Silverthorns

“He must get up his strength, or we shall be afraid to let him out again till the fine weather comes,” the doctor said; “and that would be a sad thing for a boy of his age.”

Then when he went down-stairs with Mrs Waldron to write a prescription for a tonic, he sat looking thoughtful and pre-occupied for a minute or two. Jerry’s mother was a little alarmed.

“You don’t think there is anything much the matter with him?” she said.

“No, oh no; he has rather lost ground in his general health the last few months. He needed a fresh start or a fillip, and unluckily he has, so to speak, had one the wrong way. But there is nothing to be uneasy about, only considering how wonderfully he has improved in the last few years, I should like to see him still stronger.”

“Yes,” Mrs Waldron agreed; “and in another year or so he will be getting into a higher class at school, and he will have to work harder, that will be trying for him.”

“Exactly,” said the doctor, who had known Jerry since he was a baby; “now’s the time for him to get up his strength. You couldn’t by any possibility, I suppose, manage to send him out of England, to some of the mild health places, for a winter? It would be the making of him.”

Mrs Waldron shook her head. She saw no chance whatever of such a thing and said so.

“Ah, well,” said the doctor, “we must do our best. I dare say he’ll pull up again. It was only an idea that struck me.”

And when he had gone, and Jerry’s mother went up-stairs again, it struck her too that the boy did look sadly in want of something of the kind.

“If only we were rich,” she thought. “When we are all well it does not seem to press so – it is illness that brings small means home to one sorely.”

Charlotte opened her letter, and glanced through it; then made a little exclamation. She had her wish. It was something that would please Jerry.

“What is it?” asked her mother.

“It is,” – Charlotte began with a very slight shade of reluctance – “it is a letter from Miss Meredon to ask how Jerry is.”

“It is very nice of her to have thought of it,” said Mrs Waldron.

“She writes, she says, by Lady Mildred’s wish,” said Charlotte; “they are in London.”

“Well, you may run up-stairs and tell Jerry about it. It will please him,” said her mother.

Chapter Fourteen

Lady Mildred Makes up her Mind

Jerry was sitting up in bed; he was so far better that no serious illness was now to be feared, but he was weak and depressed, feeling vaguely “sorry for himself,” not quite sure what he wanted, nor eager to profit by the doctor’s permission to get up in the afternoon, and go down to have tea in the drawing-room.

He glanced up listlessly as Charlotte came in.

“I have an hour still before I need to go to school,” she said, “so I have come up to you, Jerry: there is a letter about you this morning.”

“About me!” Jerry exclaimed; “anything about school, do you mean? They know I’m ill.”

“No, not from school; it’s from Miss Meredon, to ask how you are; they’re in London.”

“How nice of her!” said Jerry, his eyes brightening. “I’m sure you must see, Charlotte, how nice she is.”

“Yes,” Charlotte allowed; “she is kind and good; I’ll never say she’s not. But it can’t be difficult to be nice when one has everything one wants, like her,” she added, reverting to her old strain.

Jerry looked disappointed.

“I think you are rather unfair, Charlotte,” he said. “If she wasn’t nice you’d say she was spoilt and selfish, and as she is nice you say it’s no credit to her. How can you tell that it isn’t very difficult to be nice and kind to others when one has everything one wants oneself? Papa says it is very difficult indeed not to get spoilt when one’s like that.”

“I’d like to be tried,” said Charlotte.

“Besides,” pursued Jerry, “do you know I’m not quite sure that she has everything the way we fancied.”

Charlotte looked up eagerly.

“What do you mean?” she said. “What can there be that she hasn’t got? We know she’s very rich and clever and pretty; that’s a good deal, any way.”

“But I’m almost sure she has to be away from the people she loves most,” said Jerry; “I know it by some things she said. And I could tell by her ways that she’s used to brothers and sisters – I fancy there’s a lot of them.”

“She is rather to be pitied for that,” said Charlotte half-laughingly, “though it can’t be so bad when people are rich. And then as Lady Mildred has adopted her what can it matter?”

“I shouldn’t like to be adopted away from you all, however grand and rich I was to be,” said Jerry, “and I don’t believe you’d like it either, whatever you say. You make yourself out worse than you are, Charlotte.”

“Well, read the letter,” she said, and Jerry did so. As he gave it back to Charlotte he grew rather red.

“Do you see?” he said; “they’re not coming back – not till after Christmas. Charlotte, you’re sure of the German prize.”

Charlotte’s face lighted up.

“I did not notice that,” she said; “I thought she said something about staying a few days.”

“No,” said Jerry, “she says, ‘We shall not return to Silverthorns till after Christmas, perhaps a few days after, and perhaps not so soon.’”

Charlotte drew a deep breath.

“I see,” she said. “My composition is nearly finished. Oh, Jerry, how I hope I shall get the prize now.”

“You are sure to,” he said shortly.

“Unless,” Charlotte went on, “unless she possibly finishes it there, and sends it back by post.”

“Nonsense,” said Jerry; “I am sure she won’t. She wouldn’t have time for one thing, and – ”

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t think she’s the sort of girl to set herself so to win a prize when she’s been so short a time at school with you all,” said Jerry.

“No; perhaps not. Of course it can’t matter to her as it does to me. I dare say she’s forgotten all about it now she’s up in London amusing herself,” said Charlotte in a satisfied tone which Jerry found rather provoking. “I don’t mind her not trying – I mean I’m not too proud to say I know she would have won it if she had. I shall always say so, for she is much further on and much cleverer than any of us. And some of them have been working very hard lately. It isn’t as if I had no one worth trying against.”

Jerry said no more. He was glad for Charlotte, but he did feel it hard that Claudia’s self-sacrifice, which had been just as great and real as if after events had not rendered it unnecessary, should remain for ever unknown and unappreciated.

“I wonder if I shall never be able to tell Charlotte,” he said to himself. “Long after, perhaps, when she’s left off caring about school things. I should like her to know some day,” and his blue eyes gazed out into the future wistfully.

“What are you thinking of, Jerry?” said Charlotte suddenly. “Why do you look so melancholy? The doctor says you may get up this afternoon.”