"More syllabub, Edna!" shrieked out that greedy young Charley.
"And me want more, too," added little Miles; "me not had enough."
Edna drew her hand away to go to the table, a happy light shining through her tears. Fred put his arm within mine, and we went across the gra.s.s together.
The first to see him was Mr. Brandon. He took in the situation at once, and in a degree prepared Mr. Westerbrook. "Here"s some bronzed young man coming up, Westerbrook," said he. "Looks like a traveller. I should not be surprised if it is your nephew; or perhaps one who brings news of him."
Old Westerbrook fell back in his chair, as Fred stood there with his two hands stretched out to him. Then he sprang up, burst into tears, and clasped Fred in his arms. Of all commotions! Mr. Brandon walked away out of it into the sun, putting his yellow silk handkerchief on his head.
The Squire stared as if he had never seen a bronzed man before; Tod came leaping up, and the best part of the company after him.
"Edna, Edna!" called out Mr. Westerbrook, sitting back in his chair again, and holding Fred tightly. "Edna, I want you instantly."
She advanced modestly, blushing roses, her hat held in her hand by its faded strings. Mr. Westerbrook looked at her through his tears.
"Here he is, my dear--do you see?--come back to us at last. We must both welcome him. The homestead is yours from this day, Fred; I will have only just a corner in it. I am too old now for a busy life: you must be the acting master. And, Edna, my child, you will come here to be his helpmeet in it, and to take care of me in my declining years--my dear little daughter! Thank G.o.d for all things!"
Fred gave us just a brief summary of the past. Getting over to America without much difficulty, he had sought there for some remunerative work, and sought in vain. One of those panics that the Americans go in for had recently occurred in the States, and numbers of men were unable to get employment. After sundry adventures, and some semi-starvation, he at length made his way to the West Indies. A cousin of his late mother was, he knew, settled somewhere within the regions of British Guiana. He found him in Berbice, a small merchant of New Amsterdam. To him Fred told his whole story; and the old cousin gave him a berth in his counting-house. Office-work was new to Fred; but he did his best; and with the first proceeds of his pay he enclosed the ten pounds to Edna; the house forwarding the letter to their agents in London, to be posted there. Some months later, he chanced to see the advertis.e.m.e.nt for him in an English newspaper. As soon as he was able, he came off to answer it in person; and--here he was.
"All"s well that ends well," remarked Mr. Brandon, in his dry way.
"And don"t you go fraternizing with poachers again, Mr. Fred!" cried out the Squire. "See what it brought you to the last time."
"No, Squire; never again," answered Fred, pushing back his auburn hair (very long again), with a smile. "This one time has been quite enough."
"But you cannot have Edna, you know," said Mrs. Holland to him, with a disturbed face. "The Parsonage could not possibly get on without her."
"I am afraid the Parsonage will have to try, Mrs. Holland."
"I shall be obliged to keep my bed; that will be the end of it," said Mrs. Holland, gloomily. "n.o.body _can_ manage the children but Edna. When she is otherwise occupied, their noise is frightful: ten times more distracting than the worst toothache."
Fred said nothing further; she was looking so ruefully woebegone.
Putting his arm into mine, he turned into a shady walk.
"Will you be my groomsman at the wedding, Johnny? But for you, my good friend, I don"t know that I should have been saved to see this day."
"Nay, Fred, I think it was the key of the church that saved you. I will be your groomsman if you really and truly prefer to pitch upon me, rather than on some one older and better."
"Yes, you are right," he answered, lifting his hat, and glancing upwards. "It was the key of the church--under G.o.d."
XVII.
SEEN IN THE MOONLIGHT.
"I tell you it is," repeated Tod. "One cannot mistake Temple, even at a distance."
"But this man looks so much older than he. And he has whiskers. Temple had none."
"And has not Temple grown older, do you suppose; and don"t whiskers sprout and grow? You are always a m.u.f.f, Johnny. That is Slingsby Temple."
We had gone by rail to Whitney Hall, and were walking up from the station. The Squire sent us to ask after Sir John"s gout. It was a broiling hot day in the middle of summer. On the lawn before the house, with some of the Whitneys, stood a stranger; a little man, young, dark, and upright.
Tod was right, and I was wrong. It was Slingsby Temple. But I thought him much altered: older-looking than his years, which numbered close upon twenty-five, and more sedate and haughty than ever. We had neither seen nor heard of him since quitting Oxford.
"Oh, he"s regularly in for it this time," said Bill Whitney, in answer to inquiries about his father, as they shook hands with us. "He has hardly ever had such a bout; can only lie in bed and groan. Temple, don"t you remember Todhetley and Johnny Ludlow?"
"Yes, I do," answered Temple, holding out his hand to me first, and pa.s.sing by Tod to do it. But that was Slingsby Temple"s way. I was of no account, and therefore it did not touch his pride to notice me.
"I am glad to see you again," he said to Tod, cordially enough, as he turned to him; which was quite a gracious acknowledgment for Temple.
But it surprised us to see him there. The Whitneys had no acquaintance with the Temples; neither had he and Bill been special friends at college. Whitney explained it after luncheon, when we were sitting outside the windows in the shade, and Temple was pacing the shrubbery with Helen.
"I fancy it"s a gone case," said Bill, nodding towards them.
"Oh, William, you should not say it," struck in Anna, in tones of remonstrance, and with her pretty blush. "It is not sure--and not right to Mr. Temple."
"Not say it to Tod and Johnny! Rubbish! Why, they are like ourselves, Anna. I say I think it is going to be a case."
"Helen with another beau!" cried free Tod. "How has it all come about?"
"The mother and Helen have been staying at Malvern, you know," said Whitney. "Temple turned up at the same hotel, the Foley Arms, and they struck up an intimacy. I went over for the last week, and was surprised to see how thick he was with them. The mother, who is more unsuspicious than a goose, told Temple, in her hospitable way, when they were saying good-bye, that she should be glad to see him if ever he found himself in these benighted parts: and I"ll be shot if at the end of five days he was not here! If Helen"s not the magnet, I don"t know what else it can be."
"He appears to like her; but it may be only a temporary fancy that will pa.s.s away; it ought not to be talked about," reiterated Anna. "It may come to nothing."
"It may, or may not," persisted Bill.
"Will she consent to have him?" I asked.
"She"d be simple if she didn"t," said Bill. "Temple would be a jolly fine match for any girl. Good in all ways. His property is large, and he himself is as sober and steady as any parson. Always has been."
I was not thinking of Temple"s eligibility--that was undeniable; but of Helen"s inclinations. Some time before she had gone in for a love affair, which would not do at any price, caused some stir at the Hall, and came to signal grief: though I have not time to tell of it here.
Whitney caught the drift of my thoughts.
"_That"s_ over and done with, Johnny. She"d never let its recollection spoil other prospects. You may trust Helen Whitney for that. She is as shallow-hearted as----"
"For shame, William!" remonstrated Anna.
"It"s true," said he. "I didn"t say _you_ were. Helen would have twenty sweethearts to your one, and think nothing of it."
Tod looked at Anna, and laughed gently. Her cheeks turned the colour of the rose she was holding.
"What"s this about a boating tour?" he inquired of Whitney. It had been alluded to at lunch-time.
"Temple"s going in for one with some more fellows," was the reply. "He has asked me to join them. We mean to do some of the larger rivers; take our tent, and encamp on the bank at night."