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She acknowledged with a cool bow that she did remember her guardian's character of Wade. "You do not say, Peter," says Mrs. Skerrett, with a bright little look at the other lady, "why Mr. Churm was so mysterious about Mr. Wade." "Miss Damer shall tell us," Peter rejoined, repeating his wife's look of merry significance. She looked somewhat teased.
I only wish some of my young readers could have seen Miss Bruce, how simple she looked when she followed the coachman into the inn. She wished to be at school, and with Miss Damer again but it was then too late. And here I would advise young people to beware of the first wrong step, for it generally leads to trouble and mortification, and often to disgrace.
And she passed swiftly along the corridor to her cousin's room. As she neared that of Mr. Laurence, the door opened a little, and a voice asked huskily "Is anything the matter, Mrs. Clayton? I have been listening to noises in the house for the last hour." "My cousin, Mrs. Damer, has been taken ill, Mr. Laurence, but we have sent for the doctor; I am going to her now."
Meanwhile, whenever Mrs. Damer opened her lips, it was to ramble on in this manner: "Dying!" her hollow voice would exclaim; "crushed to death beneath the weight of a pyramid of blessings that lies like lead upon my chest and reaches to the ceiling. Kind words fond care, and sweet attentions they bow me down to the earth! I am stifling beneath the burden of their silent reproaches.
Miss Dawkins left the house with an eager young Damer yelling on each side of her; but nevertheless, though thus neglected by the gentlemen of the party, she was all smiles and prettiness, and looked so sweetly on Mr. Ingram when that gentleman stayed a moment to help her on to her donkey, that his heart almost misgave him for leaving her as soon as she was in her seat. And then they were off.
"That's little Sir Lionel Damer," said Polly. "Good-morning, Leo!" and she nodded as he passed. The boy just touched his hat, bent his head with a melancholy and yet half-comical dignity, and walked on. "Who's he in mourning for?" I asked. "His father and mother," said Polly. "They were drowned together, and now he is Sir Lionel." I looked after him with sudden and intense sympathy.
But Dot was young and possessed of an abundant energy which knew no flagging. Her vigorous young life was full of schemes, and she knew not what it was to stand and wait. She was keenly engaged just then in company with Mrs. Damer, Mrs. Randal, and a few more, in organising an entertainment in support of the Town Hall and Reading Club, to which Lucas Errol had promised his liberal support.
Down the field he sped, faster and faster, amid the roars of the School, roars which came to his ears like the deep booming of breakers upon a lee shore. To many of those watching him, the sight of that graceful figure, that shining ardent face, revealing the promise which youth and beauty always offer to a delighted world, became an ineffaceable memory. Damer turned to the Head of his house.
I had been told your nephew would make you a visit this autumn, but I have heard nothing from him. If you should see him, pray give him the parcel, for he will return sooner than they. Damer had devoted herself to sculpture with an ability which has given her a high place among artists. I have a gouty pain in my hand, that would prevent my saying more, had I more to say. Nov. 29, 1781.
"Get it down. You haven't much time." Horton's pen scratched and spluttered, as sinking now and then almost beyond hearing, the disjointed words fell from the lips that could scarcely frame them; but it was nevertheless with a horrible vividness that Damer told his story, and those who sat listening gasped with relief when at last it was finished and everything was plain.
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