“Poor Maria, who could have thought of such
frightful barbarity?” sighed Alison. “I
knew she was a passionate girl, but this is worse
than one can bear to believe.”
She ceased, for she had been inexpressibly shocked,
and her heart still yearned towards every Beauchamp
school child.
“I suppose we must tell Ermine,” she added;
“indeed, I know I could not help it.”
“Nor I,” he said, smiling, “though
there is only too much fear that nothing will come
of it but disappointment. At least, she will
tell us how to meet that.”
THE BREWST SHE BREWED.
“Unwisely, not ignobly, have
I given.”
Timon of Athens.
Under the circumstances of the Curtis family, no greater
penance could have been devised than the solemn dinner
party which had to take place only an hour after the
investigation was closed. Grace in especial
was nearly distracted between her desire to calm her
mother and to comfort her sister, and the necessity
of attending to the Grey family, who repaid themselves
for their absence from the scene of action by a torrent
of condolences and questions, whence poor Grace gathered
to her horror and consternation that the neighbourhood
already believed that a tenderer sentiment than philanthropy
had begun to mingle in Rachel’s relations with
the secretary of the F. U. E. E. Feeling it incumbent
on the whole family to be as lively and indifferent
as possible, Grace, having shut her friends into their
rooms to perform their toilette, hurried to her sister,
to find her so entirely engrossed with her patient
as absolutely to have forgotten the dinner party.
No wonder! She had had to hunt up a housemaid
to make up a bed for Lovedy in a little room within
her own, and the undressing and bathing of the poor
child had revealed injuries even in a more painful
state than those which had been shown to Mr. Grey,
shocking emaciation, and most scanty garments.
The child was almost torpid, and spoke very little.
She was most unwilling to attempt to swallow; however,
Rachel thought that some of her globules had gone
down, and put much faith in them, and in warmth and
sleep; but incessantly occupied, and absolutely sickened
by the sight of the child’s hurts, she looked
up with loathing at Grace’s entreaty that she
would, dress for the dinner.
“Impossible,” she said.
“You must, Rachel dear; indeed, you must.”
“As if I could leave her.”
“Nay, Rachel, but if you would only send—”
“Nonsense, Grace; if I can stay with her I can
restore her far better than could an allopathist,
who would not leave nature to herself. O Grace,
why can’t you leave me in peace? Is it
not bad enough without this?”
“Dear Rachel, I am very sorry; but if you did
not come down to dinner, think of the talk it would
make.”
“Let them talk.”
“Ah, Rachel, but the mother! Think how
dreadful the day’s work has been to her; and
how can she ever get through the evening if she is
in a fright at your not coming down?”
