any wish to intrude any remarks of my own–he ought, theoretically,
to have been specially radiant and contented with life. “Can he have
heard any bad news?” I said to myself. And, almost as if he had read
my thoughts, he spoke.
“He will be here by the last train,” he said, in the tone of one who is
continuing a conversation rather than beginning one.
“Captain Lindon, do you mean?”
“Yes–Captain Lindon,” said Arthur: “I said ‘he,’ because I fancied we
were talking about him. The Earl told me he comes tonight, though
to-morrow is the day when he will know about the Commission that he’s
hoping for. I wonder he doesn’t stay another day to hear the result,
if he’s really so anxious about it as the Earl believes he is.”
“He can have a telegram sent after him,” I said: “but it’s not very
soldier-like, running away from possible bad news!”
“He’s a very good fellow,” said Arthur: “but I confess it would be good
news for me, if he got his Commission, and his Marching Orders, all at
once! I wish him all happiness–with one exception. Good night!”
(We had reached home by this time.) “I’m not good company to-night–
better be alone.”
It was much the same, next day. Arthur declared he wasn’t fit for
Society, and I had to set forth alone for an afternoon-stroll.
I took the road to the Station, and, at the point where the road from
the ‘Hall’ joined it, I paused, seeing my friends in the distance,
seemingly bound for the same goal.
“Will you join us?” the Earl said, after I had exchanged greetings with
him, and Lady Muriel, and Captain Lindon. “This restless young man is
expecting a telegram, and we are going to the Station to meet it.”
“There is also a restless young woman in the case,” Lady Muriel added.
“That goes without saying, my child,” said her father.
“Women are always restless!”
“For generous appreciation of all one’s best qualities,” his daughter
impressively remarked, “there’s nothing to compare with a father,
is there, Eric?”
“Cousins are not ‘in it,'” said Eric: and then somehow the conversation
lapsed into two duologues, the younger folk taking the lead, and the
two old men following with less eager steps.
“And when are we to see your little friends again?” said the Earl.
“They are singularly attractive children.”
“I shall be delighted to bring them, when I can,” I said!
“But I don’t know, myself, when I am likely to see them again.”
“I’m not going to question you,” said the Earl: “but there’s no harm in
mentioning that Muriel is simply tormented with curiosity! We know
most of the people about here, and she has been vainly trying to guess
what house they can possibly be staying at.”
“Some day I may be able to enlighten her: but just at present–”
“Thanks. She must bear it as best she can. I tell her it’s a grand
opportunity for practising patience. But she hardly sees it from that
point of view. Why, there are the children!”
So indeed they were: waiting (for us, apparently) at a stile,
which they could not have climbed over more than a few moments,
as Lady Muriel and her cousin had passed it without seeing them.
On catching sight of us, Bruno ran to meet us, and to exhibit to us,
with much pride, the handle of a clasp-knife–the blade having been
broken off–which he had picked up in the road.
“And what shall you use it for, Bruno?” I said.
“Don’t know,” Bruno carelessly replied: “must think.”
“A child’s first view of life,” the Earl remarked, with that sweet sad
smile of his, “is that it is a period to be spent in accumulating
portable property. That view gets modified as the years glide away.”
And he held out his hand to Sylvie, who had placed herself by me,
looking a little shy of him.
But the gentle old man was not one with whom any child, human or fairy,
could be shy for long; and she had very soon deserted my hand for
his–Bruno alone remaining faithful to his first friend. We overtook