Beyond the Secret Garden by Ann Thwaite

Author:Ann Thwaite [Thwaite, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

Furniture

2.00

Hand Roller

0.50

Black and Colored inks

2.00

Twelve fonts of type

24.45

Eleven type cases and cabinet

12.00

Leads, bodkin and tweezers

1.50

Six gauge pins and Screw driver

0.60

Mallet, planer and oil can

0.75

Composing stick

1.00

Can of cleaning preparation

0.30

Lead cutter

2.00

Rules, dashes, borders

2.90

$150.00

I know the price of it startles you, but I have a way to get over it. Vivian says that he will give up his bicycle that you said you were going to get us when we came over, and I am willing to do the same, and I think that will make the amount. I think Papa will pay the express for us, which will be quite a good deal, I think.

If you will do it, will you cable yes, for we, of course, want it very much. We have talked with Papa about it and he said that he thought it was very good, but that it cost such a lot. He said he would get it for us if he could afford it.

I send you a little book I printed on the press that was given me Christmas before last. I call it “Job Lots”, because it is composed of all kinds of poetry. I put in “There was an old man up a tree”, because I know you always laugh at it. I printed the book all by myself . . .

Your loving son,

L. BURNETT,

Job Printer

Needless to say, Frances cabled the money. Vivian and Lionel had produced the first few issues of a weekly paper when Lionel fell ill. In the beginning it was thought to be “la grippe”, the name given to an epidemic raging in Washington that winter of 1890.

The news turned Frances pale. Lionel, as Vivian pointed out in his book, “was high strung, sensitive and emotional and not able to protect himself very well from the knocks and disappointments of the world”. He found his school work difficult—he was in the same grade this year as his bright young brother, Vivian, which could not have been very good for his morale. He was often ill. He needed his mother but she was never there. He had not seen her for a year. Frances was stirred by deep feelings of guilt and love. Of course, her accident had been to blame, she assured herself. If it had not been for her accident she would surely have returned home before this. She wrote from Rome, from the dull Hotel Minerva, reminding Lionel that Dearest thought all the time of her boys. “I shall send you a cable every now and then to show you I am near enough to talk to you.”

Lionel was fifteen. She had never come to terms with the boys growing up. She wrote to him as if he were a child of Fauntleroy’s age—a seven-year-old—sending him photographs of the Carnival at Nice and the ruins of Pompeii, and boxes of construzione, to cheer him up.

Lionel responded perfectly: “Don’t bother about me, darling Sweet. What I want you to do is to get well, and not to worry about me. I also want to see you very much, but don’t start until you feel well.

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