rs Fred in the parlour after she had
parted from Edward Rider, with feelings somewhat different from the
doctor's. Perhaps she too had indulged a certain pang of expectation as
to what might follow after Fred was gone, in the new world that should
be after that change; for Nettie, with all her wisdom of experience, was
still too young not to believe that circumstances did change everything
now and then, even dispositions and hearts. But before Dr Rider knew
it--before he had even wound up his courage to the pitch of asking what
was now to happen to them--the little Australian had made up her mind to
that which was inevitable. The same Susan whose ceaseless discontents
and selfish love had driven Nettie across the seas to look for Fred, was
now reposing on that sofa in her widow's cap, altogether unchanged, as
helpless and unabandonable, as dependent, as much a fool as ever. The
superior wretchedness of Fred's presence and life had partially veiled
Susan's character since they came to Carlingford. Now she had the field
to herself again, and Nettie recognised at once the familiar picture.
From the moment when Susan in her mourning came down-stairs, Nettie
acknowledged the weakness of circumstances, the pertinacity of nature.
What could she do?--she gave up the scarcely-formed germ of hope that
had begun to appear in her breast. She made up her mind silently to what
must be. No agonies of martyrdom could have made Nettie desert her post
and abandon these helpless souls. They could do nothing for themselves,
old or young of them; and who was there to do it all? she asked herself,
with that perpetual reference to necessity which was Nettie's sole process
of reasoning on the subject. Thus considered, the arguments were short
and telling, the conclusion unmistakable. Here was this visible piece
of business--four helpless creatures to be supported and provided and
thrust through life somehow--with nobody in the world but Nettie to do
it; to bring them daily bread and hourly tendance, to keep them alive,
and shelter their helplessness with refuge and protection. She drew up
her tiny Titania figure, and put back her silken flood of hair, and stood
upright to the full extent of her little stature, when she recognised
the truth. Nobody could share with her that warfare which was hard
to flesh and blood. There was nothing to be said on the subject--no
possibility of help. She was almost glad when that interview, which she
foresaw, was