Two years have sped quickly, and it is once more a warm, lovely day in June. The French windows of the Rookery sitting-room are wide open, letting in the still, summer air, and Mrs. Merivale and Honor, both with their work, are seated just inside, so as to get full benefit of any little fitful breeze which may spring up, without exposing themselves to the glare of the sunlit garden.
Yes, two years have flown since Doris left home to go abroad with her aunt, and her mother and sister are talking over a letter which they have received from her that morning, and which, with two others, is lying in the former's lap.
Honor is a little taller than when we last saw her, though not much; but her figure has filled out, making her look more womanly, though still small and slight altogether. She has still the same quaint little oval face, and the same steadfast, earnest look in her soft brown eyes; but, with the exception of the two little straight lines between her brows, the anxious, care-worn look has gone from it, and in its place there is a happy, contented expression, which her mother looks upon with thankfulness. The two years have also changed Mrs. Merivale, though not perhaps so much in appearance as character.
She has to a great extent lost that fretful nervousness and selfishness which, before her husband's death, and, indeed, for some time after, had seemed to be growing upon her. Though still feeble in health her disposition has grown more cheerful, and she has become more self-reliant than of old. Honor has unconsciously taken to consulting her more in the management of their household affairs, and although she still takes all the active part upon herself, she often finds her mother's advice of great value now.
To such matters as banging doors, creaking boots, loud voices, &c., which used formerly to "jar" upon her nerves, she has become almost impervious, whilst to be "completely prostrated" is a calamity of rare occurrence, excepting on occasions of real and genuine nervous headaches.
The two years have been quiet, uneventful ones enough to the inhabitants of Edendale. The most exciting thing that has taken place, perhaps, being the sudden and unexpected death, while in Africa somewhere, of Sir Charles Ferrars of Ferrars Court. But as he had never lived at the Court for long together, and latterly not at all, his death was not an event to stir the sympathies of the surrounding neighbourhood greatly. Of course every one said, "How very sad—so sudden, you know!" and then they began to speculate as to what the heir would be like, and whether he would take possession soon, &c. &c. But in a few days the whole affair was forgotten; and as no heir arrived on the scene to satisfy their curiosity, they soon forgot that there was one to speculate about.
Dr. John Sinclair is constantly to be seen at the Rookery; indeed, he has fallen into the habit of going there, at one hour or another, almost every day.
With the first really hot weather of the year before, Daisy's health had flagged rather alarmingly, and the young doctor began to fear that her illness of the previous spring had left a permanent mark upon her. Thus had he become a constant visitor in order to watch the child closely.
At the present time Daisy is, for her, in comparatively robust health, but every one knows how difficult it is to get out of any habit once taken to, whether it be good or bad, and young Dr. Sinclair is to be seen at the Rookery almost as frequently as ever, although there is now no special need for looking after his little patient from a medical point of view.
Dick, now a strapping lad of fifteen, has pleased the Rev. Mr. Bolton beyond measure during the two years he has been with him, and the good old vicar does not know which to be most delighted with—his beautiful voice, or the industry and perseverance which he has displayed regarding his own studies.
Molly's pupils have so increased in number that she has for some time past been making a nice steady little income, and she has even felt justified in affording herself some finishing lessons from a good master.
Mrs. Horton, always ready to do the girls any kind service now that their mother cannot go about with them, and more especially since their aunt left England, has taken both Honor and Molly up to London for a few weeks' visit at different times; and the former also, considering that it would be money well spent, has given herself the benefit of a little "brushing up," as she calls it, in her art. Both the girls, therefore, are able to take a better stand in their teaching (for Honor has pupils now in addition to her own painting), and Molly often finds herself correcting, encouraging, or remonstrating, as the case may be, with girls a good deal older than herself; for her fame as a musicianly teacher has spread far and wide, and she has as many grown-up girls as pupils, who are anxious to keep up their practice, as younger ones. Molly has three of the Hallam children now, and a fourth is nearly ready to begin, Indeed, were it feasible, Mrs. Hallam would like to include the baby still in arms in her list of pupils, so anxious is she that they shall all commence early enough and get all the benefit they can from what she is constantly quoting to her friends as "first-class teaching, my dear."
The Mr. Talboys look if anything younger than they did a couple of years back. They have residing in the stables of the Rosery a pretty, knowing-looking pony rejoicing in the name of Puck, the pet and property of Miss Margaret Merivale. At the time previously spoken of, when little Daisy had drooped so with the heat of the summer, and Dr. Sinclair had been racking his brains to think what could be done to revive the feeble strength, which at times seemed ready to ebb away altogether, a bright idea struck him one day. Riding!—the very thing. But how in the world could such a thing be managed? Although the Merivales were in a very different position now to that which they were in when they first came to the village, they were not, he was sure, well enough off to buy and keep a pony.
"Now, if only she could ride Jack," thought the doctor to himself, "he would, I know, be as gentle as a lamb with a child upon his back. But, bless me! his back would be far too broad for little Daisy! Besides, who would there be to ride with her? I don't think Jack would care to consent to a leading rein at his age!"
But nevertheless the doctor goes on thinking and thinking (for during the long time he has now attended the child she has become very dear to him), until he suddenly becomes possessed of a still brighter idea. He will go to the Mr. Talboys and talk it over with them.
One would certainly have thought, from the almost childish delight which the generous old men expressed at this brilliant idea of their young friend's, that it was one which would benefit themselves greatly. But so indeed it was, for they could know no higher privilege than to do good to others.
"MydearDr. John," they had both cried, "you could not have done us a greater kindness than by coming to consult us about this capital plan of yours. I think," continues Mr. Ned, "I may with truth say that Brother Ben and myself have been worrying as to what could be done to pick up the child's strength as much as you have, my dear boy, and weknowhow it has troubled you, do we not, brother?"
And so there had been no rest for anybody until a desirable animal had been found and purchased. The old gentlemen were somewhat particular in making their choice, and a trifle difficult to please. Of course it was to be pretty. Not too tall, nor too small. Neither too old nor too young. It was to be a thoroughly respectable pony, and reliable as to temper; but while wishing it to possess a "spice of spirit," as they expressed it, it was to be steady and sober-minded at heart! It must be confessed that to find all these excellent qualities possessed by one ordinary pony was rather difficult, and, perhaps, more than ought to have been expected. But the brothers did not want an ordinary pony! On the contrary they had made up their minds to have an extraordinary one; and it is to be feared that more than one horse-dealer lost his temper when, having trotted out his best ponies before the two exacting old gentlemen, who stood watching their paces with heads on one side, it turned out that not one of them came up to their ideas of what a ponyoughtto be.
Indeed one man was overheard to say to his ostler (taking it for granted that the Mr. Talboys were deaf as well as old) that he "should think the old gents had better get one made to order!" which caused Mr. Ned to wish him "good-morning."
At length, however, a desirable pony was found, and having been presented to Daisy in due form, was installed in the comfortable stable at the Rosery.
There being no one at home who could take out Daisy for her airings on Puck—for the doctor saidwalkingwould be of no use; she must have a good canter every day—the young man begged that he might be allowed to take her under his charge. He could give her a good run, he said, every day, when going his distant rounds on Jack, and the Rosery lying between his own house and the Rookery, he could always call for Puck on his way for Daisy.
This arrangement met with the little girl's entire approval, in fact she very soon confided to her dear Doctor John that there wasno oneelse she would have trusted herself to in her first attempts at riding.
Ere long, however, the young doctor had made a very fair little horsewoman of Daisy, and the pair were constantly to be seen cantering over the country together, with Rufus, the doctor's red setter, and Vic (who condescended to be friendly under the circumstances) at their heels.
The letters mentioned at the beginning of this chapter are, besides the one from Doris, from Lady Woodhouse and Mr. Lancelot Ferrars, the latter containing a formal proposal of marriage for Doris.
The two have been thrown together a great deal abroad, and Lady Woodhouse has smiled with grim approval whenever the young fellow has appeared, quite by accident as it were, at the same place in which they are staying.
"Your uncle and Mr. Ferrars seem to have taken quite a fancy to each other lately," judicially remarked Aunt Sophia, with a little, almost imperceptible sniff, which always accompanied any attempt at acting on her part.
"You see, Doris, it must be lonely work for a man to be travelling by himself; though, of course, Mr. Ferrars has his profession as an artist to attend to. But your uncle has only you and me to talk to, so I am very glad Mr. Ferrars seeks his society for that reason; for people may say what they like, child, but men do like talking to each other when they get the chance better than to us women. I suppose they think they have more brains than we," with a slight toss of her head, "though all I can say is that if they have, they don't always know how to use them."
So, although Lady Woodhouse saw plainly that this constant visitor was becoming attached to her niece, she prided herself immensely on her diplomacy and tact in not allowing the girl to get what she called any nonsensical ideas into her head, at any rate for the present.
She has written to her sister now on the subject in high spirits, and though certain parts of the letter are for Mrs. Merivale's own private perusal only, she is reading out most of it to Honor.
"Doris seems genuinely fond of the young man now," writes Lady Woodhouse. "At first, I tell you candidly, I thought I would have some trouble with her, for she seemed to have a fixed idea in her silly head that by making some great match she might retrieve the fortunes of the whole family. She told me plainly one day that she would see plenty of people during the two years that she was travelling about, and that if she got a good chance she would certainly take it. But all this, I am bound to acknowledge, was before Mr. Ferrars began to pay her any attention. As ill luck would have it, however, a wretched little elderly French count, with false teeth and dyed hair and moustache, began to pay her attention also just at the same time (Doris is certainly a pretty girl, Mary), and for a little while I shook in my shoes; for common report set him down as being enormously rich. Well, I saw at last that the child was getting worried over it all. So was Mr. Ferrars, naturally. And so one fine day I gave my lady a talking to. 'You can do as you like,' I said, 'subject to your mother, of course, but don't say afterwards you were not warned. You can accept this made-up old fop with his million of francs (mindfrancs, not pounds) and be a miserable woman for the rest of your life if you like. On the other hand here is a young, good-looking fellow who is sincerely attached to you, and though he may have only his few hundreds, he is not the man to take a wife unless he can keep her comfortably.' I think my words came just at the right time. Anyhow, it all came right; and when Doris came to me and told me she would rather be the wife of Lancelot Ferrars with only one hundred a year than marry the richest duke in the world, I knew, my dear Mary, that the child's heart was in the right place after all. I can congratulate you heartily, for young Ferrars is one of the nicest young men I know, and will be just the right sort of husband for Doris. Then, of course, his good position—"
"Good position!" echo both Dick (who has just entered the room) and Honor, pricking up their ears.
"Position as a painter," remarks Mrs. Merivale, folding up her letter with dignity. "That is all I need read to you. The rest is all upon business matters."
"Then we may expect to see Mr. Ferrars some time this week, I suppose," says Honor presently. For in his short courteous note he has begged leave to call on Mrs. Merivale, previous to his departure for some distant part of the world where he has some important business to transact.
"I do hope he will let us know beforehand," says Honor, already tormenting herself as to culinary matters, "or else he will be quite certain to choose a day when we have nothing but cold mutton for dinner—and none too much of that, very likely."
"Hooray!" shouts Dick, tossing up his cap. "Fancy little Doris being engaged! Good gracious! the house won't hold her when she comes back!"
"She seems to be very happy," says Honor, who is reading her sister's letter for about the sixth time. "She little thought what would come of her adventure in the wood that day. Dear little Doris, I hope she has a happy life before her."
In the meantime a conversation of quite a different character is going on in the garden, under the drooping boughs of a fine old weeping-ash, the welcome shade of which is much sought by the girls in hot weather.
Molly is seated on a garden chair, working away industriously at something in the dress line, her work-basket on another chair by her side.
Seated just opposite to her is Dr. John Sinclair, his hat lying on the grass at his feet, and his head resting on his arms, which are folded behind it.
"And so this is what you have dropped in for," remarks Molly, shaking out her work.
"Yes," he says, gazing up into the sky. "We were on our way back, and just passing the Rosery gate when Mr. Ned ran out and stopped us. I represented that you would all be expecting Daisy home, that she had only her habit on, that she might be tired. All to no purpose, as I have told you. She must stop to tea, and surely someone could call for her later; and if not, why, Priscilla could take her home. And so," he concludes rather slowly, "I said I would call about eight o'clock. I—I thought perhaps Miss Honor would like to walk up with me in the cool of the evening, you know."
"O!" says Molly, shooting a little glance at him over her work.
"Do you think she would care to?" asks the doctor, bringing his arms forward and stooping to pick up his stick, which is also on the grass.
"I don't know really," replies Molly carelessly; "you had better ask her. I am not sure, though, that I shall not go myself. I suppose I should do as well? Dick wanted one of us to walk over to the mere this evening with him and Jack Bolton, and—yes, I think he said Ernest Hildyard was to be one of the party. Why, what in the world are you getting so red about? Don't, it makes one hotter than ever!" and Molly, biting her thread, takes another little look at her companion.
"Better stick to his reading," she hears him mutter to himself, and then he begins hitting at the turf with his stick.
"Well, he is a bit lazy, I suppose; but then so are lots of other people, and I don't see why he should be expected to stay in on such a lovely evening as this will be. Oh,pleasetake care! You'll hit my foot in a minute; besides, you are spoiling the turf."
"I'm sure I beg your pardon," says Dr. John, now stooping for his hat also. "I think I had better be going. I will call for Daisy alone, then."
"What has made you so cross?" inquires teasing Molly, searching amongst her cottons. "I really think it is most ungracious of you to say you 'will goaloneto fetch Daisy' when I have only this moment offered myself as a companion. Now, don't go—sit down again, and I will tell you something."
"Pooh!" mutters the young man crossly, "what's the use?"
"Itisn'tpooh," says Molly severely; "and it is a great deal of use, if you choose to listen.Iam going on this expedition with the boys this evening, and Honor, as far as I know, is going to stay at home; unless," she wickedly adds, "you should care to askherinstead ofmeto walk up to the Rosery with you. If you do, and she does go, I advise you to be a little more amiable. Now,pleaseleave that silk alone: you are getting it into a frightful tangle!"
"What a tease you are, Molly!" says Dr. Sinclair, looking, however, more cheerful on the whole.
"I? Why? What have I said or done?"
"You said Honor was going for a walk with that young idiot, Hildyard."
"Well, why shouldn't she? But, as it happens, I didnotsay anything of the kind. I said the boys wantedoneof us to go, and Honor never dreamed of going any more thanyoudid. You shouldn't jump at conclusions so quickly. Now, tell me, what do you think of this news about Doris?"
"O, I am awfully glad. I think from what you have all told me that Ferrars must be a nice fellow. We shall have you going off next, Molly."
"Me?—oh, dear no! Besides, it is Honor's turn before mine, you know."
"Is it true this that I hear about young Horton, or rather his regiment, being ordered off to the Soudan?"
"Yes," says Molly quietly, bending over her work. "It is quite true."
"When does he arrive from Ireland?"
"Mrs. Horton wrote us word that she expected him to-morrow."
"Andyouwill expect him the day after, I suppose?"
"I daresay he will come to see us soon," says Molly simply; "his time will be very short before he leaves altogether."
"Poor fellow!" says the doctor musingly. "It is a pity he is being sent so far away. Well, I must really be off now—by Jove, it's later than I thought! Good-bye for the present, Molly. Perhaps you would not mind asking Miss Honor if she will stroll up for Daisy with me? I'd no idea it was so late, or I would have run in and asked her myself."
"All right," says Molly reassuringly. "I'll see that she goes."
The girl looks after him as he goes swinging down the road.
"He's a nice fellow," she says to herself. "I shouldn't at all mind having him for a brother. I wonder, now, whether Honor likes him as much as he does her. Anyone can see with half an eye that it is not Daisy alone that he comes here to see. He's dreadfully jealous, though. He makes himself quite ridiculous over that young Hildyard, just because he stares at Honor so in church. Such achild, too, as Ernest is; and I don't believe Honor has ever spoken to him more than two or three times at the outside. It really is absurd. I can't help teasing Dr. John about it. All right, coming!" she cries, in answer to a summons to tea from Honor; and gathering up her work, she goes slowly back to the house.
There is perhaps more alteration in Molly's appearance than in any of the others in these two past years. She is now turned seventeen, and tall for her age. She carries herself gracefully, and her slight though rounded figure is shown to advantage to-day in the light, simply-made dress which she is wearing on account of the heat.
Molly's hair has been turned up for some time now, ever since she took to teaching, in fact. "You cannot expect me to command respect from my pupils with my hair hanging down my back," she had said when the others had been inclined to remonstrate. It is all gathered up, therefore, in a pretty top-knot of bright, sunny, chestnut curls, which, notwithstanding the number of pins she uses, do their best to escape and tumble, as of old, about her forehead, ears, and neck. She is not, perhaps, what most people would call strictly pretty; but she isverycharming, and her deep blue eyes, with their long lashes, are really beautiful. Her complexion though brilliant is at the same time delicate, and one of her greatest charms is in the ever-varying expression of her face. Her nose is not strictly aquiline, but her pretty sensitive mouth and firm little chin make up for its deficiencies; and last, but not least, there is the pretty way in which her hair grows about her forehead and temples.
Altogether Mrs. Merivale has reason to feel proud of her three now grown-up daughters, and she often turns away with a heavy sigh when she thinks with what fond pride their dead father would look upon them could he see them now.
A few afternoons later Honor and Molly are both seated at work under the weeping ash, but the weather being hotter than ever they have retired to the very back of the natural arbour which the drooping boughs form. Of course they have the advantage of being able to see all that goes on outside, while quite invisible themselves.
They are talking on the usual inexhaustible subject of the present time, namely, their future brother-in-law, Mr. Lancelot Ferrars, who has been down, and having had a mysterious talk with Mrs. Merivale in the drawing-room, has taken early dinner (not cold mutton) with them in quite a brotherly sort of fashion. After dinner he had been introduced to the studio, as being a place likely to interest him. Then after a stroll round the garden, and an early cup of tea insisted upon by Molly, he had gone off to the station to catch the next train back to town.
Altogether they are very pleased with their new relative in perspective, and are never tired of discussing his merits, either real or imaginary.
"He looks as if he had a little spice of temper in his composition," says Molly, while hunting for her scissors. "I saw it in his eyes."
"Well, I don't like him any the less for that," replies Honor, "so long as he knows how to control it. He looks as if he was accustomed to having his own way too, and—well, as if he wouldn't stand any nonsense from anybody."
"All the better for Doris," says Molly sagely. "She wants keeping in order, you know, and he will do it. I don't mean to imply that he will beat her, or anything of that sort, Honor; but, it is as you say, I am sure he would stand no nonsense from anyone. And quite right, too. I hate people without a will of their own. Why, there's a man going up the drive to the front door!"
"Dear me, you don't say so. Probably it is the baker," and Honor goes on with her work serenely.
"Nonsense, Honor!" cries Molly, peering excitedly through the close branches. "The baker goes to the backdoor, too. It's a gentleman—agentleman, I tell you. Come here and look!"
At this startling announcement Honor rises and looks over Molly's shoulder.
"I believe it is Hugh," she says; "only somehow he looks so much older. How long is it since we have seen him, Molly?"
"I saw him about a year ago; but I expect it is longer since you did. It was while I was in London with Mrs. Horton. Good gracious, Honor, itisHugh, and he's got a moustache!"
This remark is called forth by the fact of the visitor having turned round on reaching the steps, and given an inquiring glance round the garden, as if in search of someone.
"O, thank goodness, Mary is answering the bell; not but what Hugh is used to Becky's shortcomings. Now he will be shown into the drawing-room in style. I hope mother isn't asleep on the sofa."
"Come along, Molly," cries Honor, preparing to leave the arbour. "We need not wait to have his name brought to us."
But Molly shows distinct signs of cowardice as they approach the drawing-room together, and as Honor actually opens the door and enters, she hangs back, and peeps curiously at Hugh from behind her sister.
"Why, Molly, have you forgotten me? Don't you know me?" he says, taking her two hands in his, and looking down into her fair flushed face.
Molly laughs.
"Youhavechanged," she says a little shyly, "and if we hadn't watched you all the time you were walking up to the door, I don't know that Ishouldhave known you in this half light."
"Ah," says Honor, "you little thought we were in our 'leafy retreat,' as we used to call it. I expect you would have found your way to us there if you had."
"I am very sure I should," answers Hugh, going over to the window. "Shall I draw up the blinds, Mrs. Merivale? the sun is off the room now."
"O,don't!" cries Molly, who seems to be seized with an unaccountable fit of shyness. "I do hate a light room; so does mother."
Mrs. Merivale, however, happens to prefer a little light on this occasion, now that the sun is going down, and says in the same breath with Molly, "Yes, do please, Hugh."
So, with a little deprecating look towards Molly, up go the blinds and in comes the light.
Molly ensconces herself in a corner behind her mother, and allowing nearly all the conversation to fall on the others, sits very still, making silent observations of the alterations in her old playmate.
It turns out that Hugh is under orders to sail for Egypt a good deal sooner than he expected, and as his time is much taken up in dodging about at the Horse-guards, he finds he will not probably have the opportunity of coming down again before leaving for good. He has come, therefore, with the intention of staying the evening, if they will have him.
Honor, on hearing this, immediately becomes exercised in her mind as to the state of the larder, and making a sign to Molly to follow her, she quietly leaves the room.
So Mrs. Merivale and Hugh sit chatting together while the two girls consult with Mary about the arrangement of a nice little supper. It must here be explained that with their improved position the Merivales have engaged a more capable servant, it being necessary to have someone who can do without the perpetual looking after and directing which Becky, even in her brightest moments, always required—both Honor's and Molly's time being taken up now with other than domestic matters. Becky, however, still remains, greatly to her delight, she having become much attached to "missus" and the young ladies. She is useful in the rougher work of the house, all rights as to swilling the backyard and blacking boots being reserved by her. Thus the delinquency of the fire, and, indeed, others which have been almost beyond endurance sometimes, are not so constantly brought before the family now. Mary is a good-natured girl, and as a rule the two get on very well, unless the kitchen fire is let out. Then, her face is a sight to see.
Presently Hugh comes out, and finding his way to the kitchen as of old, tells the girls he is going to run up to see the Mr. Talboys between tea and supper. Perhaps Molly will go with him?
But Molly, perverse to the last, remembers some most important business she has to do, and says "no."
Hugh turns away, looking hurt, as well he may, and Honor, after frowning her displeasure at her younger sister, follows him out.
"I would go with you myself, Hugh, but I have a little bit of painting which I reallymustdo before the light goes. I didn't know," she adds, "that Molly had anything very important to do; but I suppose she knows her own business best."
But Molly, who does not wait to hear her sister's opinions on the subject, beats a retreat out to the back-yard, nominally to look after the fowls.
When Hugh has gone to the Rosery, and she joins her mother and Honor in the drawing-room, they both fall upon her, metaphorically speaking, and scold her roundly for what they call her unkindness and vanity. Hard words these for poor Molly to hear as she stands abashed before them, especially coming from either her mother or Honor, who are both so gentle with her always.
"It is not as if you were a child now," says Mrs. Merivale in a vexed tone of voice. "What might have passed for fun two or three years ago amounts to rudeness in a girl of your age. And how you can like to be unkind—yes, unkind, Molly,—I really do not know. What made you refuse to walk up to the Rosery with Hugh? You are certainly his favourite of all the girls" (here she tries to speak carelessly), "and when he is going away, goodness knows how far and for how long, you must needs be almost uncivil to him. Now, I must beg, Molly, that you do your best to make Hugh's last evening here a happy one. I don't suppose he is in very good spirits, poor fellow! and we don't want to put him into worse. Do you hear me? Very well. Come here and give me a kiss. Now, you can run away if you like."
Molly, who is almost on the verge of tears, is glad to avail herself of this permission. Catching up her large white garden hat she returns to the ash, with the intention of getting her work, which she has left there in a state of chaos.
Sitting down, however, she begins thinking, and presently a tear drops on her hands, which are lying loosely clasped in her lap. Others seeming likely to follow, she is just raising her hand to brush them away, when at a little distance she, hears, in Hugh's fine tenor, the old familiar song he is so fond of singing:
"O, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining,All lonely waiting here for you,While stars above are brightly shining,Because they've nothing else to do!"
In another moment he has caught sight of her white dress through the branches of the tree, and going quickly round to the entrance, he goes in and sits down by her side.
"Why, Molly! In the dumps?" he says kindly.
Molly shakes her head, but says nothing, and there is a long pause.
"I wish you could have found time to go up to the Rosery with me, Molly," Hugh says at length. "It was so cool and pleasant. I think it would have done you good after the hot day."
A little gasping kind of sigh, then, "Icouldhave gone if I had chosen," says truthful Molly. "It was all humbug about the business."
Hugh looks at her a little curiously.
"Why didn't you come then?" he asks.
"I don't know," says Molly, and again there is silence.
"And so you think I have changed so much?" queries Hugh presently.
"Yes, that is just it," replies Molly more briskly. "Youdoseem to have become so—sodifferentsomehow."
"In what lies the difference, Molly?"
"Well, I hardly know, Hugh—and yet Idoknow; only I don't like to say."
"Say away," he says, leaning back in his chair and laughing. "Iwon't mind."
"O, it is nothing disparaging," and Molly takes her hat off and swings it round. "The fact is you seem so—so dreadfullyoldnow to what you were. Do you know," she adds, sinking her voice and nodding in her old way, "I felt quite afraid of you when I came into the drawing-room and peeped at you from behind Honor; I did indeed. Then there was your moustache, too. It makes you look quite severe, and I could not help wondering how I ever had the face to lecture and blow you up as I did in the old days. But you seemed so boyish then to what you do now. The alteration quite startled me at first."
Hugh laughs.
"I am awfully sorry, Molly. But you didn't expect me to go on being boyish to the end of my days, did you? You see, I have knocked about the world a little now: I don't mean as to distance; that has to come," he adds with a little sigh. "But since I joined my regiment I have, of course, been thrown much more into the society of men—men much older than myself mostly, and I suppose the life altogether does change a fellow. My mother says the same as you, Molly. But notwithstanding the ferocious appearance that my moustache gives me generally," he goes on after a pause, "I assure you I am just the same in heart as ever. Just the same old playmate and companion if you will let me be, and as ready and anxious for lectures and scoldings from my little mentor as ever; so I hope she will not throw me over as a bad job, now that I am no longer aboy. Now, do you know, I thinkIhave more reason to complain of the change inyou, Molly, of the two. What with your long frocks and your turned-up hair, and—oh, lots of things, really you are quite alarming to contemplate. You have grown so tall, too; why, I don't believe I am a head taller than you now, and I was a good deal more, you know."
"I amsureyou are not," returns Molly promptly, "Stand up and let us see."
Standing back to back, it is somewhat difficult to decide, so it is agreed that Honor shall settle the point later.
When they have done laughing they sit down again, Hugh remarking, "'Fair play is a jewel,' you know, and if you grow up, as you call it, I don't see why I should not too. What pretty work that is, Molly! Do you know, my slippers are beginning to wear out."
"Are they? Well, I'll see if I can find an old pair of somebody's for you. Do you think mine would fit you?" and Molly holds out her foot with a neat little morocco slipper on it.
"Too large, by a long way!" he mutters, shaking his head. Then there is silence for a few minutes, and Molly puts exactly five stitches into her work.
"Will you wear this as a little keepsake, Molly, and think of me sometimes when you look at it?"
"This" is a beautiful though simple pearl ring, which Hugh has put into her lap.
"O, how beautiful!" exclaims the girl, her eyes lighting with pleasure. "But—I don't know whether mother would care for me to wear it, Hugh."
"I have asked her, Molly, and she has no objection at all. It is only a keepsake, you know."
Hugh does not add that he has been asking Mrs. Merivale's permission to place a more important ring on her daughter's finger on his return from Egypt, provided that young lady raises no objections herself. Molly knows naught of this, however, and proceeds to place the ring on the third finger of her right hand with elaborate propriety, turning it round, and looking admiringly on the shimmering pearls, for they are fine ones, and being set with diamond dust, are shown to advantage.
"It is kind of you, Hugh; but I did not want anything to remember you by. I don't think I should have forgotten you. They arelovelypearls, and I am so fond of pearls, too."
The young fellow looks pleased.
"Don't you think it would look nicer on the other hand, Molly? I think rings look awkward somehow on the right."
"Well, it hurts awfully if anyone squeezes one's hand when shaking it. Now, who was it who used to make me scream nearly, rings or no rings? Oh, I know! poor old Sir Peter Beresford. You know, I suppose, that he died last year?"
"Yes, poor old fellow! What a nice old man he was. Here, let me put it on for you, Molly. There! it looks ever so much nicer on that finger. Youwillthink of me and write regularly too, won't you, dear?"
"Yes," says Molly hastily; but she looks rather frightened, and Hugh hastens to change the subject.
"We are quits now," he says. "I have still got the ring you gave me!"
"The ring I gave you!" exclaims Molly staring.
"Yes, the ring you gave me. It is no use your pretending that you hav'n't given me one, because here it is!" and from a compartment of his pocketbook, in which he has been industriously hunting, he takes out and holds up a gorgeous arrangement of blue and white beads, strung on horse-hair—a present which Molly now remembers having made him with great solemnity when she was about ten years old.
"You can't say another word now, Molly," he says laughing.
"Diamonds and sapphires!" says Molly taking this valuable ring in her hand, "my favourite mixture; but how very absurd of you to keep it all this time, Hugh."
"Not at all. I assure you I value it very much," and he returns it to his pocket-book with great care.
"I call it highly ridiculous. But now I am going round to my roses, and you may come too if you like. I want to cut some for the table."
"I am glad you are getting over some of your terror of me," laughs Hugh following her.
"The brothers Talboys tell me you are quite a little witch with your roses; they say you have brought them to such perfection."
"I believe Idoknow something about them," answers Molly.
"Becky!" she calls, catching sight of that damsel through the kitchen window, "bring out the large blue china bowl and put it on the front steps. Where no one will step into it;notin the middle. And fill it with water, please. Do you know," she says as she catches up Hugh again, "that Becky is perfectly overcome by the sight of your moustache. I do hope she won't smash the bowl in consequence. She is a great admirer of yours, you know," she runs on, snipping a rose off here and there. "When you went away last time she confided to me that you were 'the nicest gentleman as she ever see!' There's a pretty compliment for you. This afternoon she said to me, 'Mr. Hughhas haltered!' I wondered for the moment if you had ridden down and 'tethered your roan to a tree.'"
Hugh laughs heartily.
"I am sure I feel immensely flattered. What a lovely bud that is you are cutting now, Molly!"
"It is for you, Hugh. Stand still a moment and I will pin it in your button-hole."
Hugh's pleased and gratified look defies description as he obeys orders, and stands looking down at the busy little fingers while they deftly fasten the bud in his coat.
"I shall never—" he is beginning to say, when Molly cuts his remark short.
"There is Honor!" she cries; "she shall help us to put all these in water," and running down the path she leaves him to follow.
In the evening, after supper, there is a little music. Molly plays, and Hugh sings one or two songs with a voice that trembles a little sometimes, Molly, after a slight skirmish on the subject, accompanying him.
Then Honor nobly struggles through a pianoforte duet with her younger sister by way of a change, her modest bass sounding rather feeble in comparison with Molly's spirited treble. It is only Schulhoff's "Grand Waltz" they are playing; nevertheless, Honor quakes when they come to the last two or three pages; but she centres all her hopes on Molly, and, amidst plenty of laughter (for Hugh and Dick are both in attendance to turn over), she is landed safely by her at the last chord. Then Dick sings, but notwithstanding the efforts made by every one to be cheerful their spirits seem to go down lower and lower as the evening advances; and when, after a long unbroken silence, Hugh suddenly seats himself at the piano, and sings with simple expression and pathos Hatton's "Good-bye, Sweetheart," tears rise to the eyes of nearly every one in the room.
It is a relief almost when Hugh rises and says he must be leaving. Mrs. Merivale having suggested that Honor and Molly shall walk down to the gate with him, and sent them on before, takes an affectionate leave of the young fellow, saying as she does so, "We will not let her forget you, dear Hugh." He is too much overcome to speak, but the look of gratitude upon his face as he stoops and kisses her is understood and appreciated by Mrs. Merivale.
The two girls are standing quietly by the gate when Hugh reaches it, and for a moment he stands beside them, silent also. Then he turns to the elder girl:
"Good-bye, Honor," he says gently. "You will let me hear everything that goes on, won't you?—all about Doris too; and tell her, with my love, how sorry I was not to see her again. I will write pretty often; as often as I can that is, unless I am knocked over by the Arabs one day." Then he kisses her and moves towards Molly, who, a little pale and very quiet, is leaning against the gate-post. He takes her two hands in his, and looks earnestly into her face for a moment. Then—
"God bless you, Molly!" he says brokenly. "Don't forget me!" and stooping he presses a lingering kiss almost reverently upon her forehead, and—the gate swings back and he is gone.
Honor is just wondering whether Molly is crying or what, so quietly is she standing, just where Hugh left her, when suddenly a figure rushes past them in hot haste.
"I'm going to walk to the station with him!" cries Dick's voice. "Great dolt that I was not to think of it before!" and away he dashes through the gate.
After this little diversion the girls walk slowly back to the house, and joining their mother they stand talking together, or rather she and Honor do. After a few minutes Molly, still very quiet, says she is tired and will go to bed.
"Poor child!" says Mrs. Merivale as the door closes, "I think she feels his going. I wonder if shedoescare for him, and is just finding it out? I think we were right, though, Hugh and I—don't you, Honor?"
"What about, mother?"
"Why, I told you. Where is your memory, child? When he asked if he might give her that ring, he told me of his attachment to Molly. But he said it should be just as I wished whether he said anything to her or not. He said she was still so young in many ways that he did not want to frighten her, and perhaps destroy his chances later. He said, very sensibly I thought, that there is plenty of time; that they are both young, and he would rather that Molly grew to care for him on her own account as it were, than by its being suggested, so to speak.Don'twalk up and down so, Honor! You fidget me to death, child, and I am expressing myself anyhow!"
Honor seats herself, and her mother goes on:
"Well, that was the gist of what he said, and I think it was a very right way of looking at things. What do you say?"
"Yes, I think so, certainly," replies Honor warmly. "I always liked Hugh, and I only hope Molly will be as fond of him one day as he is of her."
"He says," resumes Mrs. Merivale, paying no heed to this remark, "that if he does not come back in the ordinary course of things, he shall get short leave if he finds the time running on. There's Dick! Mind, not awordto him, Honor; he would tease the child out of her senses. I think the safest way will be for only you and me to know it. Doris will be so taken up with her own affairs that she will not give any thought to the matter. Of course his mother knows. She has always hoped for this, it seems. Ah, Molly is a good girl! You areallgood girls, Honor. Now, good-night, dear; you look tired too, and I am sureIam."
About a week after this Doris comes home, arriving in such wild spirits that the household, which has lately become a little dull, does not seem the same. Since Hugh's departure Molly has certainly been more quiet and subdued than of old, often sitting lost in thought, till Dick one day was reduced to telling her she seemed always "wool-gathering" now, and asked was "it a paying business?" The fact of the case was, that Hugh's manner and gift on the evening of his last visit had set Molly thinking. No one can resist the influence of Doris's happy gaiety, however; and though still disposed to be a little thoughtful at times, Molly is soon roused into her own bright self again.
For some days after her arrival home, Doris's tongue hardly ever ceases going.
"Aunt was awfully kind to me, and I can tell you she is as pleased as Punch about my engagement. Only she will call Lancelot (a little blush) 'an estimable young man,' which does sound so dreadful, doesn't it? And so poor Hugh has gone," she runs on. "Yes, it's a pretty ring, Molly, very simple"—and here she glances rather complacently at her own half-hoop of fine diamonds—"but good taste; oh, yes, very. I always thought there would be something between you two; but I suppose I was mistaken," she says airily.
"Yes, aunt was very kind. Uncle ismuchbetter, and looks quite ten years younger. It was such fun! Aunt, I suppose, thought I should be conceited if I thought Lancelot was coming so much for my sake, so she told me that uncle and he had struck up a wonderful affection for each other, and that amused uncle immensely. He used to wink at me openly whenever Mr. Ferrars was announced.
"Uncle and I are regular chums; and when he said good-bye he patted my face, and told me I was a good girl, and that he was going to send me a cheque when I begin to get my 'fal-lals and furbelows' together for my marriage."
The wedding has been fixed for about six months later, but Doris does not consider it a bit too soon to commence the all-important business of her trousseau, and soon the house is a perfect sea of long-cloth, cambric, and lace. For it is settled that all the under-linen shall be made at home, with the assistance of the girls at the schools, perhaps, in which both Honor and Molly have for some time held classes on Sunday.
"Plenty of time for dresses and such things later on," said Mrs. Merivale; and Doris agreed with her. Lancelot Ferrars was now in London, Mrs. Merivale and Doris had heard, and up to his eyes in business. He would run down to see them soon, however, he said.
Some few weeks after this, when they are all settled down quietly once more, a startling piece of intelligence is spread through Edendale, which throws every one, from the highest to the lowest, into an unwonted state of surprise and expectation.
The new heir to the Court is said to be about to return from "foreign parts," and intends coming down in about a fortnight's time to take formal possession of his inheritance.
There is to be first a tenants' dinner, and then a ball, to which every one for miles round is to be invited. Of course the whole neighbourhood is in a tremendous state of excitement over this unexpected news, more especially as it is reported that the new baronet intends living at the Court a good deal. There is much speculation on many points, and mothers who have unmarried daughters on their hands still, nod approvingly at all they hear of the preparations in connection with the proposed gaieties—all hoping for the best. For some declare that he is as yet a bachelor, though others are equally certain that he has been married for years.
Sir Edward Ferrars does not, it appears, feel disposed to gratify their curiosity on this point any more than any other. For he does not attempt to come near the place, leaving all arrangements as to the entertainment entirely in the hands of those appointed to carry it through, calmly announcing that he does not intend putting in an appearance himself until absolutely necessary. People are obliged perforce to be content, and they can only look forward to the day of the ball with redoubled zest.
In course of time cards of invitation are sent out for July 10th, the Merivale's being for "Mrs. and the Miss Merivales." Doris goes up to town soon after this to stay for a few days with her aunt, and Lancelot coming in one day she shows him the invitation.
"I brought it up to show aunt," she says.
Mr. Ferrars laughs a little.
"Sir Edward thought it best to say 'the Miss Merivales,' I suppose. I did say there were three of you, but I daresay he forgot. He's a queer sort of fellow, I believe. His predecessor was also rather eccentric, you know. Of course you are all going, Doris?" he says presently. "I shall be there. One of my aunts is going to play hostess for Sir Edward, and I have promised to go and help them. It's an awful bore, though."
"Honor and I are going," says Doris, referring to the first remark. "I am not quite sure about Molly."
"O, let little Molly go! Besides," cries Lancelot with energy, "she must, as my future bride's sister, you know."
Doris stares a little.
"How in the world are people to know that you and I are engaged; and even if they did, what would they care about either me or Molly? We are nothing to Sir Edward."
"Ah, true, I forgot that. But you know what country places are, Doris; and I wouldn't mind betting five pounds that before you have been in the room half an hour the fact of our engagement will have leaked out."
"Do you know much of this Sir Edward?" inquires Doris after a pause. "Is he married? Some say he is, some say he isn't."
"I don'tthinkhe is," says Lancelot slowly. "I fancy I heard something about his being engaged, though."
"O,whata pity!"
"Why, Doris?"
"Because I thought he would have done nicely for Honor, or Molly perhaps."
"It strikes me there are two people who would strongly object to such an arrangement," says Mr. Ferrars, leaning back in his chair and smiling at Doris. "I don't think Dr. Sinclair would care about it, nor young Horton."
Doris opens her eyes.
"Hugh!" she says with astonishment in her voice. "Why, nothing has been said about these two, Lancelot."
"Perhaps not," he answers lazily; "but there will be, sooner or later, you will see, my dear. Don't say anything to Molly, though; I don't think your mother wishes it. As for Sinclair, anyone can see he is fond of Honor."
"O yes, of course, I know that. But fancy Molly! My goodness, it seems only yesterday that she was in short frocks!" And Doris falls to musing.
It is finally decided that Mollyshallgo to the ball with her sisters, and now an important question comes up. What are they all to wear?
"I would rather not go at all than go badly dressed," says Doris with a suspicion of a pout. "Howhorridit is to be poor! There will be all the Trevelyan family there: they aresureto be, because even Lancelot knows them quite intimately, and so also of course Sir Edward must, to some extent; and they are the greatest people about this part of the world, I suppose. I can just imagine how Lady Anne will put up her eye-glass and examine us from top to toe."
"I don't care if she does," says Molly promptly. "You can afford to be looked at, Doris, for you are a hundred times better looking than she is, and you are sure to get a lot more partners, notwithstanding her title."
But here Mrs. Merivale suddenly becomes possessed of an idea, and intimates that such is the case by holding up her hand and saying "Hush!"
She then reminds Honor of the trunks of dresses belonging to her, which, it will be remembered, there had been some little argument about keeping at the time of the sale.
"Were they kept, Honor?"
"Yes, mother. Aunt insisted that it was more than anyone would expect or even think of (I mean to leave them), so she had her own way, and they are up in the second attic now in those big boxes."
"Quite right, too," remarks Doris, referring to her aunt's having come off victorious in the matter.
So then and there a tremendous turn out takes place; and Mrs. Merivale's bed-room, where the foregoing conversation has taken place, is the scene of trying on and taking off for a good hour.
Doris and Molly turn out their own particular hoards also, though the latter's, in the matter of evening apparel, is somewhat scanty. Still it is found that their white silks, which were their winter party dresses, and only new shortly before the death of their father, are in perfectly good condition still, and with judicious management the two together can be made into one very presentable dress for Molly.
Doris's few evening dresses provided by her aunt when abroad, and modest enough in themselves, prove to be a little shabby when seen by daylight, and the girl's spirits begin to sink accordingly.
"That pale pink of mother's is lovely," she says, looking at one which Honor is in the act of shaking out, "but Lancelot insists on my being in white. Such nonsense! I declare I would spend my last few shillings in having a new white net or something; but it would look absurd for Molly to be in silk and me not. What about Honor, too?"
At this critical moment Becky appears staggering under the weight of a large milliner's box, her cap a little more awry than usual.
"For you, miss," she says, planting it on the floor close before Doris. "There ain't nothing to pay;" and looking very much as if she would like to stay, she slowly leaves the room.
"For me? Good gracious! what can it be?" and Doris pounces on the box, and tearing off both paper and string she very soon gets at the contents. A new dead, white silk is then triumphantly displayed, made with artistic simplicity, the only trimming being a little good lace.
Off comes Doris's dress in a trice, and in almost less time than it takes to tell she is in the new one, pulling here and patting there until it is all fastened (Doris gasping a little, but striving to conceal that fact), and pronounced by one and all to "do" charmingly.
"My stars," says Dick, appearing suddenly on the scene, "youdolook stunning! What a pity our knight is not here to gaze upon his future bride in this—shall I say, regal attire," and the boy falls into an attitude of admiration and devotion. Doris bows her acknowledgments of these graceful compliments with a heightened colour; but whether the colour is due to the undeniable tightness of the bodice or the mention of the "knight" we will leave an open question; Dick inclining to the latter opinion, Doris (privately) to the former.
"You ungrateful girl!" suddenly cries Honor, who is engaged in smoothing out the many sheets of crumpled tissue paper strewn about the box and on the floor. "Here is a letter from aunt; how came you not to see it?"
It appears that the present is from Sir John. He wishes Doris to look well at the coming ball, Lady Woodhouse goes on to say, young Ferrars being of the same family as Sir Edward.
"Well, that is kind of uncle, isn't it? Now I shall not care two straws for Lady Anne Trevelyan or anyone else."
On further examination of the hoards another white silk (one of Mrs. Merivale's) is discovered, which will do nicely for Honor if altered and renovated.
"I want you all to be dressed alike in that respect," says Mrs. Merivale. "You know, girls, I always liked white silk for you in the old days before your poor father died," and she sighs heavily.
And so the weighty subject of the ball dresses is settled, and a young woman in the village, whom the girls have found to be possessed of some ideas as to style and so on, is engaged to come into the house to alter those destined for Honor and Molly.
All this time Daisy and Dr. John Sinclair continue to take their almost daily rides, greatly to the delight of the former if not the latter. Not that the young man feels one whit less the pleasure of having his little favourite intrusted to his care, and of watching her slow but steady return to health and spirits.
But of late he has become dull and spiritless, going about his work in a listless sort of way which is quite foreign to him as a rule, and which cannot fail to be noticed by anyone who knows him well.
It will have been gathered from some foregoing hints that ever since the young doctor had been called in to attend Daisy in her illness, he had been gradually becoming attached to her sister Honor.
At first he had been amused, afterwards attracted, by all her quiet little motherly ways when nursing Daisy, and when he came to be a daily visitor at the house he soon learned to appreciate and admire the girl who, for the sake of all around her, was making such brave and heroic efforts against an adverse fate.
It was not difficult for the doctor's keen eyes to see that Honor, young as she was, was the guide and mainstay of the whole household, nothing, not even the merest trifle being ever settled or arranged without consultation with her first.
And all this was done with graceful cheerfulness and sweetness of temper; for it was very seldom, sorely tried though she was at times, that Honor allowed herself to become ruffled or cross, even with poor Becky in her most stupid fits; and no one but the girl herself knew what a weary, tired-out little frame it often was she stretched upon her bed at night with a sigh of thankfulness for her well-earned rest. Then when better times came, and cares and anxieties lessened, the young doctor saw a new side to her character; for whereas she had before been almost unnaturally sober-minded for one so young, she was now like a bright sunbeam in the house.
No wonder Dr. Sinclair began to think how cheerless his house (which hitherto had appeared to be all that was desirable) looked on his arrival home, and how different it would all be if there was someone always waiting to receive him. In summer-time he would picture this person sitting in the porch, perhaps, with needlework, and when winter came, in a cozy sitting-room all aglow with firelight, with possibly a pair of slippers warming near the fender. O, yes, it was a charming picture! In truth the young doctor, hitherto so matter of fact and prosaic, had taken to painting many such pictures in his mind's eye, and the centre figure always bore, strange to say, a strong resemblance to Honor Merivale. But John Sinclair had got his way to make in the world, for although he had stepped into his father's practice on the latter's death, the list of well-to-do patients was not a very extensive one, there being but few (comparatively) large houses round about the neighbourhood; and the young fellow being kind-hearted and lenient in such matters, fees came in but slowly from his poorer patients, often not at all.
This had been of no consequence to the old gentleman during his lifetime, for he had money of his own which made him independent of his profession. In later years, however, he had speculated largely and unsuccessfully, and when on his death-bed he was obliged to tell his son that all he had to leave him was his house and just the bare practice. This intelligence had in no way disconcerted John Sinclair, however. He said he had his brains and his hands, and with those useful commodities had no fears for the future.
He had soon worked the practice up into something very much better than it had been formerly, and, what was more encouraging, he was beginning to be looked upon with favour by his brother practitioners, it being now no uncommon thing for him to be sent for to neighbouring towns to hold consultations with men of long standing and experience.
Still his fortune was not made, and in his castle-building moments he now became painfully conscious of many defects in his bachelor home.
The carpets, which a little while back had appeared quite handsome in his eyes, now look threadbare and worn. The curtains are all of them old-fashioned and dingy. The leather of the dining-room furniture has suddenly become shabby and scratched, whilst the coverings of all the drawing-room chairs and sofas, &c., are faded to the last degree.
No, he could not ask Honor to share his home as it is. He must wait until he shall have the means to brighten up the old house with modern furniture, and to make it both pretty and comfortable. He must wait, too, until he has a certain income (how much, he has not quite decided even to himself) to depend upon yearly.
"She has slaved and laboured enough, poor child!" he says to himself sighing, "and she shall never have to do it again through any rashness of mine."
So altogether John Sinclair is not in the best of spirits just now, for while he is waiting might not someone else step in and secure the prize.
Mrs. Merivale sees the change, and guesses pretty accurately the reason of it. But while she pities him from her heart she feels rightly that nothing she can do will mend matters.
Daisy does not find her companion nearly so amusing and cheerful now as she used to, and one morning, feeling in extra good spirits herself, and only getting mono-syllabic answers to all her childish flow of chatter, she plainly informs him of that fact without the slightest regard to his feelings.
"Am I not?" says Sinclair, laughing a little and pulling himself together; for he had been leaning forward in his saddle wrapped in gloomy thoughts, until the child's abrupt remark roused him.
"Well, I am very sorry, Daisy. I'll try to be a little more lively in future. Shall I tell you a new story?"
Daisy looks at him, and then shakes her head.
"I like the old one best," she says, "about the princess, you know, and the wood-cutter. But I don't like the way it finishes up. You must make it end differently, Dr. John."
"Why, how did it end?—I almost forget now;" and he passes his hand over his eyes and strives to take his memory back to please his exacting little patient.
"Why, I believeIknow it all better than you!" remarks the child with some contempt. "Don't you remember? The princess had a lot of brothers and sisters; but, you know, she can only have been a princess in disguise, because she was a kind of Cinderella at home. Then the wood-cutter, just because hewasa wood-cutter, would not ask the princess to marry him, although he wasdreadfullyfond of her; andIthink that was silly, you know, because it was quite likely that some fairy would have made him a prince when they were married, and then, you see, it would have been all right. You must make up a new ending," concludes Daisy authoritatively, "and make the wood-cutter ask the princess to marry him, and then they will both be happy ever after."
"Do you think they really would be?" asks Dr. John anxiously.
"Ofcoursethey would—they always are!" replies Daisy, with firm conviction that the approved manner of winding up fairy tales in general cannot fail to be successful in this case also.
"You can arrange it all nicely when you are at home to-night," continues the child, "and mind you make it very long."
"To be sure," says the young man as he lifts his little charge off her pony and stands her by the gate. "Yards long, if you like, Daisy; and we will take an extra long ride so as to get it all in comfortably."
As he stops at the Rosery stables to leave Puck, the old gentlemen at work in the garden catch sight of their young favourite; and nothing will do but he must go in and take a glass of ale and some cake with them, the brothers being devoted to cake themselves, and thinking of necessity that every one else must be likewise. So Jack is taken in company with Puck to the nice cool stable, where he is entertained with a fresh drink and a few oats, while his master goes into the shady, old-fashioned dining-room with his old hosts. It soon becomes apparent that they have lured him in with some special object, for after a humming and hawing from both gentlemen in turn Mr. Edward at length says:
"The fact is, my dear Dr. John, we have been wanting to speak to you for some time past on a little matter of business; and I do not see that we could have a better opportunity than now."
Mr. Benjamin nods approvingly, and saying "exactly," looks at his brother expectantly.
"You see, my dear boy," resumes the elder brother slowly, "if you will pardon us for saying so, we do think it is time you were thinking of getting married. Hush! pray let me finish what I was about to say. Of course Mrs. Mildew, though a truly excellent woman in her way, is, it cannot be denied, advancing in years; and we fear that she does not always make you as comfortable as—as, well, as she might. Now, Brother Ben and I, you must remember, have known you ever since you were a little chap—so high, and have looked upon you as a son almost. Naturally, therefore, we have put you down in our will for a trifle. But we have lately been thinking that the wiser plan would be to let you have the benefit of this little sum during our lifetime—in fact, at once. It will bring you in about a hundred a year, and with your own practice, we think you might make a sufficient income to keep a wife very comfortably.
"Of course," says Mr. Ned, holding up his hand again for silence—"of coursethisis a matter in which we cannot advise you, and which must be left entirely to yourself. I daresay, however, you know plenty of young ladies in the different towns about;" and he nods and smiles archly at the young fellow.
"You see, my dear boy, it looks so much better for a doctor to be a married man," suddenly puts in Mr. Benjamin; "and should you be so fortunate as to meet with anyone in the future whom you would like to—to make Mrs. John, you know, you would naturally want to furbish up the old place a bit—now, wouldn't you?"
"Another thing," strikes in Mr. Edward, both brothers seeming equally determined that John shall not have an opportunity of getting in a single word edgeways until they have said all their say, "it would be an immense relief to both Brother Ben and myself to feel that we still had you at hand to fly to in any case of emergency. We have always had the fear that you might perhaps be running away to set up in some more prosperous place than this."
Here the old gentleman pauses, and John Sinclair, seizing his opportunity, speaks at last—not that he is allowed to say much, however, for the old fellows have not half finished yet, and they will not listen to a single word of thanks.
When John once brings in the word "obligation" they are both down upon him at once.
"There is no obligation in the matter at all, my dear boy, unless it is on our side. As I said to Brother Ben this morning, 'It is pure selfishness on our part, Ben, nothing more nor less. Because, you see, we like to see with our own eyes that what we intend doing is really done, and without any haggling with lawyers and executors.' Why, bless me, if every one acted on this principle there would be a little more justice and comfort in the world, I'm thinking."
After a little more brisk conversation and some chaffing on the subject of the future "Mrs. John" (Mr. Ben having declared that his young friend was blushing, and that he believed he already had his eye on some charming young lady, though whom it could be he couldn't tell), the young doctor is allowed to take his departure.
Riding slowly down the cool, green lanes, Jack rather enjoying the unusual pace, Sinclair repeats over and over to himself Daisy's words, "The wood-cutter must ask the princess to marry him," till at last, giving the saddle a sounding smack with the handle of his riding-whip, he exclaims to himself, "He shall ask her, and that this very day! Only," his face falling a little, "will she raise any objections to leaving all her brothers and sisters, I wonder?" He is put to the test sooner than he expects, for as he comes out of the lane at the crossroads, a little way down one of which his own house stands, whom should he see seated on the stile, a small basket by her side, but Honor Merivale!