She tried to recall the house. Deep blue, crimson red, warm brown draperies, were so striking after the light chintzes of her own house; and the effect of a suite of rooms opening out of each other was something quite new to the little girl; the apartments seemed to melt away into vague distance, like the dim endings of the arched aisles in church. But most of all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton’s face; and Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come to bed, in order to soothe the poor child, who was crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would soon die, and that she should never see her again. Nancy loved Maggie dearly, and felt no jealousy of this warm admiration of the unknown lady. She listened to her story and her fears till the sobs were hushed; and the moon fell through the casement on the white closed eyelids of one, who still sighed in her sleep.
Chapter III.
In three weeks, the day came for Edward’s departure. A great cake and a parcel of gingerbread soothed his sorrows on leaving home.
“Don’t cry, Maggie!” said he to her on the last morning; “you see I don’t. Christmas will soon be here, and I dare say I shall find time to write to you now and then. Did Nancy put any citron in the cake?”
Maggie wished she might accompany her mother to Combehurst to see Edward off by the coach; but it was not to be. She went with them, without her bonnet, as far as her mother would allow her; and then she sat down, and watched their progress for a long, long way. She was startled by the sound of a horse’s feet, softly trampling through the long heather. It was Frank Buxton’s.
“My father thought Mrs. Browne would like to see the Woodchester Herald. Is Edward gone?” said he, noticing her sad face.
“Yes! he is just gone down the hill to the coach. I dare say you can see him crossing the bridge, soon. I did so want to have gone with him,” answered she, looking wistfully toward the town.
Frank felt sorry for her, left alone to gaze after her brother, whom, strange as it was, she evidently regretted. After a minute’s silence, he said:
“You liked riding the other day. Would you like a ride now? Rhoda is very gentle, if you can sit on my saddle. Look! I’ll shorten the stirrup. There now; there’s a brave little girl! I’ll lead her very carefully. Why, Erminia durst not ride without a side-saddle! I’ll tell you what; I’ll bring the newspaper every Wednesday till I go to school, and you shall have a ride. Only I wish we had a side-saddle for Rhoda. Or, if Erminia will let me, I’ll bring Abdel–Kadr, the little Shetland you rode the other day.”
“But will Mr. Buxton let you?” asked Maggie, half delighted — half afraid.
“Oh, my father! to be sure he will. I have him in very good order.”
Maggie was rather puzzled by this way of speaking.
“When do you go to school?” asked she.
“Toward the end of August; I don’t know the day.”
“Does Erminia go to school?”
“No. I believe she will soon though, if mamma does not get better.” Maggie liked the change of voice, as he spoke of his mother.
“There, little lady! now jump down. Famous! you’ve a deal of spirit, you little brown mouse.”
Nancy came out, with a wondering look, to receive Maggie.
“It is Mr. Frank Buxton,” said she, by way of an introduction. “He has brought mamma the newspaper.”
“Will you walk in, sir, and rest? I can tie up your horse.”
“No, thank you,” said he, “I must be off. Don’t forget, little mousey, that you are to ready for another ride next Wednesday.” And away he went.
It needed a good deal of Nancy’s diplomacy to procure Maggie this pleasure; although I don’t know why Mrs. Browne should have denied it, for the circle they went was always within sight of the knoll in front of the house, if any one cared enough about the matter to mount it, and look after them. Frank and Maggie got great friends in these rides. Her fearlessness delighted and surprised him, she had seemed so cowed and timid at first. But she was only so with people, as he found out before holidays ended. He saw her shrink from particular looks and inflexions of voice of her mother’s; and learnt to read them, and dislike Mrs. Browne accordingly, notwithstanding all her sugary manner toward himself. The result of his observations he communicated to his mother, and in consequence, he was the bearer of a most civil and ceremonious message from Mrs. Buxton to Mrs. Browne, to the effect that the former would be much obliged to the latter if she would allow Maggie to ride down occasionally with the groom, who would bring the newspapers on the Wednesdays (now Frank was going to school), and to spend the afternoon with Erminia. Mrs. Browne consented, proud of the honor, and yet a little annoyed that no mention was made of herself. When Frank had bid good-bye, and fairly disappeared, she turned to Maggie.
“You must not set yourself up if you go among these fine folks. It is their way of showing attention to your father and myself. And you must mind and work doubly hard on Thursdays to make up for playing on Wednesdays.”
Maggie was in a flush of sudden color, and a happy palpitation of her fluttering little heart. She could hardly feel any sorrow that the kind Frank was going away, so brimful was she of the thoughts of seeing his mother; who had grown strangely associated in her dreams, both sleeping and waking, with the still calm marble effigies that lay for ever clasping their hands in prayer on the altar-tombs in Combehurst church. All the week was one happy season of anticipation. She was afraid her mother was secretly irritated at her natural rejoicing; and so she did not speak to her about it, but she kept awake till Nancy came to bed, and poured into her sympathizing ears every detail, real or imaginary, of her past or future intercourse with Mrs. Buxton, and the old servant listened with interest, and fell into the custom of picturing the future with the ease and simplicity of a child.
“Suppose, Nancy! only suppose, you know, that she did die. I don’t mean really die, but go into a trance like death; she looked as if she was in one when I first saw her; I would not leave her, but I would sit by her, and watch her, and watch her.”
“Her lips would be always fresh and red,” interrupted Nancy.
“Yes, I know you’ve told me before how they keep red — I should look at them quite steadily; I would try never to go to sleep.”
“The great thing would be to have air-holes left in the coffin.” But Nancy felt the little girl creep close to her at the grim suggestion, and, with the tact of love, she changed the subject.
“Or supposing we could hear of a doctor who could charm away illness. There were such in my young days; but I don’t think people are so knowledgeable now. Peggy Jackson, that lived near us when I was a girl, was cured of a waste by a charm.”
“What is a waste, Nancy?”
“It is just a pining away. Food does not nourish nor drink strengthen them, but they just fade off, and grow thinner and thinner, till their shadow looks gray instead of black at noonday; but he cured her in no time by a charm.”
“Oh, if we could find him.”
“Lass, he’s dead, and she’s dead, too, long ago!”
