Queenie's whim, Volume 2 (of 3) : $b A novelCarey, Rosa Nouchette
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Queenie's whim, Volume 2 (of 3) : $b A novel
Carey, Rosa Nouchette
English fiction -- 19th century
"Dear Mr. Clayton," it began, "my father wishes you to know that we
have had bad news from Brussels. Darling Flo is very ill. Madame
Shleïfer says it is typhoid fever; but as there are no unfavorable
symptoms, there is nothing serious to be apprehended. One must make
allowances for Beattie's nervousness; girls of seventeen are apt to
exaggerate. Still papa and I cannot help feeling anxious, and we
shall start by the early train to-morrow. If you could come over
this evening we shall be glad, as papa wants to consult you about a
little business. The porch-room shall be got ready for you, as I
know you will make an effort to come to us in our trouble."
"She does not say very much, but one can read between the lines.
Florence is the youngest sister, and her favorite. I know she is
terribly anxious," observed Garth, as Queenie returned the note in
silence. "Well, I must be off; my trap will be round directly. You
three girls will have a cosy evening without me I expect. Good-bye
till to-morrow," and Garth touched his felt hat and ran down the lane.
"He might have shaken hands," thought Queenie, as she walked slowly
back into the cottage.
The empty room felt very dull, but still it would have been better
there than in Church-Stile House without him. On the whole, the
evening was a failure. Cathy was in one of her quiet moods, and
could not be roused into interest about anything. Langley looked
paler than usual, and complained of head-ache, and Emmie was listless
and restless. As for Queenie, she took herself to task severely for
all manner of miserable fancies as she walked back to the cottage in
the darkness.
"What is the use of your perpetually crying for the moon?" she said
indignantly to herself. "Are you going to spoil your life and other
people's with such nonsense? It is not for you to say that he is
marrying the wrong woman. She is a hundred times superior to you,
and I suppose he thinks so. Why is he to be blamed because he sees
no beauty in your little brown face? You are nothing to him but Miss
Marriott, the village school-mistress."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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