tired, and people were departing, so that the first lines were lost, perhaps a satisfaction to Norman; but his voice soon cleared and became louder, his eyes lighted, and Ethel knew the 'funny state' had come to his relief--people's attention was arrested--there was no more going away.
It was well that Norman was ignorant of the fears for Harry, for four lines had been added since Ethel had seen the poem, saying how self- sacrifice sent forth the sailor-boy from home, to the lone watch, the wave and storm, his spirit rising high, ere manhood braced his form.
Applause did not come where Ethel had expected it, and, at first, there was silence at the close, but suddenly the acclamations rose with deafening loudness, though hardly what greets some poems with more to catch the popular ear.
Ethel's great excitement was over, and presently she found herself outside of the theatre, a shower falling, and an umbrella held over her by Mr. Ogilvie, who was asking her if it was not admirable, and declaring the poem might rank with Heber's 'Palestine', or Milman's 'Apollo'.
They were bound for a great luncheon at one of the colleges, where Ethel might survey the Principal with whom Miss Rich had corresponded. Mr. Ogilvie sat next to her, told her all the names, and quizzed the dignitaries, but she had a sense of depression, and did not wish to enter into the usual strain of banter. He dropped his lively tone, and drew her out about Harry, till she was telling eagerly of her dear sailor brother, and found him so sympathising and considerate, that she did not like him less; though she felt her intercourse with him a sort of intoxication, that would only make it the worse for her by-and-by.
During that whole luncheon, and their walk through the gardens, where there was a beautiful horticultural show, something was always prompting her to say, while in this quasi-privacy, that she was on the eve of departure, but she kept her resolution against it--she thought it would have been an unwarrantable experiment. When they returned to their inn they found Norman looking fagged, but relieved, half asleep on the sofa, with a novel in his hand. He roused himself as they came in, and, to avoid any compliments on his own performance, began, 'Well, Ethel, are you ready for the ball?'
'We shall spare her the ball,' said Dr. May; 'there is a report about the Alcestis in the newspaper that may make Margaret uncomfortable, and this good sister will not stay away from her.'
Norman started up crying, 'What, papa?'
'It is a mere nothing in reality,' said Dr. May, 'only what we knew before;' and he showed his son the paragraph, which Norman read as a death warrant; the colour ebbed from his lips and cheeks; he trembled so that he was obliged to sit down, and, without speaking, he kept his eyes fixed on the words, 'Serious apprehensions are entertained with regard to H. M. S. Alcestis, Captain Gordon--'
'If you had seen as many newspaper reports come to nothing, as I have, you would not take this so much to heart,' said Dr. May. 'I expect to hear that this very mail has brought letters.'
And Meta added that, at luncheon, she had been seated next to one of the honorary doctors--a naval captain--who had been making discoveries in the South Sea, and that he had scouted the notion of harm befalling the Alcestis, and given all manner of reassuring suppositions as to her detention, adding besides, that no one believed the Australian paper whence the report was taken. He had seen the Alcestis, knew Captain Gordon, and spoke of him as one of the safest people in the world. Had his acquaintance extended to lieutenants and midshipmen, it would have been perfect; as it was, the tidings brought back the blood to Norman's cheek, and the light to his eye.
'When do we set off?' was Norman's question.
'At five,' said Ethel. 'You mean it, papa?'
'I did intend it, if I had gone alone, but I shall not take you till eight; nor you, Norman, at all.'
Norman was bent on returning, but his father and Flora would not hear of it. Flora could not spare him, and Dr. May was afraid of the effect of anxiety on nerves and spirits so sensitive. While this was going on, Mr. Ogilvie looked at Ethel in consternation, and said, 'Are you really going home?'
'Yes, my eldest sister must not be left alone when she hears this.'
He looked down--Ethel had the resolution to walk away. Flora could not give up the ball, and Meta found that she must go; but both the Normans spent a quiet evening with Dr. May and Ethel. Norman May had a bad headache, which he was allowed to have justly earned; Dr. May was very happy reviving all his Scottish recollections, and talking to young Ogilvie about Edinburgh. Once, there was a private consultation. Ethel was provoked and ashamed at the throbs that it would excite. What! on a week's acquaintance?
When alone with her father, she began to nerve herself for something heroic, and great was her shame when she heard only of her cousin's kind consideration for her brother, whom he wished to take home with him, and thence to see the Highlands, so as to divert his anxiety for Harry, as well as to call him off from the studies with which he had this term overworked himself even more than usual. Dr. May had given most grateful consent, and he spoke highly in praise of the youth; but there was no more to come, and Ethel could have beaten herself for the moment of anticipation.
Meta came home, apologising for wakening Ethel; but Ethel had not been asleep. The ball had not, it seemed, been as charming to her as most events were, and Ethel heard a sigh as the little lady lay down in her bed.
Late as it was when she went to rest, Meta rose to see the travellers off; she sent hosts of messages to her father, and wished she might go with them. George and Flora were not visible, and Dr. May was leaving messages for them, and for Norman, in her charge, when the two Balliol men walked in.
Ethel had hoped it was over, yet she could not be sorry that the two youths escorted them to the station, and, as Ethel was placed in the carriage, she believed that she heard something of never forgetting-- happiest week--but in the civilities which the other occupant of the carriage was offering for the accommodation of their lesser luggage, she lost the exact words, and the last she heard were, 'Good-bye; I hope you will find letters at home.'
CHAPTER X.
True to the kindred points of Heaven and home. WORDSWORTH.
Etheldred's dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a thin, foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be devoted! She looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, 'it was not worth while--this carriage was a very transitory resting-place.'
The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, 'Dick himself!'
'Spencer, old fellow, is it you?' cried Dr. May, in a voice of equal amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and wrung with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed arm.
'Ha! what is amiss with your arm?' was the immediate question. Three technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr. May replaced his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, 'Ethel, here! You have heard of him!'
Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and air of deferential politeness with which it was received, like a favour, while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford.
'Ay; and what for, do you think?' said Dr. May joyously.
'You don't say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his voice had a trick of yours--but then I thought you would have held by old Cambridge.'
'What could I do?' said Dr. May deprecatingly; 'the boy would go and get a Balliol scholarship--'
'Why! the lad is a genius! a poet--no mistake about it! but I scarcely thought you could have one of such an age.'
'Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders--one of his sisters is married. There's for you, Spencer!'
'Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!'
'What! with hair of that colour?' said Dr. May, looking at his friend's milk-white locks.
'Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I thought I was done for. But you! you--the boy of the whole lot! You think me very disrespectful to your father,' added he, turning to Ethel, 'but you see what old times are.'
'I know,' said Ethel, with a bright look.
'So you were in the theatre yesterday,' continued Dr. May; 'but there is no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?'
