Part 9 (1/2)
”He admires rather too many,” nodded Grace.
”As long as he does not admire yours, you have no right to grumble,”
rejoined Isaac provokingly: and Grace flung a bundle of work at him, for the laugh turned against her.
”Rose, you naughty child, you have my crayons there!” exclaimed Maria, happening to cast her eyes upon the table, where Rose was seated too quietly to be at anything but mischief.
”Only one or two of your sketching pencils, Maria,” said Miss Rose. ”I shan't hurt them. I am making a villa with two turrets and some cows.”
”I say, Maria, is Charlotte Pain going to take that thoroughbred hunter of hers?” interposed Reginald.
”Of course,” scoffed Isaac: ”saddled and bridled. She'll have him with her in the railway carriage; put him in the corner seat opposite Sir George. Regy's brains may do for sea--if he ever gets there; but they are not sharp enough for land.”
”They are as sharp as yours, at any rate,” flashed Reginald. ”Why should she not take him?”
”Be quiet, you boys!” said Grace.
She was interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Hastings. He did not open the door at the most opportune moment. Maria, Isaac, and Harry were executing a dance that probably had no name in the dancing calendar; Reginald was standing on his head; Rose had just upset the contents of the table, by inadvertently drawing off its old cloth cover, and Grace was scolding her in a loud tone.
”What do you call this?” demanded Mr. Hastings, when he had leisurely surveyed the scene. ”Studying?”
They subsided into quietness and their places; Reginald with his face red and his hair wild, Maria with a pretty blush, Isaac with a smothered laugh. Mr. Hastings addressed his second daughter.
”Have you heard anything about this fresh outbreak of fever?”
”No, papa,” was Maria's reply. ”Has it broken out again?”
”I hear that it has attacked Sarah Anne Grame.”
”Oh, papa!” exclaimed Grace, clasping her hands in sorrowful consternation. ”Will she ever live through it?”
Just the same doubt, you see, that had occurred to the Rector.
CHAPTER V.
THOMAS G.o.dOLPHIN'S LOVE.
For nearly a mile beyond All Souls' Rectory, as you went out of Prior's Ash, there were scattered houses and cottages. In one of them lived Lady Sarah Grame. We receive our ideas from a.s.sociation; and, in speaking of the residence of Lady Sarah Grame, or Lady Sarah Anyone, imagination might conjure up some fine old mansion with all its appurtenances, grounds, servants, carriages and grandeur: or, at the very least, a ”villa with two turrets and some cows,” as Rose Hastings expressed it.
Far more like a humble cottage than a mansion was the abode of Lady Sarah Grame. It was a small, pretty, detached white house, containing eight or nine rooms in all; and, they, not very large ones. A plot of ground before it was crowded with flowers: far too crowded for good taste, as David Jekyl would point out to Lady Sarah. But Lady Sarah loved flowers, and would not part with one of them.
The daughter of one soldier, and the wife of another, Lady Sarah had scrambled through life amidst bustle, perplexity, and poverty. Sometimes quartered in barracks, sometimes following the army abroad; out of one place into another; never settled anywhere for long together. It was an existence not to be envied; although it is the lot of many. She was Mrs.
Grame then, and her husband, the captain, was not a very good husband to her. He was rather too fond of amusing himself, and threw all care upon her shoulders. She pa.s.sed her days nursing her sickly children, and endeavouring to make one sovereign go as far as two. One morning, to her unspeakable embarra.s.sment, she found herself converted from plain, private Mrs. Grame into the Lady Sarah. Her father boasted a peer in a very remote relative, and came unexpectedly into the t.i.tle.
Had he come into money with it, it would have been more welcome; but, of that, there was only a small supply. It was a very poor Scotch peerage, with limited estates; and, they, enc.u.mbered. Lady Sarah wished she could drop the honour which had fallen to her share, unless she could live a little more in accordance with it. She had much sorrow. She had lost one child after another, until she had only two left, Sarah Anne and Ethel.
Then she lost her husband; and, next, her father. Chance drove her to Prior's Ash, which was near her husband's native place; and she settled there, upon her limited income. All she possessed was her pension as a captain's widow, and the interest of the sum her father had been enabled to leave her; the whole not exceeding five hundred a year. She took the white cottage, then just built, and dignified it with the name of ”Grame House:” and the mansions in the neighbourhood of Prior's Ash were content not to laugh, but to pay respect to her as an earl's daughter.
Lady Sarah was a partial woman. She had only these two daughters, and her love for them was as different as light is from darkness. Sarah Anne she loved with an inordinate affection, almost amounting to pa.s.sion; for Ethel, she did not care. What could be the reason of this? What is the reason why parents (many of them may be found) will love some of their children, and dislike others? They cannot tell you, any more than Lady Sarah could have told. Ask them, and they will be unable to give you an answer. It does not lie in the children: it often happens that those obtaining the least love will be the most worthy of it. Such was the case here. Sarah Anne Grame was a pale, sickly, fretful girl; full of whims, full of complaints, giving trouble to every one about her. Ethel, with her sweet countenance and her merry heart, made the suns.h.i.+ne of the home. She bore with her sister's exacting moods, bore with her mother's want of love. _She_ loved them both, and waited on them, and carolled forth her s.n.a.t.c.hes of song as she moved about the house, and was as happy as the day was long. The servants--they kept only two--would tell you that Miss Grame was cross and selfish; but that Miss Ethel was worth her weight in gold. The gold was soon to be appropriated; transplanted to a home where it would be appreciated and cherished: for Ethel was the affianced wife of Thomas G.o.dolphin.