and tell them of our plans. I shall add a word or two to the letter.”
“And, Aunt Mildred,” said Claudia half-timidly, “may I answer Gervais’s letter? I should like to know if he is better: there is no fear of its leading to any intimacy that you might not like, as I may not be at Silverthorns again for a long time.”
“You can write if you like,” said Lady Mildred rather shortly. “I have nothing against the Waldrons. I dare say they are very well-brought-up young people. I only wish they did not live at that odious, gossiping Wortherham.”
Claudia looked up in surprise. She had hitherto been under the impression that of all the families in Wortherham, the Waldrons were her aunt’s chief aversion!
Chapter Fifteen
Like a Fairy Tale
“No,” said the doctor; “he’s not gaining ground as he should. Still there’s nothing really wrong. But I hardly know what to advise. What he really should have, as I’ve told you before, is a complete change. Can you not manage it? Not even to Devonshire or the Isle of Wight?”
Mrs Waldron shook her head sadly.
“I think even one of those would be about as impossible for us as the South of France or Italy,” she said. “But I will tell my husband what you say. Of course, in a case of life or death – ”
“But it is not so bad as that; I have never said it was,” interrupted the doctor. “Don’t exaggerate it, my dear lady. If you can’t do as I say, you can’t, and we must do what we can, and hope the best. He will outgrow his present weakness I have no doubt. But he has come through so much that I was beginning to be rather proud of him, and this unfortunate back-cast is rather disappointing. I had set my heart on his growing up really strong and hearty, and I quite believe he might if he could get a thorough good start. That is the real state of the case.”
“Thank you! Yes, I think I quite understand,” replied Mrs Waldron. But she sighed as she spoke; and the doctor felt sorry for her, but he had to hurry away; and after all he came across people in worse plight than the Waldrons every day of the week, and he could not afford to spend much time or thought in sympathy.