Part 15 (1/2)

So confusedly thinking she reached home, and approaching the door, heard the noise of many voices in the parlour. There was evidently company, and in her present excited state nothing would suit her better; so sliding up to her room, and changing her dress a little, she came down and entered the parlour.

”Behold,” cried the Doctor, as she entered the room, ”the evening-star has arisen at last. My dear young lady, we have been loudly lamenting your absence and indisposition.”

”I have been listening to your lamentations, Doctor,” she replied.

”They were certainly loud, and from the frequent bursts of laughter, I judged they were getting hysterical, so I came down.”

There was quite a party a.s.sembled. The Vicar and Major Buckley were talking earnestly together. Troubridge and the Doctor were side by side, while next the fire was Mrs. Buckley, with young Sam asleep on her lap, and Miss Thornton sitting quietly beside her.

Having saluted them all, Mary sat down by Mrs. Buckley, and began talking to her. Then the conversation flowed back into the channel it had been following before her arrival.

”I mean to say, Vicar,” said the Major, ”that it would be better to throw the four packs into two. Then you would have less squabbling and bickering about the different boundaries, and you would kill the same number of hares with half the dogs.”

”And you would throw a dozen men out of work, sir,” replied the Vicar, ”in this parish and the next, and that is to be considered; and about half the quant.i.ty of meat and horseflesh would be consumed, which is another consideration. I tell you I believe things are better as they are.”

”I hear they got a large stern-cabin; did they, Mr. Troubridge?” said the Doctor. ”I hope they'll be comfortable. They should have got more amids.h.i.+ps if they could. They will be sick the longer in their position.”

”Poor boys!” said Troubridge; ”they'll be more heart-sick than stomach-sick, I expect. They'd halfrepented before they sailed.”

Mary sat down by Mrs. Buckley, and had half an hour's agreeable conversation with her, till they all rose to go. Mrs. Buckley was surprised at her sprightliness and good spirits, for she had expected to find her in tears. The Doctor had met the Major in the morning, and told him what had pa.s.sed the night before, so Mrs. Buckley had come in to cheer Mary up for the loss of her lover, and to her surprise found her rather more merry than usual. This made the good lady suspect at once that Mary did not treat the matter very seriously, or else was determined to defy her father, which, as Mrs. Buckley reflected, she was perfectly able to do, being rich in her own right, and of age. So when she was putting on her shawl to go home, she kissed Mary, and said kindly,--

”My love, I hope you will always honour and obey your father, and I am sure you will always, under all circ.u.mstances, remember that I am your true friend. Good night.”

And having bidden her good night, Mary went in. The Doctor was gone with the Major, but Tom Troubridge sat still before the fire, and as she came in was just finis.h.i.+ng off one of his thundering fits of laughter at something that the Vicar had said.

”My love,” said the Vicar, ”I am so sorry you have been poorly, though you look better to-night. Your dear aunt has been to Tom's room, so there is nothing to do, but to sit down and talk to us.”

”Why, cousin Tom,” she said, laughing, ”I had quite forgot you; at least, quite forgot you were going to stay here. Why, what a time it is since I saw you.”

”Isn't it?” he replied; ”such a very long time. If I remember right, we met last out at the gate. Let's see. How long was that ago?”

”You ought to remember,” she replied; ”you're big enough. Well, good night. I'm going to bed.”

She went to her room, but not to bed. She sat in the window, looking at the stars, pale in the full moonlight, wondering. Wondering what George was doing. Wondering whether she would listen to his audacious proposal. And wondering, lastly, what on earth her father would say if she did.

Chapter X

IN WHICH WE SEE A GOOD DEAL OF MISCHIEF BREWING.

A month went on, and May was well advanced. The lanes had grown dark and shadowy with their summer bravery; the banks were a rich ma.s.s of verdure once more, starred with wild-rose and eglantine; and on the lesser woodland stream, the king fern was again concealing the channel with brilliant golden fronds; while brown bare thorn-thickets, through which the wind had whistled savagely all winter, were now changed into pleasant bowers, where birds might build and sing.

A busy month this had been for the Major. Fis.h.i.+ng every day, and pretty near all day, determined, as he said, to make the most of it, for fear it should be his last year. There was a beaten path worn through the growing gra.s.s all down the side of the stream by his sole exertions; and now the May-fly was coming, and there would be no more fis.h.i.+ng in another week, so he worked harder than ever. Mrs. Buckley used to bring down her son and heir, and sit under an oak by the river-side, sewing.

Pleasant, long days they were when dinner would be brought down to the old tree, and she would spend the day there, among the long meadow-gra.s.s, purple and yellow with flowers, bending under the soft west wind. Pleasant to hear the corncrake by the hedge-side, or the moorhen in the water. But pleasantest of all was the time when her husband, tired of fis.h.i.+ng, would come and sit beside her, and the boy, throwing his lately-petted flowers to the wind, would run crowing to the spotted beauties which his father had laid out for him on the gra.s.s.

The Vicar was busy in his garden, and the Doctor was often helping him, although the most of his time was spent in natural history, to which he seemed entirely devoted. One evening they had been employed rather later than usual, and the Doctor was just gone, when the Vicar turned round and saw that his sister was come out, with her basket and scissors, to gather a fresh bouquet for the drawing-room.

So he went to join her, and as he approached her he admired her with an affectionate admiration. Such a neat, trim figure, with the snow-white handkerchief over her head, and her white garden gloves; what a contrast to Mary, he thought; ”Both good of their sort, though,” he added.

”Good evening, brother,” began Miss Thornton. ”Was not that Dr. Mulhaus went from you just now?”