Kitabı oku: «The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations», sayfa 35
“I see,” she said kindly; “even schoolchildren will not be so good for you as peace.”
“Thank you,” said Ethel, “I should like to be quiet till the evening, if you will let me off. It is very kind in you.”
“I ought to know how to pity you,” said Meta, “I who have gained what you have lost.”
“I want to think too,” said Ethel. “It is the beginning to me of a new life, and I have not been able to look at it yet.”
“Besides, Margaret will want you. Poor Margaret—has it been very trying to her?”
“I fear so, but I shall keep out of her way, and leave her to a quiet afternoon with Richard. It will be the greatest treat to those two to be together.”
“Very well, I will carry off the children, and leave the house quiet.”
And quiet it was in another hour—Gertrude walking with the nurses, Dr. May gone to his patients, and all the rest at Abbotstoke, except Richard and Margaret downstairs; and Ethel, who, while arranging her properties in her new room, had full leisure to lay out before herself the duties that had devolved on her and to grapple with them. She recalled the many counsels that she had received from Flora, and they sounded so bewildering that she wished it had been Conic sections, and then she looked at a Hebrew grammar that Norman had given her, and gave a sigh as she slipped it into the shelf of the seldom used. She looked about the room, cleared out the last piece of brown paper, and burned the last torn envelope, that no relic of packing and change might distress Margaret’s eyes for order; then feeling at once desolate and intrusive, she sat down in Flora’s fireside chair, opened her desk, and took out her last time-table. She looked at it for some minutes, laid it aside, and rising, knelt down. Again seating herself, she resumed her paper, took a blank one, ruled it, and wrote her rules for each hour of each day in the week. That first hour after breakfast, when hitherto she had been free, was one sacrifice; it must go now, to ordering dinner, seeing after stores, watching over the children’s clothes, and the other nondescripts, which, happily for her, Flora had already reduced to method. The other loss was the spare time between the walk and tea; she must not spend that in her own room now, or there would be no one to sit with Margaret, or keep the little ones from being troublesome to her. Ethel had often had to give up this space before, when Flora went out in the evening, and she had seldom felt otherwise than annoyed. Give it up for good! that was the cure for temper, but it had been valuable as something of her own. She would have been thankful could she have hoped to keep regularly to her own rules, but that she knew was utterly improbable—boys, holidays, callers, engagements, Dr. May, would all conspire to turn half her days upside down, and Cocksmoor itself must often depend not only on the weather, but on home doings. Two or three notes she wrote at the foot of her paper.
‘N. B. These are a standard—not a bed of Procrustes.
MUSTS—To be first consulted.—Mays—last. Ethel May’ last of all.
If I cannot do everything—omit the self-chosen.
MEM— Neither hurry when it depends on myself, nor fidget when it depends on others
Keep a book going to pacify myself.’
Her rules drawn up, Ethel knelt once more. Then she drew a long sigh, and wondered where Flora was; and next, as she was fairly fagged, mind and body, she threw herself back in the armchair, took up a railway novel that Hector had brought home, and which they had hidden from the children, and repaired herself with the luxury of an idle reading.
Margaret and Richard likewise spent a peaceful, though pensive afternoon. Margaret had portions of letters from Alan to read to him, and a consultation to hold. The hope of her full recovery had so melted away, that she had, in every letter, striven to prepare Mr. Ernescliffe for the disappointment, and each that she received in return was so sanguine and affectionate, that the very fondness was as much grief as joy. She could not believe that he took in the true state of the case, or was prepared to perceive that she could never be his wife, and she wanted Richard to write one of his clear, dispassionate statements, such as carried full conviction, and to help to put a final end to the engagement.
“But why,” said Richard—“why should you wish to distress him?”
“Because I cannot bear that he should be deceived, and should feed on false hopes. Do you think it right, Richard?”
“I will write to him, if you like,” said Richard; “but I think he must pretty well know the truth from all the letters to Harry and to himself.”
“It would be so much better for him to settle his mind at once,” said Margaret.
“Perhaps he would not think so—”
There was a pause, while Margaret saw that her brother was thinking. At last he said, “Margaret, will you pardon me? I do think that this is a little restlessness. The truth has not been kept from him, and I do not see that we are called to force it on him. He is sensible and reasonable, and will know how to judge when he comes home.”
“It was to try to save him the pang,” murmured Margaret.
“Yes; but it will be worse far away than near. I do not mean that we should conceal the fact, but you have no right to give him up before he comes home. The whole engagement was for the time of his voyage.”
“Then you think I ought not to break it off before his return?”
“Certainly not.”
“It will be pain spared—unless it should be worse by and by.”
“I do not suppose we ought to look to by and by,” said Richard.
“How so?”
“Do the clearly right thing for the present, I mean,” he said, “without anxiety for the rest. How do we—any of us—know what may be the case in another year?”
“Do not flatter me with hopes,” said Margaret, sadly smiling; “I have had too many of them.”
“No,” said Richard; “I do not think you will ever get well. But so much may happen—”
“I had rather have my mind made up once for all, and resign myself,” said Margaret.
“His will is sometimes that we should be uncertain,” said Richard.
“And that is the most trying,” said Margaret.
“Just so—” and he paused tenderly.
“I feel how much has been right,” said Margaret. “This wedding has brought my real character before me. I feel what I should have been. You have no notion how excited and elated I can get about a little bit of dress out of the common way for myself or others,” said she, smiling; “and then all the external show and things belonging to station—I naturally care much more for them than even Flora does. Ethel would bear all those things as if they did not exist—I could not.”
“They would be a temptation?”
“They would once have been. Yes, they would now,” said Margaret. “And government, and management, and influence—you would not guess what dreams I used to waste on them, and now here am I set aside from it all, good for nothing but for all you dear ones to be kind to.”
“They would not say so,” said Richard kindly.
“Not say it, but I feel it. Papa and Ethel are all the world to each other—Richard, I may say it to you. There has been only one thing more hard to bear than that—don’t suppose there was a moment’s neglect or disregard; but when first I understood that Ethel could be more to him than I, then I could not always feel rightly. It was the punishment for always wanting to be first.”
“My father would be grieved that you had the notion. You should not keep it.”
“He does not know it is so,” said Margaret; “I am his first care, I fear, his second grief; but it is not in the nature of things that Ethel should not be more his comfort and companion. Oh! I am glad it was not she who married! What shall we do when she goes?”
This came from Margaret’s heart, so as to show that if there had once been a jealous pang of mortification, it had been healed by overflowing, unselfish affection and humility.
They went off to praise Ethel, and thence to praise Norman, and the elder brother and sister, who might have had some jealousy of the superiority of their juniors, spent a good happy hour in dwelling on the shining qualities they loved so heartily.
And Richard was drawn into talking of his own deeper thoughts, and Margaret had again the comfort of clerical counsel—and now from her own most dear brother! So they sat till darkness closed in, when Ethel came down, bringing Gertrude and her great favour, very full of chatter, only not quite sure whether she had been bride, bride’s-maid, or bridegroom.
The schoolroom set, with Tom and Aubrey, came home soon after, and tongues went fast with stories of roast-beef, plum-pudding, and blind-man’s-buff. How the dear Meta had sent a cart to Cocksmoor to bring Cherry herself, and how many slices everybody had eaten, and how the bride’s health had been drunk by the children in real wine, and how they had all played, Norman and all, and how Hector had made Blanche bold enough to extract a raisin from the flaming snap-dragon. It was not half told when Dr. May came home, and Ethel went up to dress for her dinner at Abbotstoke, Mary following to help her and continue her narration, which bade fair to entertain Margaret the whole evening.
Dr. May, Richard, and Ethel had a comfortable dark drive to the Grange, and, on arriving, found Hector deep in ‘Wild Sports of the West’, while Norman and Meta were sitting over the fire talking, and Mr. Rivers was resting in his library.
And when Ethel and Meta spent the time before the gentlemen came in from the dining-room, in a happy tete-a-tete, Ethel learned that the fire-light dialogue had been the pleasantest part of the whole day, and that Meta had had confided to her the existence of Decius Mus—a secret which Ethel had hitherto considered as her own peculiar property, but she supposed it was a pledge of the sisterhood, which Meta professed with all the house of May.
CHAPTER VIII
The rest all accepted the kind invitation,
And much bustle it caused in the plumed creation;
Such ruffling of feathers, such pruning of coats,
Such chirping, such whistling, such clearing of throats,
Such polishing bills, and such oiling of pinions,
Had never been known in the biped dominions.
Peacock at Home.
Etheldred was thankful for that confidence to Meta Rivers, for without it, she would hardly have succeeded in spurring Norman up to give the finishing touches to Decius, and to send him in. If she talked of the poem as the devotion of Decius, he was willing enough, and worked with spirit, for he liked the ideas, and enjoyed the expressing them, and trying to bring his lines to his notion of perfection, but if she called it the “Newdigate,” or the “Prize Poem,” and declared herself sure it would be successful, he yawned, slackened, leaned back in his chair, and began to read other people’s poetry, which Ethel was disrespectful enough not to think nearly as good as his own.
It was completed at last, and Ethel stitched it up with a narrow red and white ribbon—the Balliol colours; and set Meta at him till a promise was extorted that he would send it in.
And, in due time, Ethel received the following note:
“My Dear Ethel,—
“My peacock bubble has flown over the house.
Tell them all about it.
Your affectionatN. W. M.”
They were too much accustomed to Norman’s successes to be extraordinarily excited; Ethel would have been much mortified if the prize had been awarded to any one else, but, as it was, it came rather as a matter of course. The doctor was greatly pleased, and said he should drive round by Abbotstoke to tell the news there, and then laughed beyond measure to hear that Meta had been in the plot, saying he should accuse the little humming-bird of being a magpie, stealing secrets.
By this time the bride and bridegroom were writing that they thought of soon returning; they had spent the early spring at Paris, had wandered about in the south of France, and now were at Paris again. Flora’s letters were long, descriptive, and affectionate, and she was eager to be kept fully informed of everything at home. As soon as she heard of Norman’s success, she wrote a whole budget of letters, declaring that she and George would hear of no refusal; they were going to spend a fortnight at Oxford for the Commemoration, and must have Meta and Ethel with them to hear Norman’s poem in the theatre.
Dr. May, who already had expressed a hankering to run up for the day and take Ethel with him, was perfectly delighted at the proposal, and so was Mr. Rivers, but the young ladies made many demurs. Ethel wanted Mary to go in her stead, and had to be told that this would not be by any means the same to the other parties—she could not bear to leave Margaret; it was a long time since there had been letters from the Alcestis, and she did not like to miss being at home when they should come; and Meta, on her side, was so unwilling to leave her father that, at last, Dr. May scolded them both for a pair of conceited, self-important damsels, who thought nothing could go on without them; and next, compared them to young birds, obliged to be shoved by force into flying.
Meta consented first, on condition that Ethel would; and Ethel found that her whole house would be greatly disappointed if she refused, so she proceeded to be grateful, and then discovered how extremely delightful the plan was. Oxford, of which she had heard so much, and which she had always wished to see! And Norman’s glory—and Meta’s company—nay, the very holiday, and going from home, were charms enough for a girl of eighteen, who had never been beyond Whitford in her life. Besides, to crown all, papa promised that, if his patients would behave well, and not want him too much, he would come up for the one great day.
Mr. and Mrs. George Rivers came to Abbotstoke to collect their party. They arrived by a railroad, whose station was nearer to Abbotstoke than to Stoneborough, therefore, instead of their visiting the High Street by the way, Dr. May, with Ethel and Mary, were invited to dine at the Grange, the first evening—a proposal, at least, as new and exciting to Mary as was the journey to Oxford to her sister.
The two girls went early, as the travellers had intended to arrive before luncheon, and, though Ethel said few words, but let Mary rattle on with a stream of conjectures and questions, her heart was full of longings for her sister, as well as of strange doubts and fears, as to the change that her new life might have made in her.
“There! there!” cried Mary. “Yes! it is Flora! Only she has her hair done in a funny way!”
Flora and Meta were both standing on the steps before the conservatory, and Mary made but one bound before she was hugging Flora. Ethel kissed her without so much violence, and then saw that Flora was looking very well and bright, more decidedly pretty and elegant than ever, and with certainly no diminution of affection; it was warmer, though rather more patronising.
“How natural you look!” was her first exclamation, as she held Mary’s hand, and drew Ethel’s arm into hers. “And how is Margaret?”
“Pretty well-but the heat makes her languid—”
“Is there any letter yet?”
“No—”
“I do not see any cause for alarm—letters are so often detained, but, of course, she will be anxious. Has she had pain in the back again?”
“Sometimes, but summer always does her good—”
“I shall see her to-morrow—and the Daisy. How do you all get on? Have you broken down yet, Ethel?”
“Oh! we do go on,” said Ethel, smiling; “the worst thing I have done was expecting James to dress the salads with lamp-oil.”
“A Greenland salad! But don’t talk of oil—I have the taste still in my mouth after the Pyrennean cookery! Oh! Ethel, you would have been wild with delight in those places!”
“Snowy mountains! Are they not like a fairy-dream to you now? You must have felt at home, as a Scotchwoman’s daughter.”
“Think of the peaks in the sunrise! Oh! I wanted you in the pass of Roncevalles, to hear the echo of Roland’s horn. And we saw the cleft made by Roland’s sword in the rocks.”
“Oh! how delightful—and Spain too!”
“Ay, the Isle of Pheasants, where all the conferences took place.”
“Where Louis XIV. met his bride, and Francois I. sealed his treason with his empty flourish—”
“Well, don’t let us fight about Francois I. now; I want to know how Tom likes Eton.”
“He gets on famously. I am so glad he is in the same house with Hector.”
“Mr. Ramsden—how is he?”
“No better; he has not done any duty for weeks. Tomkins and his set want to sell the next presentation, but papa hopes to stave that off, for there is a better set than usual in the Town Council this year.”
“Cocksmoor? And how are our friends the muses? I found a note from the secretary telling me that I am elected again. How have they behaved?”
“Pretty well,” said Ethel. “Mrs. Ledwich has been away, so we have had few meetings, and have been pretty quiet, except for an uproar about the mistress beating that Franklin’s girl—and what do you think I did, Flora? I made bold to say the woman should show her to papa, to see if she had done her any harm, and he found that it was all a fabrication from one end to the other. So it ended in the poor girl being expelled, and Mary and I have her twice a week, to see if there is any grace in her.”
“To reward her!” said Flora. “That is always your way—”
“Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up,” said Ethel.
“You will manage the ladies at last!” cried Flora.
“Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there!”
“I’ll cope with her! But, come, I want you in my room—”
“May not I come?” said Meta. “I must see when—”
Flora held up her hand, and, while signing invitation, gave an arch look to Meta to be silent. Ethel here bethought herself of inquiring after Mr. Rivers, and then for George.
Mr. Rivers was pretty well—George, quite well, and somewhere in the garden; and Meta said that he had such a beard that they would hardly know him; while Flora added that he was delighted with the Oxford scheme. Flora’s rooms had been, already, often shown to her sisters, when Mr. Rivers had been newly furnishing them, with every luxury and ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing-room, with the large bay window, commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough, and filled, but not crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a perfect exhibition to eyes unaccustomed to such varieties.
Mary could have been still amused by the hour, in studying the devices and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonieres; and Blanche had romanced about it to the little ones, till they were erecting it into a mythical palace.
And Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked, and moved, as if she had been born and bred in the like.
There were signs of unpacking about the room-Flora’s dressing-case on the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and ottoman.
Mary ran up to them eagerly, and exclaimed at the beautiful shot blue and white silk.
“Paris fashions?” said Ethel carelessly.
“Yes; but I don’t parade my own dresses here,” said Flora.
“Whose are they then? Your commissions, Meta?”
“No!” and Meta laughed heartily.
“Your French maid’s then?” said Ethel. “I dare say she dresses quite as well; and the things are too really pretty and simple for an English maid’s taste.”
“I am glad you like them,” said Flora maliciously. “Now, please to be good.”
“Who are they for then?” said Ethel, beginning to be frightened.
“For a young lady, whose brother has got the Newdigate prize, and who is going to Oxford.”
“Me! Those! But I have not got four backs,” as Ethel saw Meta in fits of laughing, and Flora making affirmative signs. Mary gave a ponderous spring of ecstasy.
“Come!” said Flora, “you may as well be quiet. Whatever you may like, I am not going to have the Newdigate prizeman shown as brother to a scarecrow. I knew what you would come to, without me to take care of you. Look at yourself in the glass.”
“I’m sure I see no harm in myself,” said Ethel, turning towards the pier-glass, and surveying herself—in a white muslin, made high, a black silk mantle, and a brown hat. She had felt very respectable when she set out, but she could not avoid a lurking conviction that, beside Flora and Meta, it had a scanty, schoolgirl effect. “And,” she continued quaintly, “besides, I have really got a new gown on purpose—a good useful silk, that papa chose at Whitford—just the colour of a copper tea-kettle, where it turns purple.”
“Ethel! you will kill me!” said Meta, sinking back on the sofa.
“And I suppose,” continued Flora, “that you have sent it to Miss Broad’s, without any directions, and she will trim it with flame-coloured gimp, and glass buttons; and, unless Margaret catches you, you will find yourself ready to set the Thames on fire. No, my dear tea-kettle, I take you to Oxford on my own terms, and you had better submit, without a fuss, and be thankful it is no worse. George wanted me to buy you a white brocade, with a perfect flower-garden on it, that you could have examined with a microscope. I was obliged to let him buy that lace mantle, to make up to him. Now then, Meta, the scene opens, and discovers—”
Meta opened the folding-doors into Flora’s bedroom, and thence came forward Bellairs and a little brisk Frenchwoman, whom Flora had acquired at Paris. The former, who was quite used to adorning Miss Ethel against her will, looked as amused as her mistresses; and, before Ethel knew what was going on, her muslin was stripped off her back, and that instrument of torture, a half made body, was being tried upon her. She made one of her most wonderful grimaces of despair, and stood still. The dresses were not so bad after all; they were more tasteful than costly, and neither in material nor ornament were otherwise than suitable to the occasion and the wearer. It was very kind and thoughtful of Flora—that she could not but feel—nothing had been forgotten, but when Ethel saw the mantles, the ribbons, the collars, the bonnet, all glistening with the French air of freshness and grace, she began to feel doubts and hesitations, whether she ought to let her sister go to such an expense on her account, and privately resolved that the accepting thanks should not be spoken till she should have consulted her father.
In the meantime, she could only endure, be laughed at by her elders, and entertained by Mary’s extreme pleasure in her array. Good Mary—it was more than any comedy to her; she had not one moment’s thought of herself, till, when Flora dived into her box, produced a pair of bracelets, and fastened them on her comfortable plump arms, her eyes grew wide with wonder, and she felt, at least, two stages nearer womanhood.
Flora had omitted no one. There was a Paris present for every servant at home, and a needle-case even for Cherry Elwood, for which Ethel thanked her with a fervency wanting in her own case.
She accomplished consulting her father on her scruples, and he set her mind at rest. He knew that the outlay was a mere trifle to the Riverses, and was greatly pleased and touched with the affection that Flora showed; so he only smiled at Ethel’s doubts, and dwelt with heartfelt delight on the beautiful print that she had brought him, from Ary Scheffer’s picture of the Great Consoler.
Flora was in her glory. To be able to bestow benefits on those whom she loved, had been always a favourite vision, and she had the full pleasure of feeling how much enjoyment she was causing. They had a very pleasant evening; she gave interesting accounts of their tour, and by her appeals to her husband, made him talk also. He was much more animated and agreeable than Ethel had ever seen him, and was actually laughing, and making Mary laugh heartily with his histories of the inns in the Pyrennees. Old Mr. Rivers looked as proud and happy as possible, and was quite young and gay, having evidently forgotten all his maladies, in paying elaborate attention to his daughter-in-law.
Ethel told Margaret, that night, that she was quite satisfied about Flora—she was glad to own that she had done her injustice, and that Norman was right in saying there was more in George Rivers than met the eye.
The morning spent at home was equally charming. Flora came back, with love strengthened by absence. She was devoted to Margaret—caressing to all; she sat in her old places; she fulfilled her former offices; she gratified Miss Bracy by visiting her in the schoolroom, and talking of French books; and won golden opinions, by taking Gertrude in her hand, and walking to Minster Street to call on Mrs. Hoxton, as in old times, and take her the newest foreign device of working to kill time.
So a few days passed merrily away, and the great journey commenced. Ethel met the Abbotstoke party at the station, and, with a parting injunction to her father, that he was to give all his patients a sleeping potion, that they might not miss him, she was carried away from Stoneborough.
Meta was in her gayest mood; Ethel full of glee and wonder, for once beyond Whitford, the whole world was new to her; Flora more quiet, but greatly enjoying their delight, and George not saying much, but smiling under his beard, as if well pleased to be so well amused with so little trouble.
He took exceeding care of them, and fed them with everything he could make them eat at the Swindon Station, asking for impossible things, and wishing them so often to change for something better, that, if they had been submissive, they would have had no luncheon at all; and, as it was, Flora was obliged to whisk into the carriage with her last sandwich in her hand.
“I am the more sorry,” said he, after grumbling at the allotted ten minutes, “as we shall dine so late. You desired Norman to bring any friend he liked, did you not, Flora?”
“Yes, and he spoke of bringing our old friend, Charles Cheviot, and Mr. Ogilvie,” said Flora.
“Mr. Ogilvie!” said Ethel, “the Master of Glenbracken! Oh! I am so glad! I have wanted so much to see him!”
“Ah! he is a great hero of yours?” said Flora.
“Do you know him?” said Meta.
“No; but he is a great friend of Norman’s, and a Scottish cousin—Norman Ogilvie. Norman has his name from the Ogilvies.”
“Our grandmother, Mrs. Mackenzie, was a daughter of Lord Glenbracken,” said Flora.
“This man might be called the Master of Glenbracken at home,” said Ethel. “It is such a pretty title, and there is a beautiful history belonging to them. There was a Master of Glenbracken who carried James IV.‘s standard at Flodden, and would not yield, and was killed with it wrapped round his body, and the Lion was dyed with his blood. Mamma knew some scraps of a ballad about him. Then they were out with Montrose, and had their castle burned by the Covenanters, and since that they have been Jacobites, and one barely escaped being beheaded at Carlisle! I want to hear the rights of it. Norman is to go, some time or other, to stay at Glenbracken.”
“Yes,” said Flora, “coming down to times present, this young heir seems worthy of his race. They are pattern people—have built a church, and have all their tenantry in excellent order. This is the only son, and very good and clever—he preferred going to Balliol, that he might work; but he is a great sportsman, George,” added she; “you will get on with him very well, about fishing, and grouse shooting, I dare say.”
Norman met them at the station, and there was great excitement at seeing his long nose under his college cap. He looked rather thin and worn, but brightened at the sight of the party. After the question—whether there had been any letters from Harry? he asked whether his father were coming?—and Ethel thought he seemed nervous at the idea of this addition to his audience. He saw them to their hotel, and, promising them his two guests, departed.
Ethel watched collegiate figures passing in the street, and recollected the gray buildings, just glimpsed at in her drive—it was dreamy and confused, and she stood musing, not discovering that it was time to dress, till Flora and her Frenchwoman came in, and laid violent hands on her.
The effect of their manipulations was very successful. Ethel was made to look well-dressed, and, still more, distinguished. Her height told well, when her lankiness was overcome, and her hair was disposed so as to set off her features to advantage. The glow of amusement and pleasure did still more for her; and Norman, who was in the parlour when the sisters appeared, quite started with surprise and satisfaction at her aspect.
“Well done. Flora!” he said. “Why! I have been telling Ogilvie that one of my sisters was very plain!”
“Then, I hope we have been preparing an agreeable surprise for him,” said Flora. “Ethel is very much obliged to you. By the bye,” she said, in her universal amity, “I must ask Harvey Anderson to dinner one of these days?” Norman started, and his face said “Don’t.”
“Oh, very well; it is as you please. I thought it would please Stoneborough, and that Edward was a protege of yours. What has he been doing? Did we not hear he had been distinguishing himself? Dr. Hoxton was boasting of his two scholars.”
“Ask him,” said Norman hurriedly. “At least,” said he, “do not let anything from me prevent you.”
“Has he been doing anything wrong?” reiterated Flora.
“Not that I know of,” was the blunt answer; and, at the same instant, Mr. Ogilvie arrived. He was a pleasant, high-bred looking gentleman, brown-complexioned, and dark-eyed, with a brisk and resolute cast of countenance, that, Ethel thought, might have suited the Norman of Glenbracken, who died on the ruddy Lion of Scotland, and speaking with the very same slight degree of Scottish intonation as she remembered in her mother, making a most home-like sound in her ears.
Presently, the rest of their own party came down, and, soon after, Charles Cheviot appeared, looking as quiet and tame, as he used to be in the schoolboy days, when Norman would bring him home, and he used to be too shy to speak a word.
However, he had learned the use of his tongue by this time, though it was a very soft one; and he stood by Ethel, asking many questions about Stoneborough, while something, apparently very spirited and amusing, was going on between the others.
