Part 48 (1/2)

”Yes; Marion expected them to spend a year with her, and, after that, they would return; for her father and mother had many interests and occupations in Southern Africa which they would not wish to give up.”

”Interests and occupations!”--the d.u.c.h.ess yawned, and begged Mr Ormsby to find her carriage, and ”was glad the ball was over; but it was marked by one pleasant fact, that of meeting Marion, the daughter of her old friend.”

They shook hands cordially.

”Who on earth is the d.u.c.h.ess of M--shaking hands with so heartily?” said the member's wife.

”Mrs Ormsby, of Ormsby Park.”

”Oh! yes; the uncle is dead, and has left young Ormsby seven thousand a year, has he not?”

”Nine, they say,” replied the other speaker.

”Dear me, how fortunate!--his wife is pretty, rather; I should like to know her.”

Summer was dying in all her pomp, the woods of Ormsby were arrayed in their mantles of green and gold and crimson and rich brown; the shadows from the old oaks were lengthening on the gra.s.s, when the lodge-gates were thrown open to admit the carriage which had been sent to Portsmouth to meet the voyagers from Kafirland.

A touch of the old ambitious feeling thrilled through Mrs Daveney's heart, as the elegant equipage swept along the n.o.ble aisles of horse-chestnut trees and beeches, through which the mansion, with windows illuminated by the setting sun, showed fair and stately.

But Eleanor's face was opposite, revealing its mournful history of past suffering. It had lost its look of anxiety, and something like pleasure shone in the large dark orbs as they caught sight of Marion's home, and her sister and husband, with Marmion between them, in the open doorway, waving their handkerchiefs.

Who thought that, instead of an embowered porch, rudely built and thatched with rushes, they now met beneath the stately colonnade of a n.o.ble mansion!

Oh! those precious meetings, when the sea has long divided us.

The cultivated lands of England! the fields crowded with reapers! the heavily-laden wains--women and youths and children singing along the roads, as if rejoicing in the plentiful harvest; the n.o.ble woods, stretching afar, and glowing in the mellow light of autumn!--all contributed to bring repose to Eleanor's soul. She lived a new life-- she seemed to begin a new career in a new world. Here she was indeed at peace--no fearful storms, no savage war-cry, no dread of an enemy stalking in and making desolate the hearth! The s.p.a.ce between her and the past seemed suddenly widened.

Sir Adrian and Lady Amabel were of the party; there were no strangers-- neighbours there were none within five miles.

The events of former years were scarcely ever alluded to; Marion's twins were painfully like their little cousin buried in the African desert; but no one spoke of him. The children lived almost in Eleanor's room.

One evening, after she had gone upstairs to dress for dinner, these little creatures detained her till the second bell rang. Her hair was hanging over her dressing-gown, and, finding that she could not possibly be in time, she ran to Marion to say she would join the little circle at tea.

”Marion! Marion!”--but Marion had gone. Ormsby's study door was open; there was a light within! She called to him--no answer.