But ‘such fun’ was hard when one or other of the inmates of the house was lying on the bed shaking with ague, and the others creeping wearily about, even on their intermediate days. They had been deluded into imprudent exposure in the lovely evenings of summer, and had never shaken off the results.
‘Come, Ella,’ said Minna, one afternoon, as she descended the bare rickety stairs, ‘Ave is getting better; and if we can get the fire up, and make some coffee and boil some eggs, it will be comfortable for her when she comes down and Henry comes in.’
Ella, with a book in her hand, was curled up in a corner of a sofa standing awry among various other articles of furniture that seemed to have tumbled together by chance within the barn-like room. Minna began moving first one and then the other, daintily wiping off the dust, and restoring an air of comfort.
‘Oh dear!’ said Ella, unfolding herself; ‘I am so tired. Where’s Hetta Mary?’
‘Oh, don’t you know, Hetta Mary went home this morning because Henry asked her where his boots were, and she thought he wanted her to clean them.’
‘Can’t Mrs. Shillabeer come in!’
‘Mrs. Shillabeer said she would never come in again, because Averil asked her not to hold the ham by the bone and cut it with her own knife when Henry was there! Come, Ella it is of no use. We had better do things ourselves, like Cora and Ave, and then we shall not hear people say disagreeable things.’
The once soft, round, kitten-like Minna, whom Leonard used to roll about on the floor, had become a lank, sallow girl, much too tall for her ten years, and with a care-stricken, thoughtful expression on her face, even more in advance of her age than was her height. She moved into the kitchen, a room with an iron stove, a rough table, and a few shelves, looking very desolate. The hands of both little girls had become expert in filling the stove with wood, and they had not far to seek before both it and the hearth in the sitting-room were replenished, and the flame beginning to glow.
‘Where’s the coffee-mill?’ said Minna, presently, looking round in blank despair.
‘Oh dear!’ said Ella, ‘I remember now; that dirty little Polly Mason came to borrow it this morning. I said we wanted it every day: but she guessed we could do without it, for they had got a tea-party, and her little brother had put in a stone and spoilt Cora Muller’s; and she snatched it up and carried it off.’
‘He will serve ours the same, I suppose,’ said Minna. ‘It is too far off to go for it; let us make some tea.’
‘There’s no tea,’ said Ella; ‘a week ago or more that great Irene Brown walked in and reckoned we could lend her ‘ma some tea and sugar, ‘cause we had plenty. And we have used up our own since; and if we did ask her to return the loan, hers is such nasty stuff that nobody could drink it. What shall we do, Minna?’ and she began to cry.
‘We must take some coffee up to the hotel,’ said Minna, after a moment’s reflection; ‘Black Joe is very good-natured, and he’ll grind it.’
‘But I don’t like to go ail by myself,’ said Ella; ‘into the kitchen too, and hear them say things about Britishers.’
‘I’ll go, dear,’ said Minna, gently, ‘if you will just keep the fire up, and boil the eggs, and make the toast, and listen if Ave calls.’
Poor Minna, her sensitive little heart trembled within her at the rough contemptuous words that the exclusive, refined tone of the family always provoked, and bodily languor and weariness made the walk trying; but she was thinking of Ave’s need, and resolutely took down her cloak and hat. But at that moment the latch was raised, and the bright graceful figure of Cora stood among them, her feathered hat and delicate muslin looking as fresh as at New York.
‘What, all alone!’ she said; ‘I know it is poor Ave’s sick day. Is she better?’
‘Yes, going to get up and come down; but—’ and all the troubles were poured out.
‘True enough, the little wretch did spoil our mill, but Rufus mended it; and as I thought Polly had been marauding on you, I brought some down.’
‘Ah! I thought I smelt it most deliciously as you came in, but I was afraid I only fancied it because I was thinking about it. Dear Cora, how good you are!’
‘And have you anything for her to eat?’
‘I was going to make some toast.’
‘Of that dry stuff! Come, we’ll manage something better:’ and off came the dainty embroidered cambric sleeves, up went the coloured ones, a white apron came out of a pocket, and the pretty hands were busy among the flour; the children assisting, learning, laughing a childlike laugh.
‘Ah!’ cried Cora, turning round, and making a comic threatening gesture with her floury fingers; ‘you ought not to have come till we were fixed. Go and sit in your chair by the fire.’
‘Dear Cora!’
But Cora ran at her, and the wan trembling creature put on a smile, and was very glad to comply; being totally unequal to resist or even to stand long enough to own her dread of Henry’s finding all desolate and nothing to eat.
Presently Cora tripped in, all besleeved and smartened, to set cushions behind the tired back and head, and caress the long thin fingers. ‘I’ve left Minna, like King Alfred, to watch the cakes,’ she said; ‘and Ella is getting the cups. So your fifth girl is gone.’
‘The fifth in five months! And we let her sit at table, and poor dear Minna has almost worn out her life in trying to hinder her from getting affronted.’
‘I’ve thought what to do for you, Ave. There’s the Irish woman, Katty Blake—her husband has been killed. She is rough enough, but tender in her way; and she must do something for herself and her child.’
‘Her husband killed!’
‘Yes, at Summerville. I thought you had heard it. Mordaunt wrote to me to tell her; and I shall never forget her wailing at his dying away from his country. It was not lamentation for herself, but that he should have died far away from his own people.’
‘She is not long from the old country; I should like to have her if—if we can afford it. For if the dividends don’t come soon from that building company, Cora, I don’t know where to turn—’
‘Oh, they must come. Father has been writing to Rufus about the arrangements. Besides, those Irish expect less, and understand old country manners better, if you can put up with their breakages.’
‘I could put up with anything to please Henry, and save Minna’s little hard-worked bones.’
‘I will send her tomorrow. Is it not Minna’s day of ague?’
‘Yes, poor dear. That is always the day we get into trouble.’
‘I never saw a child with such an instinct for preventing variance, or so full of tact and pretty ways; yet I have seen her tremble under her coaxing smile, that even Mis’ Shillabeer can’t resist.’
‘See, see!’ cried Ella, hurrying in, ‘surely our contingent is not coming home!’
‘No,’ said Cora, hastening to the door, ‘these must be a reinforcement marching to take the train at Winiamac.’
‘Marching?’ said Ella, looking up archly at her. ‘We didn’t let our volunteers march in that way.’
They were sturdy bearded backwoodsmen, rifle on shoulder, and with grave earnest faces; but walking rather than marching, irregularly keeping together, or straggling, as they chose.
‘Your volunteers!’ cried Cora, her eyes flashing; ‘theirs was toy work! These are bound for real patriotic war!’ and she clasped her hands together, then waved her handkerchief.
‘It is sad,’ said Averil, who had moved to the window, ‘to see so many elderly faces—men who must be the prop of their families.’
‘It is because ours is a fight of men, not of children; not one of your European wars of paltry ambition, but a war of principle!’ cried Cora, with that intensity of enthusiasm that has shed so much blood in the break-up of the Great Republic.