coming out of his room was more than he could bear. I must have him taken from home till he is well again, and able to turn to other things.’
And before Ethel’s eyes came a vision of poor Mrs. Ward leaning on her son’s arm, on Saturday afternoon walks, each looking fond and proud of the other. She felt her own hardness of heart, and warmed to the desire of giving comfort.
Bankside was basking in summer sunshine, with small patches of shade round its young shrubs and trees, and a baking heat on the little porch.
The maid believed Miss Ward was in the garden. Mr. Leonard had been taken out to-day; and the Doctor moving on, they found themselves in the cool pretty drawing-room, rather overcrowded with furniture and decoration, fresh and tasteful, but too much of it, and a contrast to the Mays’ mixture of the shabby and the curious, in the room that was so decidedly for use, and not for show.
What arrested the attention was, however, the very sweetest singing Ethel had ever heard. The song was low and sad, but so intensely sweet, that Dr. May held up his hand to silence all sound, and stood with restrained breath and moistened eyes. Ethel, far less sensitive to music, was nevertheless touched as she had never before been by sound; and the more, as she looked through the window and saw in the shade of a walnut-tree, a sofa, at the foot of which sat Averil Ward in her deep mourning, her back to the window, so that only her young figure and the braids of her fair hair were to be seen; and beyond, something prostrate, covered with wrappers. The sweet notes ended, Dr. May drew a deep sigh, wiped his spectacles, and went on; Ethel hung back, not to startle the invalid by the sight of a stranger; but as Averil rose, she saw him raising himself, with a brightening smile on his pale face, to hold out his hand to the Doctor. In another minute Averil had come to her, shaken hands, and seated herself where she could best command a view of her brother.
‘I am glad to see him out of doors,’ said Ethel.
‘Henry was bent on it; but I think the air and the glare of everything is too much for him; he is so tired and oppressed.’
‘I am sure he must like your singing,’ said Ethel.
‘It is almost the only thing that answers,’ said Averil, her eyes wistfully turning to the sofa; ‘he can’t read, and doesn’t like being read to.’
‘It is very difficult to manage a boy’s recovery,’ said Ethel. ‘They don’t know how to be ill.’
‘It is not that,’ replied the sister, as if she fancied censure implied, ‘but his spirits. Every new room he goes into seems to beat him down; and he lies and broods. If he could only talk!’
‘I know that so well!’ said Ethel. But to Averil the May troubles were of old date, involved in the mists of childhood. And Ethel seeing that her words were not taken as sympathy, continued, ‘Do not the little girls amuse him?’
‘Oh no! they are too much for him; and I am obliged to keep them in the nursery. Poor little things! I don’t know what we should do if your sister Mary were not so kind.’
‘Mary is very glad,’ began Ethel, confusedly. Then rushing into her subject: ‘Next week, I am to take Aubrey to the seaside; and we thought if Leonard would join us, the change might be good for him.’
‘Thank you,’ Averil answered, playing with her heavy jet watch-guard. ‘You are very good; but I am sure he could not move so soon.’
‘Ave,’ called Leonard at that moment; and Ethel, perceiving that she likewise was to advance, came forth in time to hear, ‘O, Ave! I am to go to the sea next week, with Aubrey May and his sister. Won’t it—’
Then becoming aware of the visitor, he stopped short, threw his feet off the sofa, and stood up to receive her.
‘I can’t let you come if you do like that,’ she said, shaking his long thin hand; and he let himself down again, not, however, resuming his recumbent posture, and giving a slight but effective frown to silence his sister’s entreaties that he would do so. He sat, leaning back as though exceedingly feeble, scarcely speaking, but his eyes eloquent with eagerness. And very fine eyes they were! Ethel remembered her own weariness, some twelve or fourteen years back, of the raptures of her baby-loving sisters about those eyes; and now in the absence of the florid colouring of health, she was the more struck by the beauty of the deep liquid brown, of the blue tinge of the white, and of the lustrous light that resided in them, but far more by their power of expression, sometimes so soft and melancholy, at other moments earnest, pleading, and almost flashing with eagerness. It was a good mouth too, perhaps a little inclined to sternness of mould about the jaw and chin; but that might have been partly from the absence of all softening roundness, aging the countenance for the time, just as illness had shrunk the usually sturdy figure.
‘Has Ethel told you of our plan?’ asked Dr. May of the sister.
‘Yes,’ she hesitated, in evident confusion and distress. ‘You are all very kind, but we must see what Henry says.’
‘I have spoken to Henry! He answers for our patching Leonard up for next week; and I have great faith in Dr. Neptune.’
Leonard’s looks were as bright as Averil’s were disturbed.
‘Thank you, thank you very much! but can he possibly be well enough for the journey?’
Leonard’s eyes said ‘I shall.’
‘A week will do great things,’ said Dr. May, ‘and it is a very easy journey—only four hours’ railway, and a ten miles’ drive.’
Averil’s face was full of consternation; and Leonard leant forward with hope dancing in his eyes.
‘You know the place,’ continued Dr. May, ‘Coombe Hole. Quite fresh, and unhackneyed. It is just where Devon and Dorset meet. I am not sure in which county; but there’s a fine beach, and beautiful country. The Riverses found it out, and have been there every autumn; besides sending their poor little girl and her governess down when London gets too hot. Flora has written to the woman of the lodgings she always has, and will lend them the maid she sends with little Margaret; so they will be in clover.’
‘Is it not a very long way!’ said Averil, thinking how long those ten yards of lawn had seemed.
