Kitabı oku: «The Daisy Chain, or Aspirations», sayfa 44
“I know it is—I am contented with it,” said Ethel; “but oh! Norman, after all our talks about races and gifts, you have found the more excellent way.”
“Hush! Charity finds room at home, and mine are not such unmixed motives as yours.”
She made a sound of inquiry.
“I cannot tell you all. Some you shall hear. I am weary of this feverish life of competition and controversy—”
“I thought you were so happy with your fellowship. I thought Oxford was your delight.”
“She will always be nearer my heart than any place, save this. It is not her fault that I am not like the simple and dutiful, who are not fretted or perplexed.”
“Perplexed?” repeated Ethel.
“It is not so now,” he replied. “God forbid! But where better men have been led astray, I have been bewildered; till, Ethel, I have felt as if the ground were slipping from beneath my feet, and I have only been able to hide my eyes, and entreat that I might know the truth.”
“You knew it!” said Ethel, looking pale, and gazing searchingly at him.
“I did, I do; but it was a time of misery when, for my presumption, I suppose, I was allowed to doubt whether it were the truth.”
Ethel recoiled, but came nearer, saying, very low, “It is past.”
“Yes, thank Him who is Truth. You all saved me, though you did not know it.”
“When was this?” she asked timidly.
“The worst time was before the Long Vacation. They told me I ought to read this book and that. Harvey Anderson used to come primed with arguments. I could always overthrow them, but when I came to glory in doing so, perhaps I prayed less. Anyway, they left a sting. It might be that I doubted my own sincerity, from knowing that I had got to argue, chiefly because I liked to be looked on as a champion.”
Ethel saw the truth of what her friend had said of the morbid habit of self-contemplation.
“I read, and I mystified myself. The better I talked, the more my own convictions failed me; and, by the time you came up to Oxford, I knew how you would have shrunk from him who was your pride, if you could have seen into the secrets beneath.”
Ethel took hold of his hand. “You seemed bright,” she said.
“It melted like a bad dream before—before the humming-bird, and with my father. It was weeks ere I dared to face the subject again.”
“How could you? Was it safe?”
“I could not have gone on as I was. Sometimes the sight of my father, or the mountains and lakes in Scotland, or—or—things at the Grange, would bring peace back; but there were dark hours, and I knew that there could be no comfort till I had examined and fought it out.”
“I suppose examination was right,” said Ethel, “for a man, and defender of the faith. I should only have tried to pray the terrible thought away. But I can’t tell how it feels.”
“Worse than you have power to imagine,” said Norman, shuddering. “It is over now. I worked out their fallacies, and went over the reasoning on our side.”
“And prayed—” said Ethel.
“Indeed I did; and the confidence returned, firmer, I hope, than ever. It had never gone for a whole day.”
Ethel breathed freely. “It was life or death,” she said, “and we never knew it!”
“Perhaps not; but I know your prayers were angel-wings ever round me. And far more than argument, was the thought of my father’s heart-whole Christian love and strength.”
“Norman, you believed, all the time, with your heart. This was only a bewilderment of your intellect.”
“I think you are right,” said Norman. “To me the doubt was cruel agony—not the amusement it seems to some.”
“Because our dear home has made the truth, our joy, our union,” said Ethel. “And you are sure the cloud is gone, and for ever?” she still asked anxiously.
He stood still. “For ever, I trust,” he said. “I hold the faith of my childhood in all its fullness as surely as—as ever I loved my mother and Harry.”
“I know you do,” said Ethel. “It was only a bad dream.”
“I hope I may be forgiven for it,” said Norman. “I do not know how far it was sin. It was gone so far as that my mind was convinced last Christmas, but the shame and sting remained. I was not at peace again till the news of this spring came, and brought, with the grief, this compensation—that I could cast behind me and forget the criticisms and doubts that those miserable debates had connected with sacred words.”
“You will be the sounder for having fought the fight,” said Ethel.
“I do not dread the like shocks,” said her brother, “but I long to leave this world of argument and discussion. It is right that there should be a constant defence and battle, but I am not fit for it. I argue for my own triumph, and, in heat and harassing, devotion is lost. Besides, the comparison of intellectual power has been my bane all my life.”
“I thought ‘praise was your penance here.’”
“I would fain render it so, but—in short, I must be away from it all, and go to the simplest, hardest work, beginning from the rudiments, and forgetting subtle arguments.”
“Forgetting yourself,” said Ethel.
“Right. I want to have no leisure to think about myself,” said Norman. “I am never so happy as at such times.”
“And you want to find work so far away?”
“I cannot help feeling drawn towards those southern seas. I am glad you can give me good-speed. But what do you think about my father?”
Ethel thought and thought. “I know he would not hinder you,” she repeated.
“But you dread the pain for him? I had talked to Tom about taking his profession; but the poor boy thinks he dislikes it greatly, though, I believe, his real taste lies that way, and his aversion only arises a few grand notions he has picked up, out of which I could soon talk him.”
“Tom will not stand in your place,” said Ethel.
“He will be more equable and more to be depended upon,” said Norman. “None of you appreciate Tom. However, you must hear my alternative. If you think my going would be too much grief for papa, or if Tom be set against helping him in his practice, there is an evident leading of Providence, showing that I am unworthy of this work. In that case I would go abroad and throw myself, at once, with all my might, into the study of medicine, and get ready to give my father some rest. It is a shame that all his sons should turn away from his profession.”
“I am more than ever amazed!” cried Ethel. “I thought you detested it. I thought papa never wished it for you. He said you had not nerve.”
“He was always full of the tenderest consideration for me,” said Norman. “With Heaven to help him, a man may have nerve for whatever is his duty.”
“How he would like to have you to watch and help. But New Zealand would be so glorious!”
“Glory is not for me,” said Norman. “Understand, Ethel, the choice is New Zealand, or going at once—at once, mind—to study at Edinburgh or Paris.”
“New Zealand at once?” said Ethel.
“I suppose I mast stay for divinity lectures, but my intention must be avowed,” said Norman hastily. “And now, will you sound my father? I cannot.”
“I can’t sound,” said Ethel. “I can only do things point-blank.”
“Do then,” said Norman, “any way you can! Only let me know which is best for him. You get all the disagreeable things to do, good old unready one,” he added kindly. “I believe you are the one who would be shoved in front, if we were obliged to face a basilisk.”
The brightness that had come over Norman, when he had discharged his cares upon her, was encouragement enough for Ethel. She only asked how much she was to repeat of their conversation.
“Whatever you think best. I do not want to grieve him, but he must not think it fine in me.”
Ethel privately thought that no power on earth could prevent him from doing that.
It was not consistent with cautious sounding, that Norman was always looking appealingly towards her; and, indeed, she could not wait long with such a question on her mind. She remained with her father in the drawing-room, when the rest were gone upstairs, and, plunging at once into the matter, she said, “Papa, there is something that Norman cannot bear to say to you himself.”
“Humming-birds to wit?” said Dr. May.
“No, indeed, but he wants to be doing something at once. What should you think of—of—there are two things; one is—going out as a missionary—”
“Humming-birds in another shape,” said the doctor, startled, but smiling, so as to pique her.
“You mean to treat it as a boy’s fancy!” said she.
“It is rather suspicious,” he said. “Well, what is the other of his two things?”
“The other is, to begin studying medicine at once, so as to help you.”
“Heyday!” cried Dr. May, drawing up his tall vigorous figure, “does he think me so very ancient and superannuated?”
What could possess him to be so provoking and unsentimental to-night? Was it her own bad management? She longed to put an end to the conversation, and answered, “No, but he thinks it hard that none of your sons should be willing to relieve you.”
“It won’t be Norman,” said Dr. May. “He is not made of the stuff. If he survived the course of study, every patient he lost, he would bring himself in guilty of murder, and there would soon be an end of him!”
“He says that a man can force himself to anything that is his duty.”
“This is not going to be his duty, if I can make it otherwise. What is the meaning of all this? No, I need not ask, poor boy, it is what I was afraid of!”
“It is far deeper,” said Ethel; and she related great part of what she had heard in the afternoon. It was not easy to make her father listen—his line was to be positively indignant, rather than compassionate, when he heard of the doubts that had assailed poor Norman. “Foolish boy, what business had he to meddle with those accursed books, when he knew what they were made of—it was tasting poison, it was running into temptation! He had no right to expect to come out safe—” and then he grasped tightly hold of Ethel’s hands, and, as if the terror had suddenly flashed on him, asked her, with dilated eye and trembling voice, whether she were sure that he was safe, and held the faith.
Ethel repeated his asseveration, and her father covered his face with his hands in thanksgiving.
After this, he seemed somewhat inclined to hold poor Oxford in horror, only, as he observed, it would be going out of the frying-pan into the fire, to take refuge at Paris—a recurrence to the notion of Norman’s medical studies, that showed him rather enticed by the proposal.
He sent Ethel to bed, saying he should talk to Norman and find out what was the meaning of it, and she walked upstairs, much ashamed of having so ill served her brother, as almost to have made him ridiculous.
Dr May and Norman never failed to come to an understanding, and after they had had a long drive into the country together, Dr May told Ethel that he was afraid, of what he ought not to be afraid of, that she was right, that the lad was very much in earnest now at any rate, and if he should continue in the same mind, he hoped he should not be so weak as to hold him from a blessed work.
From Norman, Ethel heard the warmest gratitude for his father’s kindness. Nothing could be done yet, he must wait patiently for the present, but he was to write to his uncle, Mr. Arnott, in New Zealand, and, without pledging himself, to make inquiries as to the mission; and in the meantime, return to Oxford, where, to his other studies, he was to add a course of medical lectures, which, as Dr. May said, would do him no harm, would occupy his mind, and might turn to use wherever he was.
Ethel was surprised to find that Norman wrote to Flora an expression of his resolution, that, if he found he could be spared from assisting his father as a physician, he would give himself up to the mission in New Zealand. Why should he tell any one so unsympathetic as Flora, who would think him wasted in either case?
CHAPTER XVII
Do not fear: Heaven is as near,
By water, as by land.
—LONGFELLOW.
The fifth of May was poor Harry’s eighteenth birthday, and, as usual, was a holiday. Etheldred privately thought his memory more likely to be respected, if Blanche and Aubrey were employed, than if they were left in idleness; but Mary would have been wretched had the celebration been omitted, and a leisure day was never unwelcome.
Dr. Spencer carried off Blanche and Aubrey for a walk, and Ethel found Mary at her great resort—Harry’s cupboard—dusting and arranging his books, and the array of birthday gifts, to which, even to-day, she had not failed to add the marker that had been in hand at Christmas. Ethel entreated her to come down, and Mary promised, and presently appeared, looking so melancholy, that, as a sedative, Ethel set her down to the basket of scraps to find materials for a tippet for some one at Cocksmoor, intending, as soon as Margaret should be dressed, to resign her morning to the others, invite Miss Bracy to the drawing-room, and read aloud.
Gertrude was waiting for her walk, till nurse should have dressed Margaret, and was frisking about the lawn, sometimes looking in at the drawing-room window at her sisters, sometimes chattering to Adams at his work, or laughing to herself and the flowers, in that overflow of mirth, that seemed always bubbling up within her.
She was standing in rapt contemplation of a pear-tree in full blossom, her hands tightly clasped behind the back, for greater safety from the temptation, when, hearing the shrubbery gate open, she turned, expecting to see her papa, but was frightened at the sight of two strangers, and began to run off at full speed.
“Stop! Blanche! Blanche, don’t you know me?” The voice was that tone of her brother’s, and she stood and looked, but it came from a tall, ruddy youth, in a shabby rough blue coat, followed by a grizzled old seaman. She was too much terrified and perplexed even to run.
“What’s the matter! Blanche, it is I! Why, don’t you know me—Harry?”
“Poor brother Harry is drowned,” she answered; and, with one bound, he was beside her, and, snatching her up, devoured her with kisses.
“Put me down—put me down, please,” was all she could say.
“It is not Blanche! What? the little Daisy, I do believe!”
“Yes, I am Gertrude, but please let me go;” and, at the same time, Adams hurried up, as if he thought her being kidnapped, but his aspect changed at the glad cry, “Ha! Adams’ how are you? Are they all well?”
“‘Tisn’t never Master Harry! Bless me!” as Harry’s hand gave him sensible proof; “when we had given you up for lost!”
“My father well?” Harry asked, hurrying the words one over the other.
“Quite well, sir, but he never held up his head since he heard it, and poor Miss Mary has so moped about. If ever I thought to see the like—”
“So they did not get my letter, but I can’t stop. Jennings will tell you. Take care of him. Come, Daisy—” for he had kept her unwilling hand all the time. “But what’s that for?” pointing to the black ribbons, and, stopping short, startled.
“Because of poor Harry,” said the bewildered child.
“Oh, that’s right!” cried he, striding on, and dragging her in a breathless run, as he threw open the well-known doors; and, she escaping from him, hid her face in Mary’s lap, screaming, “He says he is Harry! he says he is not drowned!”
At the same moment Ethel was in his arms, and his voice was sobbing, “Ethel! Mary! home! Where’s papa?” One moment’s almost agonising joy in the certainty of his identity! but ere she could look or think, he was crying, “Mary! oh, Ethel, see—”
Mary had not moved, but sat as if turned to stone, with breath suspended, wide-stretched eyes, and death-like cheeks—Ethel sprang to her, “Mary, Mary dear, it is Harry! It is himself! Don’t you see? Speak to her, Harry.”
He seemed almost afraid to do so, but, recovering himself, exclaimed, “Mary, dear old Polly, here I am! Oh, won’t you speak to me?” he added piteously, as he threw his arm round her and kissed her, startled at the cold touch of her cheek.
The spell seemed broken, and, with a wild hoarse shriek that rang through the house, she struggled to regain her breath, but it would only come in painful, audible catches, as she held Harry’s hand convulsively.
“What have I done?” he exclaimed, in distress.
“What’s this! Who is this frightening my dear?” was old nurse’s exclamation, as she and James came at the outcry.
“Oh, nurse, what have I done to her?” repeated Harry.
“It is joy—it is sudden joy!” said Ethel. “See, she is better now—”
“Master Harry! Well, I never!” and James, “with one wring of the hand, retreated, while old nurse was nearly hugged to death, declaring all the time that he didn’t ought to have come in such a way, terrifying every one out of their senses! and as for poor Miss May—
“Where is she?” cried Harry, starting at the sight of the vacant sofa.
“Only upstairs,” said Ethel; “but where’s Alan? Is not he come?”
“Oh, Ethel, don’t you know?” His face told but too plainly.
“Nurse! nurse, how shall we tell her?” said Ethel.
“Poor dear!” exclaimed nurse, sounding her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “She’ll never abear it without her papa. Wait for him, I should say. But bless me, Miss Mary, to see you go on like that, when Master Harry is come back such a bonny man!”
“I’m better now,” said Mary, with an effort. “Oh, Harry! speak to me again.”
“But Margaret!” said Ethel, while the brother was holding Mary in his embrace, and she lay tremulous with the new ecstasy upon his breast—“but Margaret. Nurse, you must go up, or she will suspect. I’ll come when I can; speak quietly. Oh! poor Margaret! If Richard would but come in!”
Ethel walked up and down the room, divided between a tumult of joy, grief, dread, and perplexity. At that moment a little voice said at the door, “Please, Margaret wants Harry to come up directly.”
They looked one upon another in consternation. They had never thought of the child, who, of course, had flown up at once with the tidings.
“Go up, Miss Ethel,” said nurse.
“Oh! nurse, I can’t be the first. Come, Harry, come.”
Hand-in-hand, they silently ascended the stairs, and Ethel pushed open the door. Margaret was on her couch, her whole form and face in one throb of expectation.
She looked into Harry’s face—the eagerness flitted like sunshine on the hillside, before a cloud, and, without a word, she held out her arms.
He threw himself on his knees, and her fingers were clasped among his thick curls, while his frame heaved with suppressed sobs, “Oh, if he could only have come back to you.”
“Thank God,” she said; then slightly pushing him back, she lay holding his hand in one of hers, and resting the other on his shoulder, and gazing in silence into his face. Each was still—she was gathering strength—he dreaded word or look.
“Tell me how and where;” she said at last.
“It was in the Loyalty Isles; it was fever—the exertions for us. His head was lying here,” and he pointed to his own breast. “He sent his love to you—he bade me tell you there would be meeting by and by, in the haven where he would be.—I laid his head in the grave—under the great palm—I said some of the prayers—there are Christians round it.”
He said this in short disconnected phrases, often pausing to gather voice, but forced to resume, by her inquiring looks and pressure of his hand.
She asked no more. “Kiss me,” she said, and when he had done so, “Thank you, go down, please, all of you. You have brought great relief. Thank you. But I can’t talk yet. You shall tell me the rest by and by.”
She sent them all away, even Ethel, who would have lingered.
“Go to him, dearest. Let me be alone. Don’t be uneasy. This is peace—but go.”
Ethel found Mary and Harry interlaced into one moving figure, and Harry greedily asking for his father and Norman, as if famishing for the sight of them. He wanted to set out to seek the former in the town, but his movements were too uncertain, and the girls clung to the newly-found, as if they could not trust him away from them. They wandered about, speaking, all three at random, without power of attending to the answers. It was enough to see him, and touch him; they could not yet care where he had been.
Dr. May was in the midst of them ere they were aware. One look, and he flung his arms round his son, but, suddenly letting him go, he burst away, and banged his study door. Harry would have followed.
“No, don’t,” said Ethel; then, seeing him disappointed, she came nearer, and murmured, “‘He entered into his chamber and—‘”
Harry silenced her with another embrace, but their father was with them again, to verify that he had really seen his boy, and ask, alas! whether Alan were with Margaret. The brief sad answer sent him to see how it was with her. She would not let him stay; she said it was infinite comfort, and joy was coming, but she would rather be still, and not come down till evening.
Perhaps others would fain have been still, could they have borne an instant’s deprivation of the sight of their dear sailor, while greetings came thickly on him. The children burst in, having heard a report in the town, and Dr. Spencer waited at the door for the confirmation; but when Ethel would have flown out to him, he waved his hand, shut the door, and hurried away, as if a word to her would have been an intrusion.
The brothers had been summoned by a headlong apparition of Will Adams in Cocksmoor school, shouting that Master Harry was come home; and Norman’s long legs out-speeding Richard, had brought him back, flushed, and too happy for one word, while, “Well, Harry,” was Richard’s utmost, and his care for Margaret seemed to overpower everything else, as he went up, and was not so soon sent away.
Words were few downstairs. Blanche and Aubrey agreed that they thought people would have been much happier, but, in fact, the joy was oppressive from very newness. Ethel roamed about, she could not sit still without feeling giddy, in the strangeness of the revulsion. Her father sat, as if a word would break the blest illusion; and Harry stood before each of them in turn, as if about to speak, but turned his address into a sudden caress, or blow on the shoulder, and tried to laugh. Little Gertrude, not understanding; the confusion, had taken up her station under the table, and peeped out from beneath the cover.
There was more composure as they sat at dinner, and yet there was very little talking or eating. Afterwards Dr. May and Norman exultingly walked away, to show their Harry to Dr. Spencer and Mr. Wilmot; and Ethel would gladly have tried to calm herself, and recover the balance of her mind, by giving thanks where they were due; but she did not know what to do with her sisters. Blanche was wild, and Mary still in so shaky a state of excitement, that she went off into mad laughing, when Blanche discovered that they were in mourning for Harry.
Nothing would satisfy Blanche but breaking in on Margaret, and climbing to the top of the great wardrobe to disinter the coloured raiment, beseeching that each favourite might be at once put on, to do honour to Harry. Mary chimed in with her, in begging for the wedding merinos—would not Margaret wear her beautiful blue?
“No, my dear, I cannot,” said Margaret gently.
Mary looked at her and was again in a flood of tears, incoherently protesting, together with Ethel, that they would not change.
“No, dears,” said Margaret. “I had rather you did so. You must not be unkind to Harry. He will not think I do not welcome him. I am only too glad that Richard would not let my impatience take away my right to wear this.”
Ethel knew that it was for life.
Mary could not check her tears, and would go on making heroic protests against leaving off her black, sobbing the more at each. Margaret’s gentle caresses seemed to make her worse, and Ethel, afraid that Margaret’s own composure would be overthrown, exclaimed, “How can you be so silly? Come away!” and rather roughly pulled her out of the room, when she collapsed entirely at the top of the stairs, and sat crying helplessly.
“I can’t think what’s the use of Harry’s coming home,” Gertrude was heard saying to Richard. “It is very disagreeable;” whereat Mary relapsed into a giggle, and Ethel felt frantic.
“Richard! Richard! what is to be done with Mary? She can’t help it, I believe, but this is not the way to treat the mercy that—”
“Mary had better go and lie down in her own room,” said Richard, tenderly and gravely.
“Oh, please! please!” began Mary, “I shall not see him when he comes back!”
“If you can’t behave properly when he does come,” said Richard, “there is no use in being there.”
“Remember, Ritchie,” said Ethel, thinking him severe, “she has not been well this long time.”
Mary began to plead, but, with his own pretty persuasive manner, he took her by the hand, and drew her into his room; and when he came down, after an interval, it was to check Blanche, who would have gone up to interrupt her with queries about the perpetual blue merino. He sat down with Blanche on the staircase window-seat, and did not let her go till he had gently talked her out of flighty spirits into the soberness of thankfulness.
Ethel, meanwhile, had still done nothing but stray about, long for loneliness, find herself too unsteady to finish her letters to Flora and Tom; and, while she tried to make Gertrude think Harry a pleasant acquisition, she hated her own wild heart, that could not rejoice, nor give thanks, aright.
By and by Mary came down, with her bonnet on, quite quiet now. “I am going to church with Ritchie,” she said. Ethel caught at the notion, and it spread through the house. Dr May, who just then came in with his two sons, looked at Harry, saying, “What do you think of it? Shall we go, my boy?” And Harry, as soon as he understood, declared that he should like nothing better. It seemed what they all needed, even Aubrey and Gertrude begged to come, and, when the solemn old minster was above their heads, and the hallowed stillness around them, the tightened sense of half-realised joy began to find relief in the chant of glory. The voices of the sanctuary, ever uplifting notes of praise, seemed to gather together and soften their emotions; and agitation was soothed away, and all that was oppressive and tumultuous gave place to sweet peace and thankfulness. Ethel dimly remembered the like sense of relief, when her mother had hushed her wild ecstasy, while sympathising with her joy. Richard could not trust his voice, but Mr. Wilmot offered the special thanksgiving.
Harry was, indeed, “at home,” and his tears fell fast over his book, as he heard his father’s “Amen,” so fervent and so deep; and he gazed up and around, with fond and earnest looks, as thoughts and resolutions, formed there of old, came gathering thick upon him. And there little Gertrude seemed first to accept him. She whispered to her papa, as they stood up to go away, that it was very good in God Almighty to have sent Harry home; and, as they left the cloister, she slipped into Harry’s hand a daisy from the grave, such a gift as she had never carried to any one else, save her father and Margaret, and she shrank no longer from being lifted up in his arms, and carried home through the twilight street.
He hurried into the drawing-room, and was heard declaring that all was right, for Margaret was on the sofa; but he stopped short, grieved at her altered looks. She smiled as he stooped to kiss her, and then made him stand erect, and measure himself against Norman, whose height he had almost reached. The little curly midshipman had come back, as nurse said, “a fine-growed young man,” his rosy cheeks, brown and ruddy, and his countenance—
“You are much more like papa and Norman than I thought you would be,” said Margaret.
“He has left his snub nose and yellow locks behind,” said his father; “though the shaggy mane seems to remain. I believe lions grow darker with age. So there stand June and July together again!”
Dr. May walked backwards to look at them. It was good to see his face.
“I shall see Flora and Tom to-morrow!” said Harry, after nodding with satisfaction, as they all took their wonted places.
“Going!” exclaimed Richard.
“Why, don’t you know?” said Ethel; “it is current in the nursery that he is going to be tried by court-martial for living with the King of the Cannibal Islands.”
“Aubrey says he had a desert island, with Jennings for his man Friday,” said Blanche.
“Harry,” said little Gertrude, who had established herself on his knee, “did you really poke out the giant’s eye with the top of a fir-tree?”
“Who told you so, Daisy?” was the general cry; but she became shy, and would not answer more than by a whisper about Aubrey, who indignantly declared that he never said so, only Gertrude was so foolish that she did not know Harry from Ulysses.
“After all,” said Ethel, “I don’t think our notions are much more defined. Papa and Norman may know more, but we have heard almost nothing. I have been waiting to hear more to close up my letters to Flora and Tom. What a shame that has not been done!”
“I’ll finish,” said Mary, running to the side-table.
“And tell her I’ll be there to-morrow,” said Harry. “I must report myself; and what fun to see Flora a member of Parliament! Come with me, June; I’ll be back next day. I wish you all would come.”
“Yes, I must come with you,” said Norman. “I shall have to go to Oxford on Thursday;” and very reluctant he looked. “Tell Flora I am coming, Mary.”
“How did you know that Flora was a married lady?” asked Blanche, in her would-be grown-up manner.
“I heard that from Aunt Flora. A famous lot of news I picked up there!”
“Aunt Flora!”
“Did you not know he had been at Auckland?” said Dr. May. “Aunt Flora had to nurse him well after all he had undergone. Did you not think her very like mamma, Harry?”
“Mamma never looked half so old!” cried Harry indignantly.
“Flora was five years younger!”
“She has got her voice and way with her,” said Harry; “but you will soon see. She is coming home soon.”
There was a great outcry of delight.
“Yes, there is some money of Uncle Arnott’s that must be looked after, but he does not like the voyage, and can’t leave his office, so perhaps Aunt Flora may come alone. She had a great mind to come with me, but there was no good berth for her in this schooner, and I could not wait for another chance. I can’t think what possessed the letters not to come! She would not write by the first packet, because I was so ill, but we both wrote by the next, and I made sure you had them, or I would have written before I came.”
