CHAPTER X.

FACING THE FUTURE.

The day of the funeral has come and gone. The last fond look has been taken, and the last kiss given to the calm, placid face, so soon to be hidden from sight. And now the mortal remains of the fond husband, loving father, and kind master have been carried from the once happy home, and, followed by a large number of sympathetic friends and acquaintances, in addition to the little train of mourners, are laid in their last resting-place.

The blinds are once more drawn up, and the winter sunlight streams into the dining-room, where are assembled Lady Woodhouse, Miss Denison, Doris, and Honor, with Mr. Trent and the old head clerk, Mr. Hobson, who is visibly overcome by the sadness of the occasion.

"It is no use," remarks Mr. Trent, moving some papers about, and seeming chiefly to address himself to the old man seated opposite him. "It will be no use going through my late client's will, although it was properly drawn up and witnessed only a few months back."

"Not the least in the world," asserts Mr. Hobson, taking off his spectacles and carefully polishing them up.

"Therefore," continues Mr. Trent slowly, "we may dispense with the usual forms and give our attention, Mr. Hobson, to settling the future affairs of Mrs. Merivale and these poor young ladies here. I have looked through Mr. Merivale's papers, and I find that there will be absolutely nothing but your own little property, Miss Honor, and the small portion of your mother's fortune, which is safely invested. The two together will amount to £70 per annum, and that, I regret to say, is absolutely all." With that the old gentleman looks kindly, and with eyes not altogether free from dimness, at the two orphan daughters of his late client, and for a few moments there is a dead silence in the room, broken by Honor, who presently asks:

"But, Mr. Trent, ought we to keep this--I mean, ought we not to give up _everything_ in such a case as this?"

Lady Woodhouse gasps, and is about to pour forth a torrent of remonstrances, when Mr. Trent, also looking slightly taken aback, replies:

"My dear young lady, just consider a moment. You have a perfect right to this money, and, pardon me if I ask, what would you propose to do without it? You cannot even realize what a paltry sum it is when house-rent, food, and clothing, to say nothing if any other expenses have to come out of it. You are doing as much as it is possible to do; indeed more than some persons would do; and I can assure you, Miss Honor, that there is not one among the unfortunate sufferers in this collapse who will not be satisfied with the course that is being taken."

Honor sighs and brushes away a tear. "I was thinking," she says, "of some of the last words my dear father ever spoke. He said he would give the very coat from off his back if that would be of any use."

"_If_ it would be of any use," repeated the old gentleman kindly; "but would it, my dear? would it? You must not allow your proper judgment to be run away with by your feeling--through an exaggerated feeling--of justice."

"Exactly what I was going to observe," says Lady Woodhouse with a jerk of her bonnet-strings. "You are your father's child all over, Honor; and I will say this of you: you are conscientious almost to a fault, and so was he, poor man. You can, I am sure, take the £70 a year with a clear conscience; so for goodness' sake let us hear no more about it. You have yet to learn what a mere drop in the ocean it will be when you come to try living on it--and that at once. Now do, girls, let us be plain and business-like, and give up talking nonsense. I have only an hour before I must return to the Pagets', and I have promised to have a cup of tea with your mother before I go, so that we can make our final arrangements for the journey to-morrow. Now, I understand that there is a certain amount of furniture in the house which belongs to your mother. I'm afraid it's not much; but still it is better than nothing. Where is it?"

"There is some in the school-room," answer the girls together, "and the rest is in the nurseries." And Honor adds despondently:

"I'm afraid there are not more than two beds."

"Well--now this is what I want you to do, Honor. Mr. Trent, I understand, has most kindly invited you and Miss Denison, while she is with you, to go and stay with him and Mrs. Trent for a little while. Now I want you while you are there to make out a list of what else is absolutely necessary in the way of furniture and send it to me. Mr. Hobson, it appears, has very kindly been looking at the advertisements of houses, and he tells me he has brought one or two to show you, which might, perhaps, be worth answering. He will, I feel sure, give you all the advice and help that he can in this matter. I am thankful, too, that good Miss Denison will be with you a little while longer, for I know what a comfort she will be to you; and if you are in any doubt or perplexity on any point you must go to her, Honor; she will give you the best and wisest advice."

"I shall indeed look forward to being of some use to Honor while I am with her," says Miss Denison; "and you may rest assured, dear Lady Woodhouse, that I shall do all in my power to help her and the rest of my young charges in settling and arranging all that has to be done."

"You are a good, kind creature," exclaims Lady Woodhouse impulsively, "and these girls ought to be grateful to you for the way in which you have brought them up. I always told my sister that if any of them turned out well she would have you to thank for it. Now, Honor, I must go. See that your mother and the two girls are ready when I call in the morning. You know Mr. Paget cannot bear to have his horses kept waiting a moment; and I'm sure _I_ don't want to be the cause of their taking cold. You will have all the rest of the packing to see to with Lane after we have gone."

"O, our packing will not take long," replies Honor, "with Miss Denny and Lane to help us."

"Not take long, child! Why, what can you be thinking about? Your mother's wardrobe will be something to get together and pack."

"O, I didn't think of packing anything of mother's excepting what she will be requiring now. I mean," adds Honor with a little tightening of her lips, "that I do not think it would be right to keep any of mother's handsome dresses, and certainly not her jewels. Doris and I have, of course, very little in that way; but," with a little threatening look at her sister, "I shall expect her to do as I do, and give up _everything_ that is of value."

Doris does not look highly pleased at this proposition, but she says:

"Of course, Honor," meekly enough, though she is immensely relieved at her aunt's next words:

"What you say about the jewels is quite right, Honor,--that is to say, your mother's; in fact we have already talked over the subject together. Little personal gifts, and indeed any jewellery your mother had before she was married, she will, however, keep," adds Aunt Sophia rather decidedly. "And Doris and you must keep the little trinkets you have; which are, I suppose, most of them birthday presents. You say yourself they are not worth speaking of. As to the dresses, you are really quite quixotic, Honor; no one would expect such a sacrifice; and when you all go out of mourning it is more than probable that you will feel very thankful that you have taken my advice. Now I really must go, or I shall be late." And shaking hands with Miss Denison and the two gentlemen, Lady Woodhouse leaves the room.

Those left behind immediately enter on a discussion touching the question of the new house. Mr. Hobson has cut out one or two advertisements which on consideration are not found to be particularly _un_suitable, which, perhaps, is something, in the matter of house-hunting! One of them states that there is a nine-roomed house to let--good drainage, large garden, hen-house, and pig-sty. Low rent to careful tenant.--Apply to Messrs. E. & B. Talboys, care of Messrs. Gilmore, solicitors, High Street, Edendale Village, &c.

Taking it altogether, this sounds hopeful. So Honor sits down, and with Mr. Hobson's assistance answers the advertisement, while Doris and Miss Denison leave the room with Mr. Trent, whom Mrs. Merivale is now equal to seeing "just for a few minutes," prior to her departure with her sister next day for London. For the rest of that day and all the morning of the next Honor and Miss Denison are engaged in packing and directing all that is theirs to take, and with the assistance of Lane and of the school-room maid (who has begged with tears to be allowed to remain with the family, at any rate until they are settled in the new house) they get through a great deal. And when at last they have watched the departure of the carriage containing Mrs. Merivale, Lady Woodhouse, Doris, and Daisy to the station, they enter the house again, to see if all is in order for the sale which is so soon to follow their own departure, with that feeling of blank melancholy attendant on that much-to-be-pitied condition of having "nothing to do." Dick and Bobby are already established next door with their good friends the Hortons--Molly to follow later, according to the kind suggestion made a few days before by Mrs. Horton; and there they are to remain until the family plans shall be more settled.

While Miss Denison and Honor are making a last pilgrimage round the house, Molly stands disconsolately at the dining-room window pressing her little _retroussé_ nose against the pane. Suddenly she sees a telegraph-boy running up the steps, and her nerves being all unstrung by recent grief and sorrow Molly rushes with pale affrighted face to the door, fearful of more trouble to come perhaps, to take the message from the boy. She gives a little sigh of relief, however, as she glances at the direction and sees her governess's name upon it, and her long legs soon carry her upstairs to her mother's boudoir, where Honor and Miss Denison are. As Miss Denison reads the telegram her face changes, and in a voice trembling with agitation she says:

"My poor girls! I shall have to leave you directly after all. This is from Frank's mother saying that he is dangerously ill, and that I must get there without a moment's delay. O, how unfortunate, to be sure! I cannot bear to leave you all alone at such a sad time; and nothing but this would induce me to do so. But you see, Honor--you see--how imperative it is. Indeed I fear even now that I may be too late;" and thinking of her own trouble for the first time Miss Denison breaks utterly down, and with her pupils' arms round her, their tears mingling with hers, she sobs uncontrollably for a few seconds.

Active steps have to be taken, however, and in less than an hour the remaining occupants of the house have left it for ever, and Honor and Molly are standing on the platform at the station by the locked door of the compartment in which Miss Denison is seated, looking down upon them with wet and sorrowful eyes. One last hand-clasp and a half-stifled sob, and the train moving slowly from the platform leaves the two girls standing, hand in hand, desolate and alone.