“Died of consumption!” The words came upon Vansittart like the icy hand of Death himself, taking hold of his heart.
“Is that true, Eve?” he asked. “Did your mother die of consumption?”
“I never heard exactly what her complaint was. She was far away from us when she died. I remember she always had a cough in the winter, and she had to be very careful of herself—or, at least, people told her she ought to be careful. She seemed to fade away, and I have always fancied that her grief about Harold had a good deal to do with her death.”
“Ah, that was it, no doubt. It was grief killed her. Her son’s exile, her change of fortune, were enough to kill a sensitive woman. She died of a broken heart.”
Anything! He would believe anything rather than accept the idea of that silent impalpable enemy threatening his beloved—the horror of hereditary consumption—the shadow that walketh in noonday.
“My sweet Peggy!” cried Eve, with brimming eyes. “I have been home a week, and I have not been to see my sisters—only an hour’s journey by road and rail! It is nearly three months since I saw them, and we were never parted before in all our lives. May I go today—at once, Jack? I shall be miserable—”
“Till you have discovered a mare’s nest, which I hope and believe Nancy’s letter will prove,” her husband interjected soothingly. “Yes, dear, we’ll go to Haslemere by the first train that will carry us, and we’ll telegraph for a fly to take us on to Fernhurst. There shall not be a minute lost. You shall have Peggy in your arms before lunchtime. Dear young Peggy! Do you suppose she is not precious to me, as well as to you? I promised I would be to her as a brother. Your sisters are my sisters, Eve.”
He rang the bell at the beginning of his speech, and ordered the dogcart at the end.
“We must catch the London train, at 10:15,” he told the footman. “Let them bring round the cart as soon as it can be got ready. And now, dearest, your hat and jacket, and I am with you.”
There was comfort in this prompt action. Eve rushed upstairs, threw on the first hat she could find, too eager to ring for her maid, with whose attendance she was always willing to dispense, as a novel and not always pleasant sensation. She came flying down to the hall ten minutes before the cart drove round, and she and Vansittart walked up and down in front of the porch, talking of the sisters, she breathless and with fast-beating heart, protesting more than once at the slowness of the grooms.
“My dearest, for pity’s sake be calm. Why should you think the very worst, only because Nancy is an alarmist? These people are always full of ghoulish imaginings. Peasants gloat over the idea of sickness and death. They will stab one to the heart unwittingly; they will look at one’s nearest and dearest, and say, ‘Poor Miss So-and-so does not look as if she was long for this world.’ Long for this world, forsooth! Thank Heaven the threatened life often outlasts the prophet’s. Come, here is the cart. Jump in, Eve. The drive through the fresh air will revive your spirits.”
She was certainly in better spirits by the time the cart drew up at the railway station, and in better spirits all the way to Haslemere; but it was her husband’s hopefulness rather than the crisp autumn air which revived her. Yes, she would take comfort. Jack was right. Nancy was the best of creatures, but very apt to dwell upon the darker aspects of life, and to prophesy evil.
Yes, Jack was right; for scarcely had the fly stopped at the little gate when Peggy came dancing down the steep garden path, with outstretched arms, and wild hair flying in the wind, and legs much too long for her short petticoats—that very Peggy whom Eve’s fearful imaginings had depicted stretched on a sickbed, faint almost to speechlessness. No speechlessness about this Peggy, the real flesh and blood Peggy, whose arms were round Eve’s neck before she had begun the ascent of the pathway, whose voice was greeting her vociferously, and who talked unintermittingly, without so much as a comma, till they were in the schoolroom. The arms that clung so lovingly were very skinny, and the voice was somewhat hoarse; but the hoarseness was no doubt only the consequence of running fast, and the skinnyness was the normal condition of a growing girl. Yes, Peggy had grown during her sister’s long honeymoon. There was decidedly an inch or so more leg under the short skirt.
Eve wept aloud for very joy, as she sat on the sofa with Peggy on her lap—the dear old Yorkshire sofa—the sofa that had been a ship, an express train, a smart barouche, an opera-box, and ever so many other things, years ago, in their childish play. She could not restrain her tears as she thought of that terrible vision of a dying Peggy, and then clasped this warm, joyous, living Peggy closer and closer to her heart. The other sisters had gone to a morning service. She had this youngest all to herself for a little while.
“I don’t go to church on weekdays now,” said Peggy, “only on Sundays. It makes my chest ache to sit so long.”
Ah, that was like the dull sudden sound of the death-bell.
“That’s because you’re growing so fast, Peg,” said Vansittart’s cheery voice. “Growing girls are apt to be weak. I shall send you some port which will soon make you sit up straight.”
“You needn’t trouble,” said Peggy. “I could swim in port if I liked. Sir Hubert sent a lot for me—the finest old wine in his cellar—just because Lady Hartley
