Chapter XXI: An Unexpected Answer

BUT those few quiet words meant a great deal to Nellie, and Wilmot felt they did, though he angrily refused to believe them. He allowed a whole month to elapse before he again went to see the Arundels, believing, in a kind of blind way, that Nellie would be all the more glad to welcome him. Poor little Nellie!

At last he gave himself leave to go and see her again.

He took a great deal of pains about this visit. He invited Maude up from Devonshire for a fortnight's stay in his bachelor lodgings, in order that he might have the excuse of her presence for more frequent visits than he could otherwise have proposed.

The day before she was expected, Wilmot took himself with a somewhat beating heart to the house in the square, and full of pleasant anticipations, walked along planning the various excursions he would take Maude, and speculating in how many of these he could persuade Nellie to join.

At last the steps of No. 8 were reached, and Wilmot walked up them, delighted to think that the time he had set himself was at last over. He knocked, and when a servant, a stranger to him, opened the door, he asked the usual question, "Is Dr. Arundel at home?" thinking that it did not very much matter what the answer might be.

The answer, however, did matter a great deal to him; for the cook informed him that "the doctor and family were out of town; went yesterday morning."

He could only leave his card, and turn away with such a sense of disappointment as he could not have believed possible.

"It serves me right," he said to himself, as he walked gloomily homewards, "it serves me right; I was just a wretch to leave her in all her sorrow just out of 'pique.' Well, I am sorry, but that won't mend it."

Meanwhile the days had passed but slowly to Nellie and the others, as days of bereavement do pass.

Looking round on the household she was "mothering," she felt that the hot summer weather, added to their sorrow, was telling unfavourably upon little Tom, while Netta and Isabel looked pale and spiritless.

One day, after all had gone to bed, and she and her father were left alone, she came over and knelt down by his side, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Tired, my child?" he said lovingly, putting his arm round her.

"N—o, dear papa," she answered sighing, "I have only been thinking."

How deeply he sighed in his turn; but presently said, "Well, dear?"

"I have thought Tom looks poorly, papa?"

"Yes, dear, it is nor to be wondered at."

"No; but you will not think I am restless if I say that, perhaps, a little change might help us all, dear papa, if it could be managed?"

"You shall go by all means, my dears."

"Not without you; oh, we could not."

"Christina perhaps would go with you."

"Oh, not that! But you, dear papa, want a change most of all; oh, you must go too, if we do."

He seemed to be considering, and presently observed, "I was to have taken her, Nellie, just at this time."

"I know," said Nellie, nestling her head closer to him.

"Well, dear—" he said with a long breath, "we will think it over. I do not wish to shut myself up, and if it would do you all good, I am willing to try it."

"Arthur looks so dull and forlorn. It is the first year for so long, that we have not gone away at this time."

"Yes, dear, so it is; we will arrange it. You think of what place you would like, and I will write about apartments."

So Nellie, Ada, and Arthur put their heads together, and decided on the Isle of Wight, if papa approved; and the following evening, when the little ones were gone to bed, they anxiously laid their plans before their father.

"We think, papa," said Nellie, "that Mary and the little ones had better be settled in at Shanklin, and then we will take you," she said, smiling lovingly at him, "excursions to different places; and perhaps we might even stop a night or two at the nicest, because, you know, it is so near, that Mary could send for us if she wanted anything."

"So that's it, is it?" said Dr. Arundel. "That's what I get by telling you to settle what you like."

He seemed pleased, however, with their plan, and very soon everything was arranged, and they actually had carried off their father for a holiday.

Nellie did not ask Christina, feeling that her father would be able to unbend more alone; and so it proved.

He left his practice in good hands, and when once they were at the sea, he would sit on the beach at first, hour after hour, by little Tom's carriage, reading a book which Nellie's thoughtfulness had provided, and doing very little; sometimes talking to Tom about the loved mother, and in the peace and quietness feeling nearer to her than he could do in the whirl of London.

Nellie watched over him as she would over a sick child. Without seeming to be taking any notice, she would manage to establish the pair who were so suited to each other, in some warm and quiet nook, and then she would draw off the younger ones, the nurse, and Simmons, for a long ramble.

Ada and Arthur generally were full of plans for themselves, which would include her if she could spare time; but generally she went quietly homewards to fulfil her housekeeping duties; and when these were done, she would take her work or mending into the verandah which faced the sea, the low hedge of the little garden having nothing but a path to separate it from high water, and with a sound of the waves in her ears she would sit and think—not only think, but pray.

Many, many tears fell over that work; tears of memory, tears for lost opportunities, tears for the depression of the trials which fell so heavily on her young heart, tears for the future, which all at once had become so blank and cold to her.

But while she wept, she would pray; and as surely as she prayed would the Comforter be sent, as He was promised, and peace would steal over her troubled heart.

So she would sit, and the song of the sea blended with other songs in her heart. Her father had once said to her, "When you have nothing else to do, it is a very good plan to count up your mercies." So sometimes she would try to remember them all, and the hours which had begun in sadness would often end in praise, and she would rise up to go to meet her father with a peaceful face, which had cast its burden on the Lord.

She would traverse the piece of path which ran along the edge of the sea, then cross the beach, and in about five or six minutes would come to her dear ones.

Tom would look up to her and say, "We have been so happy, Nellie."

And her father would raise his face, with the deep lines of sorrow smoothed out for a while, and would place his book and his little Bible in his pocket, while he would say, with a sigh of content—

"I am glad we came, Nellie."