A Little Mother to the Others, L. T. Meade [readict .txt] 📗

must pay it, or, rather, you can pay it for me; I'll settle with you afterwards."

"Am I to acquaint my master that you have come, madam?"

"No; on second thoughts I should prefer to announce myself. Where did you say Mr. Delaney was?"

"In his private study."

"I know that room well. See that my luggage is taken to a bedroom, and pay the driver."

Mrs. Dolman entered the old house briskly. It felt quiet, remarkably quiet, seeing that there was a large staff of servants and four vigorous, healthy children to occupy it.

"Poor little orphans, I suppose they are dreadfully overcome," thought the good lady to herself. "Well, I am glad I have appeared on the scene. Poor David is just the sort of man who would forget everybody else when he is in a state of grief. Of course I know he was passionately attached to Evangeline, and she certainly was a charming, although quite incapable, creature. I suppose she was what would be termed[31] 'a man's woman.' Now, I have never any patience with them, and when I think of those acres of land and—but, dear me! sometimes a matter-of-fact, plain body like myself is useful in an emergency. The emergency has arrived with a vengeance, and I am determined to take the fortress by storm."

The little lady trotted down one or two passages, then turned abruptly to her left, and knocked at a closed door. A voice said, "Come in." She opened the door and entered. A man was standing with his back to her in the deep embrasure of a mullioned window. His hands were clasped behind his back; he was looking fixedly out. The window was wide open.

"There, David, there! I knew you would take it hard; but have the goodness to turn round and speak to me," said Mrs. Dolman.

When he heard these unexpected words, the master of Delaney Manor turned with a visible start.

"My dear Jane, what have you come for?" he exclaimed. He advanced to meet his sister, dismay evident on every line of his face.

"I knew you would not welcome me, David. Oh, no prevarications! if you please. It is awful to think how many lies people tell in the cause of politeness. When I undertook this wearisome journey from the north of England, I knew I should not be welcome, but all the same I came; and, David, when I have had a little talk with you, and when you have unburdened your heart to me, you will feel your sorrow less."

"I would rather not touch on that subject," said Mr. Delaney. He offered his sister a chair very quietly, and took another himself.

Father, as Iris used to say, was not the least like[32] mother. Mother had the gentlest, the sweetest, the most angelic face in the world; she never spoke loudly, and she seldom laughed; her voice was low and never was heard to rise to an angry tone. Her smile was like the sweetest sunshine, and wherever she appeared she brought an atmosphere of peace with her. But father, on the other hand, although an excellent and loving parent, was, when in good spirits, given to hearty laughter—given to loud, eager words, to strong exercise, both physical and mental. He was, as a rule, a very active man, seldom staying still in one place, but bustling here, there, and everywhere. He was fond of his children, and petted them a good deal; but the one whom he really worshiped was his gentle and loving wife. She led him, although he did not know it, by silken cords. She always knew exactly how to manage him, how to bring out his fine points. She never rubbed him the wrong way. He had a temper, and he knew it; but in his wife's presence it had never been exasperated. His sister, however, managed to set it on edge with the very first words she uttered.

"Of course, I know you mean well, Jane," he said, "and I ought to be obliged to you for taking all this trouble. Now that you have come, you are welcome; but I must ask you to understand immediately that I will not have the subject of my"—he hesitated, and his under lip shook for a moment—"the subject of my trouble alluded to. And I will also add that I should have preferred your writing to me beforehand. This taking a man by storm is, you know of old, my dear Jane—not agreeable to me."

"Precisely, David. I did not write, for the simple reason that I thought it likely you would have asked me not to come; and as it was necessary for me to[33] appear on the scene, I determined, on this occasion, to take, as you express it, Delaney Manor by storm."

"Very well, Jane; as you have done it you have done it, and there is no more to be said."

Mr. Delaney rose from his seat as he spoke.

"Would you not like to go to your room, and wash and change your dress?" he asked.

"I cannot change my dress, for I have only brought one. I will go to my room presently. What hour do you dine?"

"At half-past eight."

"I have a few minutes still to talk to you, and I will not lose the opportunity. It will be necessary for me to return home the day after to-morrow."

An expression of relief swept over Mr. Delaney's countenance.

"I shall, therefore," continued Mrs. Dolman, taking no notice of this look, which she plainly saw, "have but little time at my disposal, and there is a great deal to be done. But before I proceed to anything else, may I ask you a question? How could you allow all that splendid land to lie waste?"

"What land, Jane? What do you mean?"

"Those acres of grass outside the house."

"Are you alluding to the lawns?"

"I don't know what name you choose to call all that grass, but I think it is a positive tempting of Providence to allow so much land to lie fallow. Why, you might grow potatoes or barley or oats, and make pounds and pounds a year. I know of old what the land round Delaney Manor can produce."

"As the land happens to belong to me, perhaps I may be allowed to arrange it as pleases myself," said Mr. Delaney, in a haughty tone.[34]

His sister favored him with a long, reflective gaze.

"He is just as obstinate as ever," she muttered to herself. "With that cleft in his chin, what else can be expected? There is no use bothering him on that point at present, and, as he won't allow me to talk of poor Evangeline,—who had, poor soul, as many faults as I ever saw packed into a human being,—there is nothing whatever for me to do but to look up those children."

Mrs. Dolman rose from her seat as this thought came to her.

"I am tired," she said. "From Yorkshire to Delaney Manor is a long journey, as perhaps you do not remember, David; so I will seek my room after first having informed you what the object of my visit is."

"I should be interested to know that, Jane," he answered, in a somewhat softened tone.

"Well, seeing I am the only sister you have—"

"But we never did pull well together," interrupted he.

"We used to play in the same garden," she answered, and for the first time a really soft and affectionate look came into her face. "I hope to goodness, David, that the garden is not altered."

"It is much the same as always, Jane. The children occupy it a good deal."

"I am coming to the subject of the children. Of course, now that things are so much changed—"

"I would rather not go into that," said Mr. Delaney.

"Dear me, David, how touchy you are! Why will you not accept a patent fact? I have no wish to hurt your feelings, but I really must speak out plain common sense. I always was noted for my common sense,[35] was I not? I don't believe, in the length and breadth of England, you will find better behaved children than my five. I have brought them up on a plan of my own, and now that I come here at great trouble, and I may also add expense, to try and help you in your—oh, of course, I must not say it—to try and help you when you want help, you fight shy of my slightest word. Well, the fact is this: I want you to take my advice, and to shut up Delaney Manor, or, better still, to let it well for the next two or three years, and go abroad yourself, letting me have the children!"

"My dear Jane!"

"Oh, I am your dear Jane now—now that you think I can help you. Well, David, I mean it, and what is more, the matter must be arranged. I must take the children back with me the day after to-morrow. Now I will go to my bedroom, as I am dead tired. Perhaps you will ring the bell and ask a servant to take me there."

Mr. Delaney moved slowly across the room. He rang the electric bell, and a moment later the footman appeared in answer to his summons. He gave certain directions, and Mrs. Dolman left the room.

The moment he found himself alone, the father of the children sank down on the nearest chair, put his hands on the table, pressed his face down on them, and uttered a bitter groan.

[36]

CHAPTER IV. RUB-A-DUB.

"What am I to do, Evangeline?" said Mr. Delaney, a few moments later. He stood up as he spoke, shook himself, and gazed straight before him. It was exactly as if he were really speaking to the children's mother. Then again he buried his face in his big hands, and his strong frame shook. After a moment's pause he took up a photograph which stood near, and looked earnestly at the beautiful pictured face. The eyes, so full of truth and tenderness, seemed to answer him back. He started abruptly to his feet. "You always directed me, Evangeline," he said. "God only knows what I am to do now that you have left me. I am in some matters as weak as a reed, great, blustering fellow though I appear. And now that Jane has come—she always did bully me—now that she has come and wants to take matters into her own hands, oh, Evangeline! what is to be done? The fact is, I am not fit to manage this great house, nor the children, without you. The children are not like others; they will not stand the treatment which ordinary children receive. Oh, why has Jane, of all people, come? What am I to do?"

He paced rapidly up and down his big study; clenching his hands at times, at times making use of a strong exclamation.

The butler knocked at the door. "Dinner will be[37] served in half an hour, sir," he said. "Am I to lay for two?"

"Yes, Johnson. Mrs. Dolman, my sister, has arrived, and will dine with me. Have places laid for two."

The man withdrew, and Mr. Delaney, stepping out through the open window, looked across the lawns which his sister had so strongly disapproved of.

"Jane was always the one to poke her finger into every pie," he said half aloud. "Certainly this place is distasteful to me now, and there is—upon my word, there is something in her suggestion. But to deliver over those four children to her, and to take them away from the garden, and the house, and the memory of their mother—oh! it cannot be thought of for a moment; and yet, to shift the responsibility while my heart is so sore would be an untold relief."

A little voice in the distance was heard shouting eagerly, and a small child, very dirty about the hands and face, came trotting up to Mr. Delaney. It was Diana. She was sobbing as well as shouting, and was holding something tenderly wrapped up in her pocket handkerchief.

"What is the matter with you, Di?" said her father. He lifted her into his arms. "Why, little woman, what can be the matter? and what have you got in your handkerchief?"

"It's Rub-a-Dub, and he is deaded," answered Diana. She unfolded the handkerchief carefully and slowly, and showed her father a small piebald mouse, quite dead, and with a shriveled appearance. "He is as dead as he can be," repeated Diana. "Look at him. His little claws are blue, and oh! his little nose, and he cannot see; he is stone dead, father." [38]

"Well, you shall go into Beaminster to-morrow and buy another mouse," said Mr. Delaney.

Diana gazed at him with grave,