He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer gave her his arm, and was silent, but presently said, in a low, anxious voice, "My dear, you must forgive me, I have heard nothing for many years. Your mother--"
"It was an accident," said Ethel looking straight before her. "It was when papa's arm was hurt. The carriage was over-turned."
"And--" repeated Dr Spencer earnestly
"She was killed on the spot," said Ethel, speaking shortly, and abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise.
He was dreadfully shocked--she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a tight suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally blunt. "Margaret had some harm done to her spine--she cannot walk."
He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel guided him, and she would not interrupt him again.
They had just passed Mr Bramshaw's office, when a voice was heard behind, calling, "Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!" and Edward Anderson, now articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and inky.
"Miss Ethel!" he said breathlessly, "I beg your pardon, but have you heard from Harry?"
"No!" said Ethel. "Have they had that paper at home?"
"Not that I know of," said Edward. "My mother wanted to send it, but I would not take it--not while Dr. May was away."
"Thank you--that was very kind of you."
"And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?"
"We hope not," said Ethel kindly--"we saw a Captain at Oxford who thought it not at all to be depended on."
"I am so glad," said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in explanation. "We are very anxious for news of my next brother's ship, Alcestis, in the Pacific--"
"More!" exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; "Good Heavens! I thought May, at least, was happy!"
"He is not unhappy," said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the back entrance of the shrubbery.
"How long ago was this?" said he, standing still, as soon as they had passed into the garden.
"Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always good."
"When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!" he sighed, then recollecting himself. "Forgive me, I have given you pain."
"No," she said, "or rather, I gave you more."
"I knew her--" and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and said, walking on, "This garden is not much altered."
At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among the laurels--"But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty thieves!"
"A startling announcement!" said Dr. Spencer, looking at Ethel, and the next two steps brought them in view of the play-place in the laurels, where Aubrey lay on the ground, feigning sleep, but keeping a watchful eye over Blanche, who was dropping something into the holes of inverted flower-pots, Gertrude dancing about in a way that seemed to have called for the reproof of the more earnest actors.
"Ethel! Ethel!" screamed the children, with one voice, and, while the two girls stood in shyness at her companion, Aubrey had made a dart at her neck, and hung upon her, arms, legs, body, and all, like a wild cat.
"That will do! that will do, old man--let go! Speak to Dr. Spencer, my dear."
Blanche did so demurely, and asked where was papa?
"Coming, as soon as he has been to Mrs. Larkins's poor baby."
"George Larkins has been here," said Aubrey. "And I have finished 'Vipera et lima', Ethel, but Margaret makes such false quantities!"
"What is your name, youngster?" said Dr. Spencer, laying his hand on Aubrey's head.
"Aubrey Spencer May," was the answer.
"Hey day! where did you steal my name?" exclaimed Dr. Spencer, while Aubrey stood abashed at so mysterious an accusation.
"Oh!" exclaimed Blanche, seizing on Ethel, and whispering, "is it really the boy that climbed the market cross?"
"You see your fame lives here," said Ethel, smiling, as Dr. Spencer evidently heard.
"He was a little boy!" said Aubrey indignantly, looking at the gray- haired man.
"There!" said Ethel to Dr. Spencer.
"The tables turned!" he said, laughing heartily. "But do not let me keep you. You would wish to prepare your sister for a stranger, and I shall improve my acquaintance here. Where are the forty thieves?"
"I am all of them," said the innocent, daisy-faced Gertrude; and Ethel hastened towards the house, glad of the permission granted by his true good-breeding.
There was a shriek of welcome from Mary, who sat working beside Margaret. Ethel was certain that no evil tidings had come to her eldest sister, so joyous was her exclamation of wonder and rebuke to her home-sick Ethel. "Naughty girl! running home at once! I did think you would have been happy there!"
"So I was," said Ethel hastily; "but who do you think I have brought home?" Margaret flushed with such a pink, that Ethel resolved never to set her guessing again, and hurried to explain; and having heard that all was well, and taken her housekeeping measures, she proceeded to fetch the guest; but Mary, who had been unusually silent all this time, ran after her, and checked her.
"Ethel, have you heard?" she said.
"Have you?" said Ethel.
"George Larkins rode in this morning to see when papa would come home, and he told me. He said I had better not tell Margaret, for he did not believe it."
"And you have not! That is very good of you, Mary."
"Oh! I am glad you are come! I could not have helped telling, if you had been away a whole week! But, Ethel, does papa believe it?" Poor Mary's full lip swelled, and her eyes swam, ready to laugh or weep, in full faith in her sister's answer.
Ethel told of Meta's captain, and the smile predominated, and settled down into Mary's usual broad beamy look, like a benignant rising sun on the sign of an inn, as Ethel praised her warmly for a fortitude and consideration of which she had not thought her capable.
Dr. Spencer was discovered full in the midst of the comedy of the forty thieves, alternating, as required, between the robber-captain and the ass, and the children in perfect ecstasies with him.
They all followed in his train to the drawing-room, and were so clamorous, that he could have no conversation with Margaret. He certainly made them so, but Ethel, remembering what a blow her disclosures had been, thought it would be only a kindness to send Aubrey to show him to his room, where he might have some peace.
She was not sorry to be very busy, so as to have little time to reply to the questions on the doings at Oxford, and the cause of her sudden return; and yet it would have been a comfort to be able to sit down to understand herself, and recall her confused thoughts. But solitary reflection was a thing only to be hoped for in that house in bed, and Ethel was obliged to run up and down, and attend to everybody, under an undefined sense that she had come home to a dull, anxious world of turmoil.
Margaret seemed to guess nothing, that was one comfort; she evidently thought that her return was fully accounted for by the fascination of her papa's presence in a strange place. She gave Ethel no credit for the sacrifice, naturally supposing that she could not enjoy herself away from home. Ethel did not know whether to be glad or not; she was relieved, but it was flat. As to Norman Ogilvie, one or two inquiries whether she liked him, and if Norman were going to Scotland with him, were all that passed, and it was very provoking to be made so hot and conscious by them.
She could not begin to dress till late, and while she was unpacking, she heard her father come home, among the children's loud welcomes, and go to the drawing-room. He presently knocked at the door between their rooms.