Part 126 (1/2)

George G.o.dolphin meanwhile had gone home, and was sitting with his wife and child. The room was bright with light and fire, and George's spirits were bright in accordance with it. He had been enlarging upon the prospect offered to him, describing a life in India in vivid colours; had drawn some imaginative pen-and-ink sketches of Miss Meta on a camel's back; in a gorgeous palanquin; in an open terrace gallery, being fanned by about fifty slaves: the young lady herself looking on at the pictures in a high state of excitement, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed. Maria seemed to partake of the general hilarity. Whether she was really better, or the unexpected return of her husband had infused into her artificial strength, unwonted excitement, certain it is that she was not looking very ill that night: her cheeks had borrowed some of Meta's colour, and her lips were parted with a smile. The child's chatter never ceased; it was papa this, papa the other, incessantly.

Margery felt rather cross, and when she came in to add some dainty to the substantial tea she had prepared for her master, told him she hoped he would not be for carrying Miss Meta out to the wretched foreign places that were only good for convicts. India and Botany Bay ranked precisely alike in Margery's estimation.

But tea was done with and removed, and the evening went on, and Margery came again to escort Miss Meta to bed. Miss Meta was not in a hurry to be escorted. Her nimble feet were flying everywhere: from papa at the table, to mamma who sat on the sofa near the fire: from mamma to Margery, standing silent and grim, scarcely deigning to look at the pen-and-ink sketches that Meta exhibited to her.

”I don't see no sense in 'em, for my part,” slightingly spoke Margery, regarding with dubious eyes one somewhat indistinct representation held up to her. ”Those things bain't like Christian animals. An elephant, d'ye call it? Which is its head and which is its tail?”

Meta whisked off to her papa, elephant in hand. ”Papa, which is its head, and which is its tail?”

”That's its tail,” said George. ”You'll know its head from its tail when you come to ride one, Margery,” cried he, throwing his laughing glance at the woman.

”Me ride an elephant! me mount one o' them animals!” was the indignant response. ”I should like to see myself at it! It might be just as well, sir, if you didn't talk about them to the child: I shall have her starting out of her sleep screaming to-night, fancying that a score of them's eating her up.”

George laughed. Meta's busy brain was at work; very busy, very blithesome just then.

”Papa, do we have swings in India?”

”Lots of them,” responded George.

”Do they go up to the trees? Are they as good as the one Mrs. Pain made for me at the Folly?”

”Ten times better than that,” said George slightingly. ”That was a m.u.f.f of a swing, compared with what the others will be.”

Meta considered. ”You didn't see it, papa. It went up--up--oh, ever so high.”

”Did it?” said George. ”We'll send the others higher.”

”Who'll swing me?” continued Meta. ”Mrs. Pain? She used to swing me before. Will she go to India with us?”

”Not she,” said George. ”What should she go for? Look here. Here's Meta on an elephant, and Margery on another, in attendance behind.”

He had been mischievously sketching it off: Meta sitting at her ease on the elephant, her dainty little legs astride, boy fas.h.i.+on, was rather a pretty sight: but poor Margery grasping the animal's head, her face one picture of horror in her fear of falling, and some half-dozen natives propping her up on either side, was only a ludicrous one.

Margery looked daggers, but nothing could exceed Meta's delight. ”Draw mamma upon one, papa; make her elephant alongside mine.”

”Draw mamma upon one?” repeated George. ”I think we'll have mamma in a palanquin; the elephants shall be reserved for you and Margery.”

”Is she coming to bed to-night, or isn't she?” demanded Margery, in uncommonly sharp tones, speaking for the benefit of the company generally, not to any one in particular.

Meta paid little attention; George appeared to pay less. In taking his knife from his waistcoat-pocket to cut the pencil, preparatory to ”drawing mamma and the palanquin,” he happened to bring forth a ring.

Those quick little eyes saw it: they saw most things. ”That's Uncle Thomas's!” cried the child.

In his somewhat hasty attempt to return it to his pocket, George let the ring fall to the ground, and it rolled towards Margery. She picked it up, wonderingly--almost fearfully. She had believed that Mr. G.o.dolphin would not part with his signet-ring during life: the ring which he had offered to the bankruptcy commissioners, and they, with every token of respect, had returned to him.

”Oh, sir! Surely he is not dead?”

”Dead!” echoed George, looking at her in surprise. ”I left him better than usual, Margery, when I came away.”

Margery said no more. Meta was not so scrupulous. ”Uncle Thomas always has that on his finger: he seals his letters with it. Why have you brought it away, papa?”