and cousins were far less severe with her than she expected, but that could only be because she was ill. Had not Uncle Reginald turned against her, and Constance? It would all come upon her as soon as she came out of her room, and she was rather sorry to believe that she should be up and. about to-morrow morning.
Mysie read on till the short, winter day showed the first symptoms of closing in. Then Lady Merrifield came up. 'You here, little nurse?' she said. 'Run out now and meet the others. I'll stay with Dolly.' Mysie knew by the kiss that her mother was pleased with her; but Dolores dreaded the talk with her aunt, and made herself sleepy.
CHAPTER XVI THE INCONSTANCY OF CONSTANCE.
The two gentlemen who had gone to Darminster brought home tidings that the police who had been put on the track of Flinders had telegraphed that it was thought that a person answering to his description had embarked at Liverpool in an American-bound steamer.
This idea, though very uncertain, was a relief, at least to all except the boys, who thought it a great shame that such a rascal should escape, and wanted to know whether the Americans could not be made to give him up. They did not at all understand their elders being glad, for the sake of Maurice Mohun and his dead wife, that the man should not be publicly convicted, and above all that Dolores should not have to bear testimony against him in court, and describe her own very doubtful proceedings. Besides, there would have been other things to try him for, since he had cheated the publishing house which employed him of all he had been able to get into his hands. There was reason to believe that he had heavy debts, especially gambling ones, and that he had become desperate since he no longer had his step-sister to fall back upon.
Looking into his room, among other papers, a half-burnt manuscript was found upon his grate among some exhausted cinders, as if he had been trying to use the unfortunate 'Waif of the Moorland' to eke out his last fire. Moreover, the proprietor of the Politician told Colonel Mohun of having remonstrated with him on the exceeding weakness and poorness of the 'Constantia' poetry, 'which,' as that indignant personage added, 'was evidently done merely as a lure to the unfortunate young lady.'
The fifteen pounds had been accepted in an honourable and ladylike manner by the elder sister-but without any overpowering expression of gratitude. No doubt it was a bitter pill to her, forced down by necessity, and without guessing that it cost the donors anything.
Dolores's mind was set at rest as to Flinders's evasion before night, and on the Sunday morning even Nurse Halfpenny could find out nothing the matter with her, so that she was obliged to make her appearance as usual. Uncle Reginald did not kiss her, he only gave a cold nod, and said 'Good morning.' Otherwise all went on as usual, and it was pleasant to find that Fly was as entirely used as they were to learning Collect and hymn, and copying out texts illustrating Catechism, and that she was expected to have them ready to repeat them to her mother some time in the afternoon. There was something, too, that Mysie could not have described, but which she liked, in the manner in which, on this morning, Dolores accepted small acts of good nature, such as finding a book for her, getting a new pen and helping her to the whereabouts of a Scriptural reference. It seemed for the first time as if she liked to receive a kindness, and her 'thank you' really had a sound of thanks, instead of being much more like 'I wish you would not.' Mysie felt really encouraged to be kind, and when, on setting forth to church, everybody was crowding round trying to walk with Fly, and Dolores was going along lonely and deserted, Mysie resigned her chance of one side of the favourite Phyllis, and dropped back to give her company to the solitary one. To her surprise and gratification, Dolores took hold of her hand, and listened quite willingly to her chatter about the schemes for the fortnight that Fly was to be left with them. Presently Constance was seen going markedly by the other gate of the churchyard, quite out of her usual way, and not even looking towards them.
It was the last day of the old year, and, in the midst of the Christmas joy, there were allusions to it in the services and hymns. Something in the tune of 'Days and moments quickly flying,' touched some chord in Dolores's spirit, and set her off crying. She would have done anything to stop it, but there was no helping it, great round splashes came down, and the more she was afraid of being noticed, the worse the choking grew. At last, the very worst person-she thought-to take notice. Uncle Reginald, did so, and, under cover of a general rising, said sternly, 'Stop that, or go out.'
Stop that! Much did the colonel know about a girl's tears, or how she would have given anything to check them. But here was Aunt Lily edging down to her, taking her by the hand, leading her out, she did not know how, stopping all who would have come after them with help-then pausing a little in the open, frosty air.
'Oh, Aunt Lily! I am very sorry!'
'Never mind that, my dear. Do you feel poorly?'
'Oh no; I'm quite well-only-'
'Only overcome-I don't wonder-my dear-can you walk quietly home with me?'
'Yes, please.'
Nothing was said till they had passed the 'idle corner,' where men and half-grown lads smoked their pipes in anything but Sunday trim; and stared at the lady making her exit, till they were through the short street with shop windows closed, and a strong atmosphere of cooking, and had come into the quiet lane leading to the paddock. Then Lady Merrifield laid her hand on the girl's shoulder very gently, and said, 'It was too much for you, my dear, you are not quite strong yet.'
'Oh yes; I'm well. Only I am so very-very miserable,' and the gust of sobs and tears rushed on her again.
'Dear child, I should like to be able to help you!'
'You can't! I've done it! And-and they'll all be against me always-Uncle Regie and all!'
'Uncle Regie was very much hurt, but I'm sure he will forgive you when he sees how sorry you are. You know we all hope this is going to be a fresh start. I am sure you were deceived.'
'Yes,' said Dolores. 'I never could have thought he-Uncle Alfred-was such a dreadful man'
'I expect that since he lost your mother's influence and help he may have sunk lower than when you had seen him before. Did your father give you any directions about him?'
'No. Father hated to hear of him' and never spoke about him if he could help it; and we thought it was all Mohun high notions because he wasn't quite a gentleman.'
'I see. Indeed, my dear, though you have done very wrong, I have already felt that there was great excuse for you in trying to keep up intercourse with a person who belonged to your mother. I wish you had told me, but I suppose you were afraid.'
'Yes' said Dolores. 'And I thought you were sure to be cross and harsh,' she muttered. And then suddenly looking up, 'Oh, Aunt Lily! everybody is angry but you-you and Mysie! Please go on being kind! I believe you've been good to me always.'
'My dear, I've tried,' said Lady Merrifield, with fears in her brown eyes and a choke in her voice caressing the hand that had been put into hers. 'I have wished very much to make you happy with us; but the ways of a large family must be a trial to a new-comer.'
Dolores raised her face for a kiss, and said, 'I see it now. But I did not like everything always, and I thought aunts were sure to be unkind.'
'That was very hard. And why?'
She was heard to mutter something about aunts in books always being cross.
'Ah! my dear! I suppose there are some unkind aunts, but I am sure there are a great many more who wish with all their hearts to make happy homes for their nieces. I hope now we may do so. I have more hope than ever I had, and so I shall write to your father.'
'And please-please,' cried Dolores, 'don't let Uncle Regie write him a very dreadful letter! I know he will.'
'I think you can prevent that best yourself, by telling Uncle Regie how sorry you are. He was specially grieved because he thinks you told him two direct falsehoods.'
'Oh! I didn't think they were that,' said Dolores, 'for it was true that father did not leave anything with me for Uncle Alfred. And I did not know whether it was me whom he saw at Darminster. I did tell you one once, Aunt Lily, when you asked if I gave Constance a note. At least, she gave it to me, and not I to her. Indeed, I don't tell falsehoods, Aunt Lily-I mean I never did at home, but Constance said everybody said those sort of things at school, and that one was driven to it when one was--'
'Was what, my dear?'
'Tyrannized over,' Dolores got out.
'Ah! Dolly, I am afraid Constance was no real friend. It was a great mistake to think her like Miss Hacket.'
