CHAPTER IX.

A HOUSE OF MOURNING.

When Honor opens her eyes again it is to find herself on her own bed, with kind Miss Denison leaning over her, bathing her forehead and temples with _eau de Cologne_. Molly stands on one side of the bed at a little distance looking pale and frightened; and an elderly gentleman is standing by the other side with his finger on Honor's pulse. He nods across the bed to Miss Denison as the girl looks round and then tries to sit up.

"She will do now," he says quietly, "so I will go down to Mrs. Merivale again;" and he quietly slips out of the room, beckoning Molly to follow him.

Honor lies quite still for a few minutes; then, slowly turning her eyes towards her governess, she asks the question which Miss Denison has been so dreading. Then gently and kindly she breaks the sad news to her: tells her how Dr. Newton had said that her poor father had been dead for more than an hour when he was called in; that it was disease of the heart, and the shock of the bank failure had been too much for him.

"And mother? Poor mother!" says Honor at length, when, a long and violent fit of crying over, she leans back against her pillows, calm, though pale and exhausted.

"She is better now, dear. We had great trouble with her at first--or rather Lane and Doris and the doctor had, for I was with you, dear. She went from one fit of hysterics into another; and now, of course, she is utterly worn out. Your Aunt Sophia took her in hand directly she came (it is really most providential that she was so near); and then kind Mrs. Horton has been such a comfort to her. I sent in to her, you know, and she came herself the moment she got my message."

"But how came aunt here to-night?" asks Honor, putting her hand to her head and knitting her straight little brows. "I can't remember clearly, but surely I spoke of _to-morrow_ morning in my telegram."

"Yes, dear; so you did. But when this happened I got Doris to write a hasty line which I sent off with the brougham to the Pagets', and your aunt came back in the brougham. She will be a great help to you all till your mother has got a little over the shock; she always had great influence over her, you know. And now, dear Honor, I shall give you the little draught the doctor ordered for you, and then I will leave you to sleep, for that will bring you strength to bear your trouble better than anything else. I shall be within call, for I have promised Doris to sleep with her to-night; so we will put the door ajar between your rooms. Now, dear, God bless you! And you must promise me, Honor, to be brave, and not to fret any more to-night. You know you told me your dear father's last words to you were of thankfulness for the comfort and help he was sure you would be to him. And now, more than ever, you must prove that you are worthy of the trust he placed in you--for a trust it is, dear Honor--and one, I know, that with God's help you will faithfully discharge. Your poor mother will need a long time to recover from so severe a shock. And although Doris is older than you, she is younger in ideas and character, and has not, I fear, so much common sense as my little Honor. But now, dear child, good-night once more. I shall not let anyone else come near you, as I am most anxious you should get to sleep." And kissing the girl most affectionately, Miss Denison softly leaves the room.

A little later and the house which but a short time since was the scene of so much happiness and rejoicing is wrapped in silent gloom; and as nature asserts its rights with the younger members of the family, giving them temporary relief from their sorrow in blessed sleep, older heads are resting on their pillows with wide-open, sleepless eyes, looking vaguely into the future which has changed so quickly from sunshine into shadow.

* * * * * * * *

Three days have passed since Mr. Merivale's death and Honor has already taken most of the cares and responsibilities of the family and household upon her young shoulders with a quiet dignity and gentle patience which amaze her mother completely. The old family solicitor, Mr. Trent, has already called several times and had long and serious talks with Honor--Mrs. Merivale having sent down a message to the effect that she was too completely prostrated to see _anyone_, and would he say anything he had to say to Honor, as it would be quite the same thing. It was doubtful whether Mr. Trent entertained the same idea on this subject, for whereas he had before quaked in his shoes at the bare idea of the task which lay before him of trying to make his late client's widow understand certain facts which he felt morally certain she was incapable of grasping, he now found that he had a very different sort of person to deal with--one, in fact, to use his own expression, "with her head screwed on the right way." With a kindness and delicacy which went straight to poor Honor's heart, he took all the arrangements for the funeral upon himself, and proved indeed a most kind and valuable friend in more ways than one.

"You and your aunt, my dear Miss Honor," the kind little gentleman had said, "will have to put things clearly, so to speak, before your mother, since she cannot see me. It will, I fear, be very difficult to make her understand that all--literally _all_--she has now to depend upon is £50 a year; and that is only owing to a fortunate chance, the money having been invested in some other concern; of course had it been placed in the bank it would have gone with the rest. To be sure there is your own little bit of money left you by your godmother, but that only amounts to about £20 a year. Dear me, dear me! it is terrible; a paltry sum of £70 a year to bring up a large family upon, and without a stick or a stone to start with!"

And now Honor is standing just where the old lawyer has left her after the foregoing conversation, gazing dreamily into the fire. "You and your aunt must make her understand"--those are the words which keep repeating themselves over and over; but to a girl of Honor's sensitive nature the task of doing so is no light one.

"Ah me!" sighs the girl as she leaves the room and slowly mounts the stairs, "I wish Aunt Sophia were here!"

But Aunt Sophia is not there, so Honor has to open the door and go in alone. Mrs. Merivale is seated at a little writing-table, which is strewn with deep black-edged paper and envelopes. She is not writing, however, but leaning back in her chair looking drearily before her. As Honor enters she rouses herself, and wiping away the tears which stand in her eyes she motions the girl to come and sit beside her.

"I wanted to speak to you, dear," she says, taking Honor's hand in her own, "and I was just going to send Lane for you. Now that I am better you must tell me a little of what has been done. How have you managed about the mourning?"

"Miss Renny has been here, mother, ever since--ever since it happened, and all our dresses are nearly finished now, and I expect yours from Mrs. Carey will be home to-night. We couldn't disturb you the other morning about it, so aunt and I together chose a style we thought you would like. Ours are all alike--cashmere and crêpe made quite plainly; and yours, dear mother, will be of crêpe cloth, and of course heavily trimmed with crêpe."

"Yes, dear; that is all quite right. Only I wish Mrs. Carey had made all your dresses as well. Miss Renny would have made you others for common wear afterwards, you know. But now, dear, this is what I wanted to consult you about, you are so much more clear-headed and sensible than Doris. About my better dresses, dear,--I mean those that Madame Cecile will have the making of. I shall not have any dinner dresses made at present, because I shall not be going out or receiving for some time to come, but I was just going to write to Cecile to ask for patterns."

"Dear mother," says Honor gently, "I am so glad you spoke to me about this first, because it would have been so awkward if you had already sent."

"Why awkward, dear? What do you mean, Honor?"

"Don't you remember, dear mother, the sad news poor, dear father had before this other dreadful trouble came upon us?"

"Well, of course I do," Mrs. Merivale answers rather testily; "but I don't really see why you should take this time to remind me of it, and I must say, Honor, I think it very inconsiderate and unfeeling of you to come and worry me like this, and your poor, dear father not yet laid in his grave. I should think I have gone through grief and trouble enough," continues Mrs. Merivale, weeping, "without my children making things harder for me!"

"Dear mother," cries poor Honor, sobbing in concert, "pray, pray do not think I mean to be unkind; but Mr. Trent has been talking to aunt and to me, and it seems, dear mother, as if we shall hardly have enough to live upon when everything is settled up."

"Hardly enough to live upon!" repeats Mrs. Merivale, sitting up and drying her eyes. "My dear child, don't talk nonsense. As if I did not know more about these things than you do. I know we shall have to cut down our expenses, and diminish our household probably; do with a servant or two less, I mean. But as for being _poor_, Honor, you are talking ridiculous nonsense, child, as I said before. Why, even if your father's money were all lost--which I should say is very unlikely, people do exaggerate so,--but even if that were all gone, there is my fortune, which if necessary we could very well manage with somehow."

Poor Honor sighs at the hopelessness of the situation; but with a feeling of desperation she is just about to speak when the door opens, and to her great relief Lady Woodhouse enters the room.

"O, Sophia!" exclaims Mrs. Merivale with a little hysterical gasp, "I _am_ so glad you have come in, my dear. Here is Honor talking the most outrageous nonsense; trying to make out that all our property is gone, and--well, in fact that we are as poor as church mice!"

"Well, and so you are," remarks Lady Woodhouse, sitting down and untying her bonnet-strings with a jerk, "the child has said nothing but the truth. I am sorry," she adds, softening a little on seeing the cambric handkerchief drawn from her sister's pocket preparatory to a fresh burst of grief--"I'm sorry to have to speak so plainly; but it seems to me that poor James did his best to make you understand the state of affairs in his conversation with you the night of his death; and considering all he said to you then, I must say it passes my comprehension that you can still be ignorant of your true position. Mr. Trent begged me to speak to you on the subject, and that is why I have come now, because I think it is so much better than putting it off until after the funeral; for I am sure there will be little or no time to arrange anything then. Now, Mary, be sensible, my dear, and let us talk quietly over a comfortable cup of tea."

Mrs. Merivale, however, is not in a humour to do anything quietly, and Lady Woodhouse on her way to ring the bell for tea is suddenly electrified by a sound behind her, partaking of the nature of a scream, a gasp, and a convulsive laugh all at once. In plain words, the trying nature of the past conversation has reduced Mrs. Merivale to a violent fit of hysterics; and Lady Woodhouse, deeming it advisable that she should be left alone with her sister for a time, takes the smelling-salts from Honor's hand, and whispering "Leave her to me, child, and I will bring her round," signs to the girl to leave the room.

On going downstairs Honor sees Hugh Horton standing in a hesitating sort of manner on the door-mat; a wreath of rare white flowers in one hand, and a note in the other.

"I told William I wouldn't see anyone, Honor," he whispers, coming forward and laying the wreath on the hall table, "but he would go off to see if there was anyone about, and as I wanted to leave a message from mother I was obliged to wait till he came back. How are you all, Honor dear? No, I won't come in," he adds, as the girl silently motions him towards the dining-room; "I won't really. I only wanted to give you that (nodding towards the wreath), with love from us all. And I was to tell you, Honor, that mother will come in to-night after dinner to have a talk with Mrs. Merivale and Lady Woodhouse about a suggestion she wants to make."

"It is very kind of her," says Honor simply. "She has been such a comfort to us all;" and with a little stifled sob she buries her face in the wreath which she has taken up. "White violets, how beautiful! and the flower that father loved best. How good of you, Hugh!"

"I remembered that when mother and I were giving orders for it this morning, and I knew you would like them. How is Molly, Honor?"

"She is a little better now, I think; but her grief has been something terrible. Poor girl! She idolized father almost, and the shock has been almost too much for her. She is so highly sensitive, and she feels the loss so much, never having seen him alive again after dinner on that dreadful evening. Doris and I were both with him, you know; and of course it was just chance that Molly was not there too. At first she was nearly wild with grief, then she sank into a sort of dull apathy, taking notice of nothing and of nobody. Miss Denny has been kindness itself to her, as she has to us all, indeed; and to-day Molly seems more like her old self."

"I am so glad," Hugh says feelingly, "Good-bye, Honor, for the present; let me know, mind, if there is _anything_ I can do for any of you;" and hastily pressing the girl's hand the young man runs down the steps and out of sight.