‘Where, indeed? Home, Leonard—home. Ethel is waiting for us. To the High Street.’
Leonard looked up again with his bewildered face, then said, ‘I know what you do with me will be right, but —’
‘Had you rather not?’ said the Doctor, startled.
‘Rather!’ and the Doctor, to his exceeding joy, saw the fingers over his eyes moist with the tears they tried to hide; ‘I only meant—’ he added, with an effort, ‘you must think and judge—I can’t think—whether I ought.’
‘If you ask me that,’ said Dr. May, earnestly, ‘all I have to say is, that I don’t know what palace is worthy of you.’
There was not much said after that; and the Doctor fell asleep, waking only at the halts at stations to ask where he was.
At last came ‘Blewer!’ and as the light shone on the clock, Leonard said, ‘A quarter past twelve! It is the very train I went by! Is it a dream?’
Ten minutes more, and ‘Stoneborough’ was the cry. Hastily springing out, shuffling the tickets into the porter’s hand, and grappling Leonard’s arm as if he feared an escape, Dr. May hurried him into the empty streets, and strode on in silence.
The pull at the door-bell was answered instantly by Ethel herself. She held out her hand, and grasped that which Leonard had almost withheld, shrinking as from too sudden a vision; and then she ardently exchanged kisses with her father.
‘Where’s Tom? Gone to bed?’ said Dr. May, stepping into the bright drawing-room.
‘No,’ said Ethel, demurely; ‘he is gone—he is gone to America.’
The Doctor gave a prodigious start, and looked at her again.
‘He went this afternoon.’ she said. ‘There is some matter about the ‘Diseases of Climate’ that he must settle before the book is published; and he thought he could best be spared now. He has left messages that I will give you by and by; but you must both be famished.’
Her looks indicated that all was right, and both turned to welcome the guest, who stood where the first impulse had left him, in the hall, not moving forward, till he was invited in to the fire, and the meal already spread. He then obeyed, and took the place pointed out; while the Doctor nervously expatiated on the cold, damp, and changes of train; and Ethel, in the active bashfulness of hidden agitation, made tea, cut bread, carved chicken, and waited on them with double assiduity, as Leonard, though eating as a man who had fasted since early morning, was passive as a little child, merely accepting what was offered to him, and not even passing his cup till she held out her hand for it.
She did not even dare to look at him; she could not bear that he should see her do so; it was enough to know that he was free—that he was there—that it was over. She did not want to see how it had changed him; and, half to set him at ease, half to work off her own excitement, she talked to her father, and told him of the little events of his absence till the meal was over; and, at half-past one, good nights were exchanged with Leonard, and the Doctor saw him to his room, then returned to his daughter on her own threshold.
‘That’s a thing to have lived for,’ he said.
Ethel locked her hands together, and looked up.
‘And now, how about this other denouement? I might have guessed that the wind sat in that quarter.’
‘But you’re not to guess it, papa. It is really and truly about the ‘Diseases of Climate’.’
‘Swamp fevers, eh! and agues!’
The ‘if you can help it,’ was a great comfort now; Ethel could venture on saying, ‘Of course that has something to do with it; but he really does make the book his object; and please—please don’t give any hint that you suspect anything else.’
‘I suppose you are in his confidence; and I must ask no questions.’
‘I hated not telling you, and letting you tease him; but he trusted me just enough not to make me dare to say a word; though I never was sure there was a word to say. Now do just once own, papa, that Tom is the romantic one after all, to have done as he did in the height of the trouble.’
‘Well in his place so should I,’ said the Doctor, with the perverseness of not satisfying expectations of amazement.
‘
‘Tom has more in him than shows through his spectacles,’ answered Dr. May. ‘So! That’s the key to his restless fit. Poor fellow! How did it go with him? They have not been carrying it on all this time, surely!’
‘Oh, no, no, papa! She cut him to the heart, poor boy! thought he was laughing at her—told him it had all been irony. He has no notion whether she will ever forgive him.’
‘A very good lesson, Master Doctor Thomas,’ said Dr. May, with a twinkle in his eye; ‘and turn out as it will, it has done him good—tided him over a dangerous time of life. Well, you must tell me all about it tomorrow; I’m too sleepy to know what I’m talking of.’
The sleepiness that always finished off the Doctor’s senses at the right moment, was a great preservative of his freshness and vigour; but Ethel was far from sharing it, and was very glad when the clock sounded a legitimate hour for getting up, and dressing by candle-light, briefly answering Gertrude’s eager questions on the arrival. It was a pouring wet morning, and she forbade Daisy to go to church—indeed, it would have been too bad for herself on any morning but this—any but this, as she repeated, smiling at her own spring of thankfulness, as she fortified herself with a weight of waterproof, and came forth in the darkness of 7.45, on a grim November day.
A few steps before her, pacing on, umbrellaless, was a figure which made her hurry to overtake him.
‘O, Leonard! after your journey, and in this rain!’
He made a gesture of courtesy, but moved as if to follow, not join her. Did he not know whether he were within
