Silverthorns

by Mrs. Molesworth

servants' regions; andthen I was so near fainting and looked so wretched that my guardian hadto be sent for, and all manner of soothing and comforting employed tobring me round. The whole thing might have been forgotten but for whatfollowed. The poor old squire died that very night, and I think myguardian was glad he did not live till the next morning; for it broughtthe news of the reappearance of the Osbert cousins whom he had thoughtit his duty to try to trace, and so his sister's grandson was cut out ofhis inheritance!"

  "And the ghost had reason to be miserable then," said Jerry. "Poorghost."

  "Yes," said Mr Waldron; "his hopes of his long penance ending must havebeen dashed to the ground."

  "Papa," said Charlotte, in a rather awe-struck tone, "you speak as ifyou really believed it. _Do_ you? Do you in the bottom of your heartbelieve it was the ghost?"

  "No," said Mr Waldron, smiling. "In the bottom of my heart I believeit was--" He stopped, and dropped his voice mysteriously.

  "What?" exclaimed everybody.

  "_Owls_!" said Mr Waldron in a thrilling whisper. Charlotte and Jerry,and one or two others, who afterwards denied it by the way, screamed.

  "Oh, papa," said Charlotte, "you did so frighten us."

  "Well, my dears, it shows how easily nerves can be worked up to befrightened at nothing. It was your own imaginations that frightenedyou."

  "Then do you mean," said Noble, in rather a disappointed tone, "thatthere was nothing in it at all?"

  Mr Waldron hesitated.

  "I can't say," he replied. "I don't know. I think it was a verycurious coincidence that for the first time for long any colour shouldhave been given to the old story, just when the squire died; and evenmore, just when the estates' reverting to the female line was stopped.Of course this tells two ways--these circumstances following after madethe incident impressive."

  "Yes," said Noble; "I see."

  "But, papa," said Charlotte, "didn't you say that the poor grand--yes,grand-nephew, who so nearly had all, came off very badly? That needn'thave been--the squire might have left him something."

  "He meant to do so, but--it is a long story, and the legal details wouldonly confuse you. The squire had left things, as was usual in thefamily, all to the male heir, and failing him, to the female line;indeed, there was not very much he could alienate from the property, andthe new squire had debts when he came into it, though it is in a muchbetter way now. But the old squire had never really anticipated thatthe Australian Osberts would turn up. There was room for a lawsuitabout what he had meant for his sister and her grandson; and they couldnot fight it. So all went from them."

  "Did you know them--the sister and the boy?" asked Charlotte.

  "Yes," said Mr Waldron, and he sighed.

  "If you had been grown-up then, couldn't you have helped them now thatyou're such a clever lawyer?" asked Jerry.

  "Perhaps I might have been able to do something."

  "Only `perhaps'!" said Jerry reproachfully. "Papa, I think the law ishorribly unjust. I hate it. I don't want to be a lawyer. Fancy thosepoor things! And the poor, _poor_ ghost."

  "Jerry's got the ghost on the brain," said Ted, teasingly.

  "Mamma," said Jerry plaintively, "do you hear Ted? Should he mock likethat when papa's been telling us the story seriously?"

  "He's only in fun; he didn't mean to vex you, Jerry," said Arthur, andMrs Waldron looked at the boy somewhat anxiously. She did not like hishalf querulous tone. It reminded her of the time when he was sufferingand feeble, and unable to bear ordinary nursery life. "Jerry can't bewell," she said to herself; and she said it aloud to her husband whenthey were left alone.

  "Do you think I should not have told that old story in his hearing?" heasked. "He is not usually nervous or excitable. I could not get out oftelling it without seeming to make some mystery."

  "And you think it better not to tell them the whole?" asked his wife.

  "I see no good purpose that it could serve," he replied. "Not atpresent, at least, while they are young and impressionable. When theyare older I have always intended that they should know, though it ismost unlikely that it will ever affect us in any way."

  CHAPTER NINE.

  THE TOWER ROOM.

  If we knew more than is possible for us of what is passing at adistance, we should find so-called "coincidences" much more frequentthen we have at present any idea of. That very evening when the familyparty in the Waldrons' drawing-room was discussing the old legends ofthe Osberts, the conversation at Silverthorns between Lady Mildred andher niece had taken the same direction.

  Claudia Meredon was not looking quite as bright and well as usual, andher aunt was becoming aware of it.

  "You are so silent, child," she said, half reproachfully, "and I likeyou to talk. It was one of your attractions to me at the first that youwere not one of those stupid, half-bred, or not-at-all-bred girls whothink good manners consist in staring at their elders, and neveranswering anything but `yes' and `no' and `if you please.'"

  Claudia laughed.

  "Then you don't approve of--

  "`Hold up your head, turn out your toes, Speak when you're spoken to, mend your clo'es,'

  "Aunt Mildred?" she said.

  "Yes, I do," said the old lady, testily. "There's a medium in allthings. I detest impertinent little chatterboxes of children. Butyou're not a child now, Claudia, and you have plenty of sense andknowledge in your head; you are quite able to talk very intelligentlyand agreeably if you choose. I only hope you are not going to turn intoa book-worm. Are you working too hard?"

  "No, aunt, I don't think so," said Claudia. "And you know how I enjoymy lessons. And the teaching at Miss Lloyd's is really veryinteresting."

  But she gave a very little sigh as she spoke.

  "Then what's the matter with you? Are you ill? I hope you're nothome-sick. Or do any of those girls at Miss Lloyd's annoy you in anyway? You can't deny that you're not in your usual spirits."

  "No," Claudia allowed, "I don't feel quite as merry as usual; but I'msure I'm not ill. And I'm not home-sick: if I were it would be toosilly, when I know that what you are doing for me now is to make itpossible for me to be a real help to them all at home. Perhaps,however, I am just a _very_ little what people call home-sick. It isn'tthe girls at school--I have very little to do with them."

  "All the better," said Lady Mildred. "They cannot be much worthknowing."

  "Perhaps most of them are rather commonplace," Claudia allowed. "Thereis only one--the one I told you of, Charlotte Waldron--who interests meat all particularly. But I don't think I interest her, so though we doall the same lessons we scarcely ever speak to each other," and againClaudia sighed a little.

  "You are a goose," said her aunt. "I believe you would like to makefriends with the girl, and have her adoring you and gushing over you."

  Claudia could not help laughing a little. The idea of cold, proudCharlotte "gushing" over any one, over herself especially, struck her ascuriously incongruous.

  "She's not at all that sort of girl, Aunt Mildred," she said.

  "So much the better," repeated Lady Mildred again. "And whatever she isor is not," she went on, "remember, Claudia, I gave you fair warningthat I could have no school-girl friendships."

  "Of course, aunt, I know that quite well. Don't think I am dreaming ofsuch things. I really and truly don't quite know why I don't feel asbright as usual."

  It was as she said. She did not understand herself. Hitherto, thoughher life had been in some respects a hard and even anxious one,--for shehad shared her parents' cares and struggles, and the mode of living atthe rectory had been of almost Spartan simplicity,--there had been nocomplications. Duties had been clear and straightforward, to Claudia'sgenial and loving nature they had gone hand in hand with her greatestdelight--that of serving and helping those about her. But now it wasdifferent: she felt herself misunderstood and disliked; she felt she wasalmost giving reason for this, and yet what could she do? The littlekindnesses and
overtures of good will which her mother had assured hershe could find opportunity for without violating her aunt's wishes hadbeen rejected almost with scorn. She was beginning even faintly tosuspect that her earnest and conscientious school-work, or rather thesuccess with which it was crowned, was rousing against her feelingswhich she could not endure to suspect the existence of in the hearts ofothers. Yet here again