“Your fault? Why should not the child write to her stepmother?” Mrs. Ansell rejoined with studied surprise; and on the other’s murmuring: “Of course—of course–-” she added haughtily: “I trust the letters were sent?”
The governess floundered. “I couldn’t say—but perhaps the nurse….”
That evening Cicely was less well. There was a slight return of fever, and the doctor, hastily summoned, hinted at the possibility of too much excitement in the sick-room.
“Excitement? There has been no excitement,” Mr. Langhope protested, quivering with the sudden renewal of fear.
“No? The child seemed nervous, uneasy. It’s hard to say why, because she is unusually reserved for her age.”
The medical man took his departure, and Mr. Langhope and Mrs. Ansell faced each other in the disarray produced by a call to arms when all has seemed at peace.
“I shall lose her—I shall lose her!” the grandfather broke out, sinking into his chair with a groan.
Mrs. Ansell, gathering up her furs for departure, turned on him abruptly from the threshold.
“It’s stupid, what you’re doing—stupid!” she exclaimed with unwonted vehemence.
He raised his head with a startled look. “What do you mean—what I’m doing?”
“The child misses Justine. You ought to send for her.”
Mr. Langhope’s hands dropped to the arms of his chair, and he straightened himself up with a pale flash of indignation. “You’ve had moments lately–-!”
“I’ve had moments, yes; and so have you—when the child came back to us, and we stood there and wondered how we could keep her, tie her fast…and in those moments I saw…saw what she wanted…and so did you!”
Mr. Langhope turned away his head. “You’re a sentimentalist!” he flung scornfully back.
“Oh, call me any bad names you please!”
“I won’t send for that woman!”
“No.” She fastened her furs slowly, with the gentle deliberate movements that no emotion ever hastened or disturbed.
“Why do you say no?” he challenged her.
“To make you contradict me, perhaps,” she ventured, after looking at him again.
“Ah–-” He shifted his position, one elbow supporting his bowed head, his eyes fixed on the ground. Presently he brought out: “Could one ask her to come—and see the child—and go away again—for good?”
“To break the compact at your pleasure, and enter into it again for the same reason?”
“No—no—I see.” He paused, and then looked up at her suddenly. “But what if Amherst won’t have her back himself?”
“Shall I ask him?”
“I tell you he can’t bear to hear her name!”
“But he doesn’t know why she has left him.”
Mr. Langhope gathered his brows in a frown. “Why—what on earth—what possible difference would that make?”
Mrs. Ansell, from the doorway, shed a pitying glance on him. “Ah—if you don’t see!” she murmured.
