Meta came home, apologising for wakening Ethel; but Ethel had not been asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her bed.
Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the travellers off; she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Balliol men walked in.
Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was placed in the carriage, she believed that she heard something of never forgetting-- happiest week--but in the civilities which the other occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were, "Good-bye; I hope you will find letters at home."
CHAPTER X.
True to the kindred points of Heaven and home. WORDSWORTH.
Etheldred's dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a thin, foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be devoted! She looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, "it was not worth while--this carriage was a very transitory resting-place."
The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, "Dick himself!"
"Spencer, old fellow, is it you?" cried Dr. May, in a voice of equal amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and wrung with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed arm.
"Ha! what is amiss with your arm?" was the immediate question. Three technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr. May replaced his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, "Ethel, here! You have heard of him!"
Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and air of deferential politeness with which it was received, like a favour, while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford.
"Ay; and what for, do you think?" said Dr. May joyously.
"You don't say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his voice had a trick of yours--but then I thought you would have held by old Cambridge."
"What could I do?" said Dr. May deprecatingly; "the boy would go and get a Balliol scholarship--"
"Why! the lad is a genius! a poet--no mistake about it! but I scarcely thought you could have one of such an age."
"Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders--one of his sisters is married. There's for you, Spencer!"
"Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!"
"What! with hair of that colour?" said Dr. May, looking at his friend's milk-white locks.
"Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I thought I was done for. But you! you--the boy of the whole lot! You think me very disrespectful to your father," added he, turning to Ethel, "but you see what old times are."
"I know," said Ethel, with a bright look.
"So you were in the theatre yesterday," continued Dr. May; "but there is no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?"
"A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern; there I fell in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be made an honorary doctor, and made me come with him."
"And where are you bound for?" as the train showed signs of a halt.
"For London. I meant to hunt up Mat. Fleet, and hear of you, and other old friends."
"Does he expect you?"
"No one expects me. I am a regular vagabond."
"Come home with us," said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm. "I cannot part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage. Take your ticket for Gloucester."
"So suddenly! Will it not be inconvenient?" said he, looking tempted, but irresolute.
"Oh, no, no; pray come!" said Ethel eagerly. "We shall be so glad."
He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them en-route for Stoneborough.
Ethel's thoughts were diverted from all she had left at Oxford. She could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough of the traveller to enter into her father's happiness, and to have no fears is of another Sir Matthew.
They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambridge, at Paris, at Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship; but, by Dr. May's own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, a bright compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished in all his studies, and Dr. May's model of perfection. Their paths had since lain far apart, and they had not seen each other since, twenty- six years ago, they had parted in London--the one to settle at his native town, while the other accepted a situation as travelling physician. On his return, he had almost sacrificed his life, by self-devoted attendance on a fever-stricken emigrant-ship. He had afterwards received an appointment in India, and there the correspondence had died away, and Dr. May had lost traces of him, only knowing that, in a visitation of cholera, he had again acted with the same carelessness of his own life, and a severe illness, which had broken up his health, had occasioned him to relinquish his post.
It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever since. He had gone to recruit in the Himalayas, and had become engrossed in scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as investigations in natural history. Going to Calcutta, he had fallen in with a party about to explore the Asiatic islands and he had accompanied them, as well as going on an expedition into the interior of Australia. He had been employed in various sanitary arrangements there and in India, and had finally worked his way slowly home, overland, visiting Egypt and Palestine, and refreshing his memory with every Italian, German, or French Cathedral, or work of art, that had delighted him in early days.
He was a slight small man, much sunburned, nearly bald, and his hair snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling, and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. His voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished, indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage, was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of the journey, she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend--one of those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful honour for the delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling anxiously on her father's left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon the little finger.
There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on old friends; but, after those first few words, home had never been mentioned.
When, at five o'clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before Adams hastened up to him with a note.
"All well at home?"
"Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig."
"I must go at once," said Dr May hastily--"the Larkins' child is worse. Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to Margaret. I'll be at home before tea."