The boys were standing about the chaise as Moore entered it; but for them he had no farewell. To Mr. Yorke he only said, “You have a good riddance of me. That was an unlucky shot for you, Yorke; it turned Briarmains into an hospital. Come and see me at the cottage soon.”
He drew up the glass; the chaise rolled away. In half an hour he alighted at his own garden wicket. Having paid the driver and dismissed the vehicle, he leaned on that wicket an instant, at once to rest and to muse.
“Six months ago I passed out at this gate,” said he, “a proud, angry, disappointed man. I come back sadder and wiser; weakly enough, but not worried. A cold, gray, yet quiet world lies round—a world where, if I hope little, I fear nothing. All slavish terrors of embarrassment have left me. Let the worst come, I can work, as Joe Scott does, for an honourable living; in such doom I yet see some hardship but no degradation. Formerly, pecuniary ruin was equivalent in my eyes to personal dishonour. It is not so now; I know the difference. Ruin is an evil, but one for which I am prepared; the day of whose coming I know, for I have calculated. I can yet put it off six months—not an hour longer. If things by that time alter, which is not probable; if fetters, which now seem indissoluble, should be loosened from our trade (of all things the most unlikely to happen), I might conquer in this long struggle yet—I might—good God! what might I not do? But the thought is a brief madness; let me see things with sane eyes. Ruin will come, lay her axe to my fortune’s roots, and hew them down. I shall snatch a sapling, I shall cross the sea, and plant it in American woods. Louis will go with me. Will none but Louis go? I cannot tell—I have no right to ask.”
He entered the house.
It was afternoon, twilight yet out of doors—starless and moonless twilight; for though keenly freezing with a dry, black frost, heaven wore a mask of clouds congealed and fast locked. The milldam too was frozen. The Hollow was very still. Indoors it was already dark. Sarah had lit a good fire in the parlour; she was preparing tea in the kitchen.
“Hortense,” said Moore, as his sister bustled up to help him off with his cloak, “I am pleased to come home.”
Hortense did not feel the peculiar novelty of this expression coming from her brother, who had never before called the cottage his home, and to whom its narrow limits had always heretofore seemed rather restrictive than protective. Still, whatever contributed to his happiness pleased her, and she expressed herself to that effect.
He sat down, but soon rose again. He went to the window; he came back to the fire.
“Hortense!”
“Mon frère?”
“This little parlour looks very clean and pleasant—unusually bright, somehow.”
“It is true, brother; I have had the whole house thoroughly and scrupulously cleaned in your absence.”
“Sister, I think on this first day of your return home you ought to have a friend or so to tea, if it were only to see how fresh and spruce you have made the little place.”
“True, brother. If it were not late I might send for Miss Mann.”
“So you might; but it really is too late to disturb that good lady, and the evening is much too cold for her to come out.”
“How thoughtful in you, dear Gérard! We must put it off till another day.”
“I want someone today, dear sister—some quiet guest, who would tire neither of us.”
“Miss Ainley?”
“An excellent person, they say; but she lives too far off. Tell Harry Scott to step up to the rectory with a request from you that Caroline Helstone should come and spend the evening with you.”
“Would it not be better tomorrow, dear brother?”
“I should like her to see the place as it is just now; its brilliant cleanliness and perfect neatness are so much to your credit.”
“It might benefit her in the way of example.”
“It might and must; she ought to come.”
He went into the kitchen.
“Sarah, delay tea half an hour.” He then commissioned her to dispatch Harry Scott to the rectory, giving her a twisted note hastily scribbled in pencil by himself, and addressed “Miss Helstone.”
Scarcely had Sarah time to get impatient under the fear of damage to her toast already prepared when the messenger returned, and with him the invited guest.
She entered through the kitchen, quietly tripped up Sarah’s stairs to take off her bonnet and furs, and came down as quietly, with her beautiful curls nicely smoothed, her graceful merino dress and delicate collar all trim and spotless, her gay little workbag in her hand. She lingered to exchange a few kindly words with Sarah, and to look at the new tortoiseshell kitten basking on the kitchen hearth, and to speak to the canary-bird, which a sudden blaze from the fire had startled on its perch; and then she betook herself to the parlour.
The gentle salutation, the friendly welcome, were interchanged in such tranquil sort as befitted cousins meeting; a sense of pleasure, subtle and quiet as a perfume, diffused itself through the room; the newly-kindled lamp burnt up bright; the tray and the singing urn were brought in.
“I am pleased to come home,” repeated Mr. Moore.
They assembled round the table. Hortense chiefly talked. She congratulated Caroline on the evident improvement in her health. Her colour and her plump cheeks were returning, she remarked. It was true. There was an obvious change in Miss Helstone. All about her seemed elastic; depression, fear, forlornness, were withdrawn. No longer crushed, and saddened, and slow, and drooping, she looked like one who had
