Part 9 (2/2)

”Now I am going to help you to bed, mammy darling,” she said, cheerfully. ”Phillis is quite right: we will not talk any more to-night; we shall want all our strength for to-morrow. We will just say our prayers, and try and go to sleep, and hope that things may turn out better than we expect.” And, as Mrs. Challoner was too utterly spent to resist this wise counsel, Nan achieved her pious mission with some success. She sat down by the bedside and leaned her head against her mother's pillow, and soon had the satisfaction of hearing the even breathing that proved that the sleeper had forgotten her troubles for a little while.

”Poor dear mother! how exhausted she must have been!” thought Nan, as she closed the door softly. She was far too anxious and wide awake herself to dream of retiring to rest. She was somewhat surprised to find her sisters' room dark and empty as she pa.s.sed. They must be still downstairs, talking over things in the firelight: they were as little inclined for sleep as she was. Phillis's carefully decocted tea must have stimulated them to wakefulness.

The room was still bright with firelight. Dulce was curled up in her mother's chair, and had evidently been indulging in what she called ”a good cry.” Phillis, sombre and thoughtful, was pacing the room, with her hands clasped behind her head,--a favorite att.i.tude of hers when she was in any perplexity. She stopped short as Nan regarded her with some astonishment from the threshold.

”Oh, come in, Nan: it will be such a relief to talk to a sensible person. Dulce is so silly, she does nothing but cry.”

”I can't help it,” returned Dulce, with another sob; ”everything is so horrible, and Phillis will say such dreadful things.”

”Poor little soul!” said Nan, in a sympathetic voice, sitting down on the arm of the chair and stroking Dulce's hair; ”it is very hard for her and for us all,” with a pent-up sigh.

”Of course it is hard,” retorted Phillis, confronting them rather impatiently from the hearth-rug; ”it is bitterly hard. But it is not worse for Dulce than for the rest of us. Crying will not mend matters, and it is a sheer waste of tears. As I tell her, what we have to do now is to make the best of things, and see what is to be done under the circ.u.mstances.”

”Yes, indeed,” repeated Nan, meekly; but she put her arm round Dulce, and drew her head against her shoulder. The action comforted Dulce, and her tears soon ceased to flow.

”I am thinking about mother,” went on Phillis, pondering her words slowly as she spoke; ”she does look so ill and weak. I do not see how we are to leave her.”

Mrs. Challoner's moral helplessness and dread of responsibility were so sacred in her daughters' eyes that they rarely alluded to them except in this vague fas.h.i.+on. For years they had s.h.i.+elded and petted her, and given way to her little fads and fancies, until she had developed into a sort of gentle hypochondriac.

”Mother cannot bear this; we always keep these little worries from her,” Nan had been accustomed to say; and the others had followed her example.

The unspoken thought lay heavy upon them now. How were they to prevent the rough winds of adversity from blowing too roughly upon their cherished charge? The roof, and perhaps the crust, might be theirs; but how were they to contrive that she should not miss her little comforts? They would gladly work; but how, and after what fas.h.i.+on?

Phillis was the first to plunge into the unwelcome topic, for Nan felt almost as helpless and bewildered as Dulce.

”We must go into the thing thoroughly,” began Phillis, drawing a chair opposite to her sisters. She was very pale, but her eyes had a certain brightness of determination. She looked too young for that quiet care-worn look that had come so suddenly to her; but one felt she could be equal to any emergency. ”We are down-hearted, of course; but we have plenty of time for all that sort of thing. The question is, how are we to live?”

”Just so,” observed Nan, rather dubiously; and Dulce gave a little gasp.

”There is the Friary standing empty; and there is the furniture; and there will be about fifty pounds, perhaps less, when every thing is settled. And we have clothes enough to last some time, and----” here Dulce put her hands together pleadingly, but Phillis looked at her severely, and went on: ”Forty or fifty pounds will soon be spent, and then we shall be absolutely penniless; we have no one to help us.

Mother will not hear of writing to Uncle Francis; we must work ourselves or starve.”

”Couldn't we let lodgings?” hazarded Dulce, with quavering voice; but Phillis smiled grimly.

”Let lodgings at the Friary! why, it is only big enough to hold us. We might get a larger house in Hadleigh; but no, it would be ruinous to fail, and perhaps we should not make it answer. I cannot fancy mother living in the bas.e.m.e.nt story; she would make herself wretched over it.

We are too young. I don't think that would answer, Nan: do you?”

Nan replied faintly that she did not think it would. The mere proposition took her breath away. What would Mr. Mayne say to that?

Then she plucked up spirit and went into the question vigorously.

There were too many lodging-houses in Hadleigh now; it would be a hazardous speculation, and one likely to fail; they had not sufficient furniture for such a purpose, and they dare not use up their little capital too quickly. They were too young, too, to carry out such a thing, Nan did not add ”and too pretty,” though she colored and hesitated here. Their mother could not help them; she was not strong enough for housework or cooking. She thought that plan must be given up.

”We might be daily governesses, and live at home,” suggested Dulce, who found a sort of relief in throwing out feelers in every direction.

Nan brightened up visibly at this, but Phillis's moody brow did not relax for a moment.

”That would be nice,” acquiesced Nan, ”and then mother would not find the day so long if we came home in the evening; she could busy herself about the house, and we could leave her little things to do, and she would not find the hours so heavy. I like that idea of yours, Dulce; and we are all so fond of children.”

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