"Well, she is old enough to choose
for herself. Five-and-twenty she must be by now.... As for the stage,
I suppose it is the best place for her; better, at least, than turning
governess, and going mad, as she would do, over her drudgery and
her dreams. But who is this friend? Singing-master, scribbler, or
political refugee? or perhaps all three together? A dark lot, those
fellows. I must keep my eye on him; though it's no concern of mine.
I've done my duty by the poor thing; the devil himself can't deny
that. But, somehow, if this play-writing worthy plays her false, I
feel very much as if I should be fool enough to try whether I have
forgotten my pistol-shooting."
CHAPTER VI.
AN OLD FOE WITH A NEW FACE.
"This child's head is dreadfully hot; and how yellow he does look!"
says Mrs. Vavasour, fussing about in her little nursery. "Oh, Clara,
what shall I do? I really dare not give them any more medicine myself;
and that horrid old Doctor Heale is worse than no one."
"Ah, ma'am," says Clara, who is privileged to bemoan herself, and to
have sad confidences made to her, "if we were but in town now, to see
Mr. Chilvers, or any one that could be trusted; but in this dreadful
out-of-the-way place--"
"Don't talk of it, Clara! Oh, what will become of the poor children?"
And Mrs. Vavasour sits down and cries, as she does three times at
least every week.
"But indeed, ma'am, if you thought you could trust him, there is that
new assistant--"
"The man who was saved from the wreck? Why, nobody knows who he is.
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