Part 51 (2/2)
”I will, ma'am.”
Maria spoke the words in good faith. Her mind had conjured up a vision of old Jekyl keeping his sixty pounds in his house, at the foot of some old stocking: and she thought how easily he might be robbed of it. ”Yes, Jonathan, tell him to bring it here: don't let him keep it at home, to lose it.”
Maria had another auditor, of whose presence she was unconscious. It was her mother. Mrs. Hastings had been admitted by a servant, and came through the room to the terrace unheard by Maria. The little girl's ears--like all children's--were quick, and she turned, and broke into a joyous cry of ”Grandma!” Maria looked round.
”On, mamma! I did not know you were here. Are you quite well?” hastily added Maria, fancying that her mother looked dispirited.
”We have had news from Reginald this morning, and the news is not good,”
was the reply. ”He has been getting into some disagreeable sc.r.a.pe over there, and it has taken a hundred pounds or two to clear him. Of course they came upon us for it.”
Maria's countenance fell. ”Reginald is very unlucky. He seems always to be getting into sc.r.a.pes.”
”He always is,” said Mrs. Hastings. ”We thought he could not get into mischief at sea: but it appears that he does. The s.h.i.+p was at Calcutta still, but they were expecting daily to sail for home.”
”What is it that he has been doing?” asked Maria.
”I do not quite understand,” replied Mrs. Hastings. ”I saw his letter, but that was not very explanatory. What it chiefly contained were expressions of contrition, and promises of amendment. The captain wrote to your papa: and that letter he would not give me to read. Your papa's motive was a good one, no doubt,--to save me vexation. But, my dear, he forgets that uncertainty causes the imagination to conjure up fears, worse, probably, than the reality.”
”As Reginald grows older, he will grow steadier,” remarked Maria. ”And, mamma, whatever it may be, your grieving over it will not mend it.”
”True,” replied Mrs. Hastings. ”But,” she added, with a sad smile, ”when your children shall be as old as mine, Maria, you will have learnt how impossible it is to a mother not to grieve. Have you forgotten the old saying? 'When our children are young they tread upon our toes; but when they are older they tread upon our hearts.'”
Little Miss Meta was treading upon her toes, just then. The child's tiny shoes were dancing upon grandmamma's in her eagerness to get close to her; to tell her that Donatan was going to give her a great big handful of roses, as soon as they were out, with the thorns cut off.
”Come to me, Meta,” said Maria. She saw that her mamma was not in a mood to be troubled with children, and she drew the child on to her own knee.
”Mamma, I am going for a drive presently,” she continued. ”Would it not do you good to accompany me?”
”I don't know that I could spare the time this morning,” said Mrs.
Hastings. ”Are you going far?”
”I can go far or not, as you please,” replied Maria. ”We have a new carriage, and George told me at breakfast that I had better try it, and see how I liked it.”
”A new carriage!” replied Mrs. Hastings, her accent betraying surprise.
”Had you not enough carriages already, Maria?”
”In truth, I think we had, mamma. This new one is one that George took a fancy to when he was in London last week; and he bought it.”
”Child--though of course it is no business of mine--you surely did not want it. What sort of carriage is it?”
”It is a large one: a sort of barouche. It will do you good to go out with me. I will order it at once, if you will do so, mamma.”
<script>