Chapter V: Meeting and Parting

THERE was one thing about Miss Pease's conduct which even Miss Sharp could not find fault with. She brought none of her own relatives to stay at Mere Side.

At stated times she visited them, but on one fine morning at the beginning of July the little lady was thrown into a flutter of excitement by the receipt of an Indian letter.

Eager to impart her good news, she said, "My brother, James, is coming home at last. He is on his way now. How delighted I am at the prospect of seeing him, for it is ten years since we met, and he is my only brother living! And I shall see Norah too, my pet and goddaughter, such a dear child she is. You have heard me speak of her."

Everybody rejoiced with Miss Pease, whose life had been a lonely one before she took up her abode at Mere Side, and congratulated her on the happy prospect before her.

"But Norah is not with her father," said Mina.

"Oh dear no. She has been with my brother William's widow, who has two girls and a boy. Norah and her cousins have been educated together. William left his family very well-off, and since his death my sister-in-law has had no settled home, but has travelled from place to place, in order to give her young people every possible educational advantage."

"Then I suppose they will come to London to meet your brother," suggested Richard.

"They cannot at present, and James could scarcely expect it. No. He has arranged for Norah to be sent to England under safe convoy, and he wants me to meet her in London on the 4th of July. Dear me, how sudden! And this is the 2nd. I scarcely know what to do, though it would be very awkward not to go."

"My dear Miss Pease, you must not think of anything else," said Richard. "You must go to-morrow, and I will run up to town with you, for I should have gone this week in any case. Just put the domestic reins into Gertrude's hands in the meanwhile. She is a grown-up young lady now, remember, and will hold them firmly as well as gracefully."

Gertrude's smile was pleasant to behold, and so the matter was settled, Richard having announced that he should only be one night absent.

"Is your niece like any of us?" asked Molly, who felt a special interest in the "dear child," whose name was so often on Miss Pease's lips whilst she was preparing for her journey.

"She is most like you, Molly—very fair and slender, but not skinny, you know. In fact, as a little thing she always reminded me of a kitten, she was so round and graceful, whilst her cousin Nelly, who is the same age, was spoken of as 'all elbows.'"

"Has she red hair, like mine?" asked Molly, desirous of a more particular description.

"Yours is not red, my dear. It is a lovely shade, and Norah's is not unlike it, and just as abundant, or at least it was four years ago. Your hair, Molly, is what, I have heard my German friends call the 'Gretchen' shade, because they associate it with the heroine in 'Faust.'"

"I wish you could bring her back with you."

"I wish I could, but Norah's father will want her to himself for some time to come. They have been so long parted, and she is all he has."

"Where is Norah coming from, Miss Pease?"

"Somewhere in Switzerland. They spent the winter in Italy, then came further north as it grew warmer. Norah will have the one long journey between Geneva and Paris, rest a few hours, and then come on to London."

From all that had been said the Whitmore girls concluded that Norah Pease was about Molly's age, namely, In her sixteenth year, but she was really nineteen.

The little lady thought and talked of the girl as if Time had stood still with her since they last met, and had really forgotten the change that must have taken place.

Richard Whitmore returned without having seen either Colonel Pease or his daughter, so was unable to answer the volley of questions by which he was assailed.

"Miss Pease was comfortably established at the hotel selected by her brother, and had received a telegram announcing his arrival. She hoped to see him almost immediately. I thought it better not to intrude upon such a meeting by staying until he came," he replied.

Miss Pease wrote letters which showed that she was brimming over with gladness; but as the days went on a difficulty arose as to her return to Mere Side.

"My brother has much business to attend to, and will have a great deal of travelling before he can settle down. There is no one but myself to look after Norah. What can I do but stay with the child?"

"Bring her here, I should say," suggested Mina. "By all accounts she knows very little of her native country, for she went to India a tiny child, came back, lost her mother, and since then has wandered to and fro on the earth under her aunt's wing. May she come here, Dick, and enjoy a summer holiday in England?"

"I can have no objection, dear. In fact, it is the best possible solution to the difficulty. Then we shall get our dear little house-mother back again, and as soon as Colonel Pease can spare time for a rest he shall come too, if he will. Mere Side will be a real home for him amongst you girls, until he can fix on one for himself. He means to buy a handsome place somewhere."

Miss Pease was delighted when the cordial invitation came, and actually written in Gertrude's hand. She was longing for the dear niece to meet the girls to whom she was so warmly attached, and she was utterly weary of hotel life after a fortnight's experience, and with but little of her brother's society, owing to unavoidable causes. So she sent a grateful acceptance on North's behalf, and herself carried to Mere Side a message from Colonel Pease, who promised to spend his first spare week there.

The little lady was warmly welcomed by the Whitmore girls on her return, and her niece was also received in a manner that charmed both. They were all, however, surprised to find that the new guest, though a girl, was about Mina's age, instead of Molly's.

The latter expressed what the rest felt when, after embracing Miss Pease with equal vigour and affection, she exclaimed, "Why, your niece is a grown-up young lady. I thought she was a girl like me, and that we should all call her Norah."

"She will be very much distressed if you call her anything else," said the girl herself. "I am very sorry for the misapprehension, but you must please not blame my aunt for it. The mistake she made was not a wilful one."

"The fact is, Molly dear, that I never calculated on Norah being grown-up any more than you did, but kept picturing her as very much the same as when I last saw her, forgetting that Time had not stood still with the child any more than with the rest of us."

They felt that Miss Pease had been herself mistaken, and when she added, "You must not like my Norah any less on account of her aunt's blunder," a chorus of welcoming words came from the girls, after which the young guest was conveyed to her room.

"I think she is one of the most charming young creatures I ever saw," said Jo, and Mina echoed the expression.

"What do you think of Norah, Gertrude?"

"I quite agree with you both," was the answer; and in her heart she added, "I wish she were not so charming."

Richard was absent when the arrival took place, but on his return in the early evening, he glanced towards the doorway, and saw not only his pet Molly on the look-out for his coming, but a sort of glorified Molly near her.

It was a girl with hair of the same shade and a very fair complexion, but taller and slenderer than his robust young sister. He could see the perfect profile, and was sure the eyes were beautiful, though he could not discern their colour. But whilst the features were so fine and delicately cut, there was nothing of the mere statue-like beauty in the face as a whole. On the contrary, those who might be at first attracted by the almost perfect features, would forget these in the greater beauty of expression and the wonderful charm of manner which Norah Pease possessed.

Richard Whitmore did not see all this at once. But he noted the figure of a girl in a simple dress of dainty Dacca muslin, only relieved by pale blue bows, and he thought it exactly suited the place. Norah was not looking in his direction, but towards something which Molly was pointing out in the distance, and he slackened his steps in order to take in the sweet picture more fully.

Miss Pease saw him coming, and met him at the door to exchange greetings, and to be welcomed back by Richard himself. As they crossed the hall together, Molly, who had become aware of her brother's presence, rushed to meet him.

"Come, Dick," she said, "and be introduced to Norah. She is older than I am by more than three years, and not a schoolgirl, but she is just as nice."

Miss Pease was about to introduce Norah to her host in due form, but Molly spared her the trouble by saying, "Norah, this is Brother Dick. He is such a darling, and so is she, Dick. You are sure to like one another. Are they not, Miss Pease?" turning to her elder friend.

"Indeed I hope so," said Richard; and, quite naturally, Norah echoed the wish.

"I can hardly feel strange here," she added, "for my aunt has written so much, and, since we met, talked so much about every one at Mere Side, that I almost thought I was going to meet five more cousins, and had a sense of extra riches in consequence."

"Cousins do not seem such very near relatives after all," said Molly, in a meditative tone. "Sisters are better. I should like you for one, Norah."

Miss Pease was just a little scandalized at Molly's freedom of speech, and said, "My dear, you talk too fast. I am afraid Richard spoils you too much."

But there was no trace of self-consciousness on Norah's face as she thanked Molly for her willingness to adopt her as a relative on such very short acquaintance. Then Richard, Miss Pease, and she talked on quite unrestrainedly, and the girl was enthusiastic about the loveliness around her. Somehow, the aunt and niece drifted into the angle window, while Dick stood just within, his arm round Molly, and told his young guest the names of the hills which bounded the view, and various other particulars about the landscape before them.

"This window is the most charming nook I ever saw," said Nora. "I can scarcely bear to leave it. And what a wealth of roses you have! The varieties seem endless."

"If you are not too tired, will you come and look at them before dinner? You want some flowers to wear, do you not? My sisters always like to have them and to choose for themselves."

"That is the best of all," said Norah. "I would rather have a knot of wild-flowers that I gathered for myself than the finest bouquet that could be bought ready put together by an accomplished gardener."

She turned to leave the recess, but at the instant something struck violently against the glass and startled her. On looking she could see nothing.

"Do not be alarmed," said Richard. "This is a thing which, unfortunately, often happens. A poor bird has flown against the pane, and probably wounded itself so badly that it will die. As the creatures can see through the glass, they cannot understand that it offers a solid obstacle to their flight, and many are killed in this way. It is the only drawback to my enjoyment of this window. Will you not come out this way?" And Richard stepped out through the open sash, and offered his hand to assist Norah in following.

There upon the ground, feebly fluttering, lay a fine thrush, wounded to death. Tears sprang into Norah's eyes as she saw it, but, happily, the pains of the injured bird were not of long duration. A moment after she first saw it the movement ceased.

Richard picked up the dead thrush, and gently stroked its glossy feathers, then laid it down amongst some shrubs, saying, "It shall be buried by and by. You may think me sentimental for a man, but I do not like to cover the poor little body with earth whilst it is warm with the life that has but just fled."

"I think you feel just as I do. Why should a man be less pitiful than a girl?" replied Norah.

Richard smiled in reply, and led the way to the roses, for his guest to make choice amongst them. At first he had felt sorry that Norah should be with only her aunt and Molly, beside himself, for the other girls were engaged at a tennis party, to which they had been invited before they knew when Miss Pease would return. But he never forgot that evening which seemed to bring the girl guest and himself so near together, and that night he dreamed of the slender white-robed figure framed by the angle window.

Day followed day, and each developed some new charm in Norah. She had travelled much, and had a well-stored mind, without the smallest taint of pedantry. She was a born musician, but though her voice was well cultivated, she owed less to her teachers than to her natural gifts, and when she sang, none could help listening with delight.

The Whitmore girls loved her. Even Gertrude felt the spell, for with all Norah was so sweet, frank, tender, and natural, that she won hearts without effort. She had won one that hitherto had never been stirred in like manner, for Richard Whitmore had given to Norah all the love of which his large heart was capable.

Outsiders began to smile as they saw the young master of Mere Side so constant in his attendance on his graceful guest. Miss Sharp found something new to talk about, and whispered to gossips like herself, that any one could see what Miss Pease had brought Norah to Saltshire for. She had fished for an invitation for her niece in order to get her a rich husband. How hard it would be for those four girls to give place to a chit like that!

Gentle Miss Pease had her qualms of conscience lest she might be misjudged in this matter, though she knew her brother's only child would be a rich heiress, and no unsuitable mate in that respect for Richard Whitmore.

And Gertrude! She was not blind. She guessed her brother's secret, but said nothing, though a fierce combat was going on within her. Self was battling against her love for Richard, and that which Norah had wrung from her in spite of her will. She felt how well suited they were to each other, and yet she could not endure the idea of Richard taking to himself a wife.

The other girls had no such feelings, but would have welcomed Norah as a sister with open arms.

Week followed week, and it was near the end of August. Still Norah stayed on at Mere Side, and waited in expectation of her father's coming, and still he was prevented from joining her there. His letters were frequent and full of regrets, though he expressed the hope that present self-denial would lead to satisfactory results, and that when these business matters were settled, a future of rest would be before him.

One morning, however, Norah received a letter which scattered dismay amongst the family at Mere Side.

She could not bear to tell the contents, but passed it for her aunt to read aloud, and Miss Pease began, "My dearest Eleanor."

"I thought your name was just Norah," said Molly. "I am always called so, because—"

Someone entered at the moment, and stopped the girl from telling why her name had been thus abridged, and Miss Pease continued—

"I am really grieved that after all I cannot at present join you at Mere Side, and have the pleasure of personally thanking Mr. Whitmore and his sisters for all their kindness and of making their acquaintance. I must hope for this at some future time."

"You, dear Eleanor, must come to me with as little delay as possible. I should like you to meet me on Thursday, and on Saturday I purpose going on to Paris, where your aunt and cousins now are. A family matter requires that we should meet. Indeed, she wants my help, and, after all her goodness to you, it would ill become me to hesitate, if I can be of use to her. Nelly and Beatrice are in a state of wild delight at the prospect of seeing you."

"Your aunt's maid, Carter, has been visiting her old mother in Lincolnshire, and I have arranged that she shall bring you from Mere Side, or rather from Salchester, where she will meet with you, travel to town with you, and cross with us to the Continent. This plan will prevent your causing any inconvenience to your aunt."

There were further messages of thanks, regards, and regrets, and then the letter ended, amid a chorus of groans from the listeners.

Norah's face had grown pale, and Richard's had on it an expression of pain that was unmistakable.

He had waited, like the honourable man he was, for the coming of Colonel Pease before speaking to Norah. He thought it would not be right to declare his affection for the daughter until the father had seen him, and had an opportunity of judging of his character.

He must not speak now, for this was Wednesday, and on the morrow the girl was to leave. The bustle of preparation had to be got over, and at ten o'clock in the morning Norah must be ready to depart.

So much had to be crowded into so short a time that there was little leisure for uttering vain regrets, though a running fire of these was kept up on all sides through the day and during the gathering together of Norah's belongings.

"Shall you have any spare time?" asked Richard at luncheon. "Or will it be all bustle until you step into the carriage?"

"I shall have the whole evening," replied Norah; "all the time, I mean, from four o'clock. I could not do without a last happy night to look back upon. I can never thank you all for your kindness to me."

"Thank us by coming back and bringing your father as soon as possible. For the present, I, for one owe you much, Norah; so the balance is really on the other side. My home was never so graced before," he added, with a smile and a look which made a flush cover the girl's fair face, "or seemed so bright a place to me."

But she looked bravely up at him in return, and said—

"I will certainly come back to Mere Side, if I may, and bring my father too. You ought to know each other. You only need to meet to be friends."

That afternoon they all had early tea on the terrace, and as they sat there the old swallows circled round and round, feeding their young ones in the air, and exercising them preparatory to the long flight before them. Down they came, skimming the surface of the lake, which was all aglow with the rays of the declining sun, dipping in its waters, and then gathering on the roof to plume themselves after their bath.

"The swallows are getting ready for flight, like you, Norah," said Richard. "A little while and they will all be gone. See, that is a hawk in the distance. I hope he will not carry off any fledgling to-night."

"You know everything," she replied. "Birds, bees, trees, flowers are all familiar. You only need a glance to name them."

"I have lived among them always. A country life has interest enough for me; but I do sometimes wish to see more than these familiar objects, and, but for an outcry among the girls, I should have joined a scientific expedition this last spring. I could not leave the mother awhile back, or my sisters in their sorrow. Perhaps I may give up the idea altogether," he added in a musing fashion, "though there is such an expedition annually in connection with a society to which I belong."

"I hope you will not be away when I—when my father comes to Mere Side," said Norah.

And Dick responded emphatically—

"I certainly shall not."

Later on in the twilight Norah sat at the piano and sang one song after another, and then they stole an hour from sleep, and all talked of the happy days they had spent together, and of their hope of meeting again. At the same time on the following evening the swallows were skimming to and fro, but Norah was gone, and the house seemed empty to its master, though all the rest were left. But as he sat in the library, with his head leaning on his hand, Richard saw neither books nor aught around him.

He was picturing that slender, white-robed figure as he first saw it in the doorway. He heard none of the sounds going on around, though the tennis-players were on the lawn and the bold song of the robins came from every bush. What he heard was a sweet voice flooding the room with a richer song, and one that spoke more to his heart than theirs.

And Richard smiled to himself as he said, "The seat in the angle window, the mother's seat, will be filled again, and I shall hear the dear voice that makes my heart thrill as no other can, in place of the echo which memory gives me now. For I felt her little hand tremble in mine, and though she said 'good-bye' in a brave voice to all the rest, she could not say it to me, though her lips parted and closed. I had her last look, and tears were shining in her eyes as she gave it. They are speaking eyes, and they said to me, 'I am sorry to go, but I will not forget my promise. I will come again.'"