Part 43 (1/2)
”Perhaps she is sure that we think of her,” Estelle said, rather sadly.
”I did not know till she was gone that I loved her so much and would miss her so much; because sometimes--sometimes she reproved me--and we had little disagreements--but all the same she was so kind--and always it was for your opinion I was corrected--it was what you would think if I did this or that. Ah, well, Nina will take her own time before she allows us to know. Perhaps she is not very happy.”
Nor had Mrs. Grey any more helpful counsel or conjecture to offer; so, rather downheartedly, he got into the hansom again and set out for Victoria station, where he was to meet Maurice Mangan.
Maurice he found in charge of a bewildering number of variously sized packages, which seemed to cause him some anxiety, for there was no sort of proper cohesion among them.
”Toys for Francie's children, I'll bet,” said Lionel.
”Well, how otherwise could I show my grat.i.tude?” Mangan said. ”You know it's awfully good of your people, Linn, to ask a poor, solitary devil like me to join their Christmas family party. It's almost too much--”
”I should think they were precious glad to get you!” Lionel made answer, as he and his friend took their seats in one of the carriages.
”And I've got a little present for Miss Francie herself,” continued Mangan, opening his bag, and taking therefrom a small packet. He carefully undid the tissue-paper wrappers, until he could show his companion what they contained; it was a copy of ”Aurora Leigh,”
bound in white vellum, and on the cover were stamped two tiny violets,-green-stemmed and purple-blossomed.
”'Aurora Leigh,'” said Lionel--not daring, however, to take the dainty volume in his hands. ”That will just suit Miss Savonarola. And what are the two violets, Maurice--what do they mean?”
”Oh, that was merely a little device of my own,” Mangan said, evasively.
”You don't mean to say that these are your handiwork?” Lionel asked, looking a little closer.
”Ob, no. I merely drew them, and the binder had them stamped in color for me.”
”And what did that cost?”
”I don't know yet.”
”And don't care--so long as it's for Francie. And yet you are always lecturing me on my extravagance!”
”Oh, well, it's Christmas-time,” Mangan said; ”and I confess I like Christmas and all its ways. I do. I seem to feel the general excitement throughout the country tingling in me too; I like to see the children eagerly delighted, and the houses decorated with evergreens, and the old folk pleased and happy with the enthusiasm of the youngsters. If I've got to drink an extra gla.s.s of port, I'm there; if it's Sir Roger de Coverley, I'm there; I'll do anything to add to the general _Schwarmerei_. What the modern _litterateur_ thinks it fine to write about Christmas being all sham sentiment is simply insufferable bosh.
Christmas isn't in the least bit played out--though the magazinist may be, or may pretend to be. I think it's a grand thing to have a season for sending good wishes, for recollection of absent friends, for letting the young folk kick up their heels. I say, Linn, I hope there's going to be some sunlight down there. I am longing to see a holly-tree in the open air--the green leaves and scarlet berries glittering in the sunlight. Oh, I can tell you an autumn session of Parliament is a sickening thing--when the interminable speeches and wranglings drag on and on until you think they're going to tumble over into Christmas-day itself. There's fog in your brain as well as in your throat, and you seem to forget there ever was an outer world; you get listless and resigned, and think you've lived all your life in darkness. Well, just a glimmer of suns.h.i.+ne, that's all I bargain for--just a faint glimmer--and a sight of the two holly-trees by the gate of the doctor's house.”
What intoxication had got into the head of this man? Whither had fled his accustomed indifference and indolence, his sardonic self-criticism?
He was like a school-boy off for the holidays. He kept looking out of the window--with persistent hope of the gray sky clearing. He was impatient of the delay at the various stations. And when at length they got out and found the doctor's trap awaiting them, and proceeded to get up the long and gradual incline that leads to Winstead village, he observed that the fat old pony, if he were lent for a fortnight to a butcher, would find it necessary to improve his pace.
When they reached the doctor's house and entered, they found that only the old lady was at home; the doctor had gone to visit a patient; Miss Francie was, as usual, away among her young convalescents.
”It has been a busy time for Francie,” Mrs. Moore said. ”She has been making so many different things for them. And I don't like to hear her sewing-machine going so late at night.”
”Then why do you let her do it?” Lionel said, in his impetuous way. ”Why don't you get in somebody to help her? Look here, I'll pay for that. You call in a seamstress to do all that sewing, and I'll give her a sovereign a week. Why should Francie have her eyes ruined?”
”Lionel is like the British government, Mrs. Moore,” Mangan said, with a smile. ”He thinks he can get over every difficulty by pulling out his purse. But perhaps Miss Francie might prefer carrying out her charitable work herself.”
So Maurice Mangan was arrogating to himself, was he, the right of guessing Francie's preferences?
”Well, mother, tell me where I am likely to find her. I am going to pull her out of those fever-dens and refuges for cripples. Why, she ought to know that's all exploded now. Slumming, as a fad, had its day, but it's quite gone out now--”
”Do you think it is because it is fas.h.i.+onable, or was fas.h.i.+onable, that Miss Francie takes an interest in those poor children?” Maurice asked, gently.
Lionel was nearly telling him to mind his own business; why should he step in to defend Cousin Francie?