“I can’t say I ever liked this place,” sighed Mrs. Fred, when the lamp was lit that evening, and Nettie had come downstairs again after seeing the children in bed. “It was always dull and dreary to me. If we hadn’t been so far out of Carlingford, things might have been very different. My poor Fred! instead of taking care of him, all the dangers that ever could be were put in his way.”
This sentence was concluded by some weeping, of which, however, Nettie did not take any notice. Making mourning by lamplight is hard work, as all poor seamstresses know. Nettie had no tears in the eyes that were fixed intently upon the little coat which was to complete Freddy’s outfit; and she did not even look up from that urgent occupation to deprecate Susan’s tears.
“I tell you, Nettie, I never could bear this place,” said Mrs. Fred; “and now, whenever I move, the dreadful thoughts that come into my mind are enough to kill me. You always were strong from a baby, and of course it is not to be expected that you can understand what my feelings are. And Mrs. Smith is anything but kind, or indeed civil, sometimes; and I don’t think I could live through another of these cold English winters. I am sure I never could keep alive through another winter, now my poor Fred’s gone.”
“Well?” asked Nettie, with involuntary harshness in her voice.
“I don’t care for myself,” sobbed Mrs. Fred, “but it’s dreadful to see you so unfeeling, and to think what would become of his poor children if anything were to happen to me. I do believe you would marry Edward Rider if it were not for me, and go and wrong the poor children, and leave them destitute. Nobody has the feeling for them that a mother has; but if I live another winter in England, I know I shall die.”
“You have thought of dying a great many times,” said Nettie, “but it has never come to anything. Never mind that just now. What do you want? Do you want me to take you back to the colony all these thousands of miles, after so many expenses as there have been already?—or what is it you want me to do?”
“You always speak of expenses, Nettie: you are very poor-spirited, though people think so much of you,” said Susan; “and don’t you think it is natural I should wish to go home, now my poor Fred has been taken away from me? And you confessed it would be best for the children. We know scarcely anybody here, and the very sight of that Edward that was so cruel to my poor Fred—”
“Susan, don’t be a fool,” said Nettie; “you know better in your heart. If you will tell me plainly what you want, I shall listen to you; but if not, I will go upstairs and put away Freddy’s things. Only one thing I may tell you at once; you may leave Carlingford if you please, but I shall not. I cannot take you back again to have you ill all the way, and the children threatening to fall overboard twenty times in a day. I did it once, but I will not do it again.”
“You will not?” cried Susan. “Ah, I know what you mean: I know very well what you mean. You think Edward Rider—”
Nettie rose up and faced her sister with a little gasp of resolution which frightened Mrs. Fred. “I don’t intend to have anything said about Edward Rider,” said Nettie; “he has nothing to do with it one way or another. I tell you what I told him, that I have not the heart to carry you all back again; and I cannot afford it either; and if you want anything more, Susan,” added the peremptory creature, flashing forth into something of her old spirit, “I shan’t go—and that is surely enough.”
With which words Nettie went off like a little sprite to put away Freddy’s coat, newly completed, along with the other articles of his wardrobe, at which she had been working all day. In that momentary impulse of decision and self-will a few notes of a song came unawares from Nettie’s lip, as she glanced, light and rapid as a fairy, upstairs. She stopped a minute after with a sigh. Were Nettie’s singing days over? She had at least come at last to find her life hard, and to acknowledge that this necessity which was laid upon her was grievous by times to flesh and blood; but not the less for that did she arrange Freddy’s little garments daintily in the drawers, and pause, before she went downstairs again, to cover him up in his little bed.
Susan still sat pondering and crying over the fire. Her tears were a great resource to Mrs. Fred. They occupied her when she had nothing else to occupy herself with; and when she cast a weeping glance up from her handkerchief to see Nettie draw her chair again to the table, and lay down a little pile of pinafores and tuckers which required supervision, Susan
