'My dear little boy-' She broke down, and finished with another kiss, for Robina was at hand, shy in her thankfulness, and clinging to Lance's hand; but as Will Harewood followed, grave and subdued, Lance went up to him, and put his arm into his. Mr. Harewood, the Captain, and Lucy, were all likewise there; but the greetings were silent, and then Mr. Harewood led them all through the library, and was followed by the two boys to the sacristy; for though the celebration was not choral, all those of the choir who were present were always robed. Wilmet hardly liked not to keep her boy beside her, but she could not be sorry when she saw the two friends once more heading the little procession together; and with such happy grave faces, though so different: one broad, ruddy, sandy; the other fair, wasted, delicate, the hollow cheeks scarcely more coloured than the white linen, and yet with a pure fresh air of bright hope and recovery.
The Cathedral was nobly and calmly beautiful in the summer morning; the sunbeams high up in the slender brilliant windows that crowned the east, and the voice sounding low and solemn in the distance at the Altar. To Wilmet and Robina it was a great deal more than the joyous festival they had last shared in there, even though then they had exulted in their brother's jubilant notes; and now he scarcely breathed a faint response, left his book unopened, and knelt in the dreamy passiveness of one incapable of actions of the mind, but too simply happy and thankful to doubt of his welcome. In his place, Clement would have distressed himself and his advisers over this inability to perform his usual mental exercises of devotion; but Lance never seemed to question but that he ought to lay himself before the Altar in thankfulness as soon as he was able, as certain of being welcomed there, as by the kind hands that shook his in the sacristy.
He came to breakfast afterwards at the Harewoods', to put an end to his invalid ways; but the clatter soon was too much for him; and he spent the chief part of the day lying on his bed, able now to follow dreamily the echoes from the minster, the full glories of which his sisters were enjoying. There was afterwards a rush of his choir mates to shake hands with him; and little Dick Graeme, a delicate, sallow, black-eyed boy, in whom Wilmet believed she recognised the hero of the swans' eggs, could not be got rid of the whole day. He lived at a farm three miles off, and had been sent in to take his part on the Sunday; indeed, he had often been at the door to inquire, but had only been allowed momentary glimpses of Lance, whom he followed about like a little dog, till at last, late in the evening, the proposal was started of walking him down to the river, along which lay the path leading to his home.
It was a charming summer evening when they set forth; the three Underwoods, the two Harewood brothers, and little Graeme, slowly moving along, Robina in ecstasies with the loose-strife and forget- me-nots, and the boys absorbed in fish and water-rats, till Bill, holding Robin a little back, pointed to a pollard, and told her in a low hoarse voice, 'That was where I left those verses.'
'There!' Robina tried to measure with her eye the distance, which looked immense for such a run. She could not speak; but little Dick turned-
'Ay, 'twas a jolly run in the time. Spyers and I tried it, and both got blown; but nobody runs like Underwood.'
'Well, it does look a goodish distance,' said Lance. 'And Robin, do you know, it all came of this fellow being too good a poet. He thought it was the Tiber, you know.'
'The subject was the Tiber, wasn't it?'
'Ay; and Bill here got to spouting about Horace Cocles till he didn't know, nor I either, whether we were heathen Romans or not. It was a mercy he didn't go home in Cocles' costume.'
Bill did not laugh. He seemed to forget everything, bystanders and all, and threw his arm round his friend's neck. 'O Lancey, don't say a word more. If you only could guess what-what this month has been like to me! And now to see you standing here, like your dear old self again! Oh! if I could only-' and he broke off and rushed away behind the tree, where they heard him sobbing.
Lance shrugged his shoulders. 'Poor old Bill! he will treat himself as if he did it on purpose, but he'll be better now he's had it out. But d'ye see, I can't go no farther now. So you, Dick, be off. Spare the feelings of your dutiful parents, and get home in Christianable time.'
'I say please, Underwood, may I have the bed by yours next half?'
'That's not as it pleases Underwood, but Mrs. Drake; but look here, Graeme, there's a little brat of a new treble coming into our dormitory. You stand his friend, and speak to Harewood if Bolt takes to bullying him.'
'But you'll be back?' said the child, his face all consternation.
'I hope so; but for fear of accidents, you know. Good night, Dick, and thank your mater for those stunning raspberries.'
'That's a good dodge,' said Will Harewood, emerging, 'to keep the little ape from bullying the little one himself. But you will be able to come back, Lance; 'tis as dull as ditch-water without you.'
'I shall be glad enough to come back,' said Lance, 'and make the most of this year. I didn't know how I cared for this place. There's nothing like it!' and he leant against a tree, looking back at the Cathedral, where the sunbeams were 'weaving a parting crown' for the tall tower, and the soft grey of the exquisite stone-work of the chapter-house contrasted with the fresh green of the trees, rising up from the sparkling river and emerald meadows. Presently he burst out, 'You beautiful old thing, and did you hush your grand glorious old voice only for me? I should like to be your own, and to serve you for ever!'
The other two felt a little awed at the outburst, and possibly Lance a little ashamed, for he suddenly started from his tree trunk, crying, 'I'm sure we ought to go home. However there are Jack and Mettie on beyond ever so far.' And he elevated his voice in a coo-ee, after what he believed to be Australian fashion; but his weakness prevailed, and he laughed at his own want of power to shout much above his breath. 'You do it, Bill.'
'Not I! Coo-ee indeed? 'Tis coo-coo there, river and moonlight and all.'
At one and the same moment, Lance exclaimed, 'Jack and Mettie! Thunder and ages!' and Robina, 'For shame, Willie!' while that personage cut a caper, at once expressive of affirmation and amusement at their surprise.
'After all,' sagaciously observed Lance, 'I'm not so much surprised. I think I've made a pretty good Cupid.'
'You believe it, then?' cried Robina.
'Bless you,' affirmed Willie, 'we've been roasting Jack about it for the last fortnight-only the pater was so awfully afraid of your sister's hearing it, that he said any one who breathed the ghost of a joke near her should be shipped off to old Aunt Grace that instant.'
'Well, they have my consent and blessing,' said Lance.
'Amen,' responded his friend.
'Ho!' continued Lance, 'that's the meaning of old W. W. being so jolly. I wondered whether it was only that I thought so because I had nothing to do but to look at her.'
'Oh, you know she is a real true beauty and no mistake,' said Bill, beginning to feel a personal pride in her; 'there's Miles raving about her, and every one runs about saying, "Have you seen little Underwood's handsome sister?" Half the folks that came to ask after you did it to get a look at her; and if she stayed a week longer, she might have a dozen offers, only luckily Jack cut in first.'
'Well, I'm glad she is even with Alda,' was Lance's next sentiment.
'That's the one that is booked for the Red Indian you converted, ain't it?' asked Bill. 'Fact, Robina; we heard a new fellow was coming who had converted a Cherokee, and that the Bishop had christened him in his war paint and feathers. Mrs. Shapcote sent out invitations to a missionary tea in honour of him.'
'What, of the Cherokee?'
'No, no, of the little brute of a missionary chap, and we made up our minds to tar and feather him before he converted us; but long before we had found out which of the new trebles was the model Christian, old Shapcote had caught us two pitching into one another, because I said Bexley was a snobbish place full of pots and pans.'