Fortunately she always felt it there, sustaining, commending,
sanctifying. Suddenly her father announced to her that he wished her
to go immediately, with her sisters, down to Brinton, where there was
always part of a household and where for a few weeks they would
manage well enough. The only explanation he gave of this desire was
that he wanted them out of the way. Out of the way of what?" she
queried, since there were to be for the time no preparations in
Seymour Street. She was willing to take it for out of the way of his
nerves.
She never needed urging however to go to Brinton, the dearest old
house in the world, where the happiest days of her young life had
been spent and the silent nearness of her mother always seemed
greatest. She was happy again, with Beatrice and Muriel and Miss
Flynn, with the air of summer and the haunted rooms and her mother's
garden and the talking oaks and the nightingales. She wrote briefly
to her father, giving him, as he had requested, an account of things;
and he wrote back that since she was so contented--she didn't
recognise having told him that--she had better not return to town at
all. The fag-end of the London season would be unimportant to her,
and he was getting on very well. He mentioned that Godfrey had
passed his tests, but, as she knew, there would be a tiresome wait
before news of results. The poor chap was going abroad for a month
with young Sherard--he had earned a little rest and a little fun.
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