Blind Policy Part 7

The breakfast was ready, and she was giving the last touches to her arrangement of flowers and fruit upon the table when Isabel joined her, looking as fresh as the flowers in the little shallow bowl.

"Oh, Laury, I am so ashamed at being so late," she cried, after an affectionate kiss had been exchanged. "I was afraid I was last."

"Oh no, dear; auntie is not down," said Laura, glancing at the clock.

"She'll be ten minutes yet."

"Is she always so punctual?"

"Yes. She does not leave her room till the church clock begins to strike. She is very proud of being so exact."

"Is--is--"

"Fred down? No, dear. There! don't blush, goosey. I expect he was kept late last night, and he loses so much rest, that we never disturb him. He has his breakfast at all sorts of times, but it will be at nine this morning."

This was accompanied by an arch look.

"Oh, how sweet the flowers are!" cried Isabel, turning away to hide the heightened colour in her cheeks.

"Yes, dear," said Laura, banteringly, "and life now is all roses and sweets, and the sky was never so blue, and the London sparrows'

'chiswick, chiswick' sounds like the song of nightingales, doesn't it?

Heigho! I wish I were in love, and someone loved me, and put his arm round my waist and took me for walks along the primrose path of dalliance."

There was a light step behind her, two arms were pa.s.sed about her waist, a soft, white chin rested upon her shoulder, and a rounded cheek was pressed to hers.

"Don't tease me, Laury darling," was whispered. "I can't help feeling all you say, and looking very weak and stupid now."

"Tease you, my own sweet!" cried Laura, swinging round to embrace in turn. "No, of course I won't. It's only my nasty envy, hatred and malice, because I can't be as happy as you. There--and there--and there!"

Three kisses, and Isabel started away.

"Fred's coming!" she whispered.

"No. That's auntie's soft, pudgy step. Fred comes down thump, thump, like a wooden-legged man."

"Laury!"

"Oh, well, he doesn't notice where he's going. He's always thinking of operations and that sort of thing. Good-morning, aunt dear."

"Good-morning, Isabel, my child--morning, Laura."

"Aren't you well, dear? You look so serious."

"Yes, Laura, I look serious. It's a sad world."

The girls exchanged glances, and with melancholy mien the old lady rang the bell for breakfast, and then dropped into her seat with a weary sigh.

"No letters, Laura?"

"No, aunt dear. There's a lovely rose instead."

"Thank you, Laura. Dear, dear! no one writes to me now. I don't know why one should go on living when one grows old."

"Because Fred and I want you, dear," cried Laura, merrily, "and Bel too.

Put two more spoonfuls in the pot, aunt dear. A hot cup of tea will do you good."

"Nothing will ever do me good again," sighed the old lady, shaking her head mournfully.

"Oh yes, it will, dear; and Fred likes his tea strong."

"Yes, yes, very strong, my dear; and always preaches at me if I take it only just coloured. I sometimes think it's because he thinks I cost too much."

"Now, auntie, how can you?" cried Laura. "Don't you believe her, Bel."

"I do not," said the girl, smiling. "Poor aunt is not well this morning."

"How can I be, my child, knowing as I do that my little bit of property is slowly wasting away, and--"

"Here's the urn, aunt," cried Laura. "Shall I make the tea?"

"Certainly not, my dear. Let me, pray, enjoy the last few privileges of my age while I am here. I do not mean in this house, Isabel, my child, but living out my last weary span."

"Auntie darling," said Laura, tenderly, getting up as soon as the maid had placed tea-urn and covered dishes upon the table, "don't be so miserable this morning now that dear Bel is here," and she kissed the old lady lovingly.

"How can I help it, my child? It is her being here makes me feel so bad."

"Oh, my dear Mrs Crane!" cried Isabel.

"Worse and worse!" sobbed the old lady, melting into tears. "I did think you were softening to me, and would end by loving me and always calling me aunt--Mrs Crane!"

"Aunt--auntie! There!" cried Isabel, running to her and kissing her.

"But I think it is I who ought to complain."

"Yes, my dear, you ought."

"You shouldn't say I make you bad."

"But you do, my dear. It's all on your account. It's dreadful, and I lay awake nearly all the night pitying you."

"Pitying me when I am so happy, auntie?" cried Isabel.

"Ah, my child! you don't know. All men are full of evil, but doctors are the worst of all."

"There, Bel; you are going to marry a horrid wretch," cried Laura.

"Don't scoff, my dear," continued the old lady. "It is too serious.

They are always away from home--called at the most unearthly hours."

"Yes, to do good, auntie," said Isabel, smiling.