CHAPTER XXIII.

DICK'S GOOD NEWS.

The message which Dr. Sinclair promised the Mr. Talboys is despatched about ten o'clock the same night by his own errand-boy, whom he has brought with him to the Rookery and installed in the kitchen, in case of his wanting anything from his surgery during the night, as also to make himself useful in any way that he can in the house, all Becky's energies being concentrated on keeping the kitchen fire in.

The message is one that brings tears of joy and thankfulness to the eyes of the soft-hearted old gentlemen, for it tells them that their little favourite sank into a deep sleep about seven, and that if it continues, as Dr. Sinclair hopes and thinks it will, all danger will be at an end.

The old gentlemen retire to their beds, therefore, in a happier frame of mind than that in which they had left them the same morning. A long, anxious night of watching follows, through most of which Dr. Sinclair sits patiently, his large hand clasped tightly by Daisy's little thin one, until he becomes too cramped almost to move, though not all the agony in the world would have induced him to do so at the risk of rousing his little patient.

But presently, with the dawn, comes the knowledge that the little girl will live, for she still sleeps soundly. It is only then that Honor (on the doctor quietly persisting in her doing so) consents to give up her place to Molly, and with a thankful heart she goes to take the rest which, now that the suspense is over, she is obliged to confess that she sadly needs. As the doctor returns to his own house that same morning, he looks in at the Rosery, and delights the two old gentlemen with the good news he has to tell them. Not very long afterwards the brothers walk up to the Rookery together, but declining to stir an inch beyond the doorstep, make their inquiries of Doris--who comes out to see them--in a hushed, low voice, and having intrusted her with the lovely posy of spring flowers which they have brought for Daisy, go softly down the steps and gravel-walk on tiptoe, that no sound may reach the room above, where lies the little sufferer.

Daisy, now having taken a turn for the better, makes rapid progress for a little while; but once having left her bed, an intense weakness and lassitude set in which take the united strength of the whole family to battle against. For Daisy will not eat, unless someone stands over her and compels her to do so. She becomes fretful too; and being too young herself to see the necessity of trying to take the strengthening food that is brought to her at intervals, she gets quite cross, telling them all plainly that it is very unkind to tease her so, and that if she likes to give the greater part of her dainty food to Timothy (who is always in close attendance at meal-times), she doesn't see why she shouldn't. So Mrs. Merivale implores, the girls coax and persuade, and the doctor scolds a little sometimes, till finding he must exert his authority, he proceeds to do so in a manner which astonishes no one so much as the little lady herself.

The effort once made, Daisy's appetite improves little by little, until at length she gives very practical illustration of that sensible French proverb, "_L'appetit vient en mangeant_."

Every one (with the exception of Timothy, perhaps) is delighted with this improvement, and it is now that Honor has reason to be so grateful to the Mr. Talboys; for when once the little invalid is sufficiently convalescent to take such things, jellies, both sweet and savoury, strong soups, good old port (a hint as to which, perhaps, Dr. Sinclair is answerable for), and, indeed, all the nourishing things that can be thought of, are showered down upon the household for little Daisy's benefit.

It is a subject for deep thankfulness to Mrs. Merivale and her elder daughters that, in their days of adversity, they should have been thrown amongst such generous, warm-hearted friends; for although no one actually puts the thought into words, they all know full well in their secret hearts that were it not for the generosity of their two kind old landlords, little Daisy would never have thrown off the terrible weakness which assailed her when the actual illness was a thing of the past.

The day of the Messrs. Talboys' first visit to their little favourite was an occasion to be remembered by all; so overcome with emotion were they at first, and then so almost boyishly delighted when they found that Daisy could manage to chat with them a little. Both the old gentlemen's handkerchiefs did active duty for a few minutes at first, but they soon recovered their spirits in presenting the child with the little gifts, with which, as a matter of course, they had come laden.

The time allowed for the first visit soon slips away, however; but it is arranged that directly Daisy is well enough to sit up for any length of time, the Mr. Talboys shall come to tea with her one day. They take their departure quite satisfied therefore, looking back and nodding and smiling so many times that Mr. Ned, who is gradually backing towards the stairs, is only saved from shooting headlong down by Doris, who, appearing on the scene just at the critical moment, grasps his arms and restores his balance before he knows where he is.

From this time the days go on monotonously enough. The doctor comes and goes, though not every day now, of course; and the two old gentlemen trot backwards and forwards, always bringing something for the little invalid, until her mother and sisters have to tell them that they are fast doing their best to spoil their pet.

Household matters also go on very much as before; and now that the greater trouble is lifted off their shoulders, the same little everyday annoyances and vexations begin to harass and worry the girls again. Clothes wear out, especially boots and shoes. Then Becky one day, with her cap more awry even than usual in the excitement of the moment, suddenly announces the startling and pleasing intelligence that "There ain't no more coals in the cellar than what'll light the kitchen fire to-morrow morning!"

Honor, too, begins to worry terribly about the entire cessation of Dick's studies. Daisy (before her illness) and Bobby, she and the other girls could very well manage between them, but Dick they feel to be altogether beyond them; and many an hour is spent by Honor at night, tossing and turning, and wondering what can be done for the boy.

One Saturday, when Daisy is promoted to the sofa in the sitting-room, and, domestic work being over for the day, the others are all seated delightedly round her with work, books, &c., Dick suddenly bursts into their midst, wildly waving his cap in the air.

"Hooray! hoo-ray!" he shouts. "You'll never guess what news I've brought you, not if you guess for a hundred years! No more bothering and thinking for you, Miss Honor, as to how you can contrive to get your reprobate brother a decent education! Hooray!" and up goes his cap to the ceiling, greatly to the peril of the gas globes.

When the boy can be persuaded to calm down and talk like a reasonable being, the good news is gradually extracted from him, and proves to be as follows:--

The night before being Friday, and therefore practice-night at St. Luke's, Dick had been prowling round the church as usual, in the hope of having a musical treat from the organ, which in the hands of a promising young musician (a native of the village), pealed forth harmonies which flew straight to Dick's music-loving soul. As he entered the half-lighted church, and made for a secluded corner where he was in the habit of enjoying the choir-practice unseen, he suddenly ran full tilt against the vicar, who was emerging from the vestry.

"Ah, my lad!" exclaimed Mr. Bolton, with a little gasp at the collision; "have you come to listen to our practice? Perhaps you sing yourself, do you?"

"A little, sir," answered Dick shyly, as they moved more towards the light together; "but I am _very_ fond of it," he added with enthusiasm.

"Why, now I see you better," exclaimed the vicar suddenly, "I am sure I know your face! Don't you come with your sisters to church every Sunday and sit just about there?" pointing with his stick. "Ah, I thought so; and I have noticed how very much you seem to enjoy the music, and that you have a fine clear voice of your own."

And then it ended in Mr. Bolton asking him how he would like to join the choir; and afterwards, greatly to his delight, he was actually given a stall in the chancel and allowed to follow the choir as best he could, one of the boys good-naturedly sharing his music-books with him. All through the practice Mr. Bolton kept a sharp look-out on Dick, noting with what evident enjoyment the boy joined in anything that he was familiar with, while listening with rapt attention to all that he was not.

After it was all over he came up to the boy, who (the choir having dispersed) was standing aloof, wondering whether he ought to thank the vicar for his kindness, and placing his hand on his shoulder kindly said, "I have asked Mr. St. John to stay behind after the others have gone, I want him to try your voice;" and motioning to the boy to wait, he disappeared into the vestry.

Mr. St. John, the organist, expressed himself delighted with Dick's voice, and when at last after a little kind encouragement and pressing on the part of the young man he sang with genuine feeling and taste Handel's thrilling recitative, "There were shepherds abiding in the field," the delight of both gentlemen knew no bounds.

After questioning the boy a little Mr. Bolton closed the interview by telling him to come and see him on the afternoon of the next day.

"And now comes the cream of the whole thing!" cries Dick excitedly, after having given the foregoing information in a series of short, spasmodic sentences.

"After I had told Mr. Bolton that I most distinctly _should_ like to join the choir, he asked me all the questions imaginable about my education, and, oh, ever so many things that I can't remember now. But to continue (as the books say), I let out that you were all worrying about my schooling having to stop, and directly I said that he quite brightened up, and told me that if I liked he thought he could be of service to me about that. It seems, you see, that he generally gives his chief choir-boys about four pounds a year; but that would not be of very much use to me, he said (I thought to myself it just _would_, though). And so he proposed that in return for my services--my _services_, mind--he would carry on my education with his own boy and the two pupils he has living at the vicarage. 'The more the merrier, my boy,' he said; 'and Mr. Holmes and I can as well tackle _four_ as three youngsters like you.' Mr. St. John is to train my voice, of course; and now, which of you girls can make a surplice? And, oh yes, I forgot, Mr. Bolton is coming to see you about it all to-morrow, mother. There now! don't you think I have done a good day's work? _I_ do!" And up goes the cap to the ceiling once more. "Ah! you little thought," he goes on, suddenly calming down--"you little thought what I meant some time ago when I said I had a plan in my head about something; but, honestly, you know, I didn't expect it would turn out in this stunning fashion. What I intended doing was to offer myself for the choir, you see, because I guessed they paid something, though I didn't know what. And that is the reason I have been going to the practices so much lately, trying every time to screw up my courage to speak to Mr. Bolton. But now, I suppose, you girls and mother will all think the education plan the best, though I must say I think it rather hard on a fellow. But still," he adds magnanimously, "if it takes a load off all your shoulders, of course I shall be very glad."

It need hardly be said with what delight Dick's news is received by every one, and as she lays her head upon her pillow that night, Honor thinks of her brother's words, and feels that a "load" is indeed lifted off her heavily burdened shoulders.