“NO; perhaps I don’t,” Dulcibel answered uncertainly; and when the three pedestrians had departed she gave him her arm, as some little help to his languid steps.
The “favorite corner” was a shady and sheltered spot, scarcely out of view from the study window, and much frequented by George and Joan. A comfortable arm-chair was placed there for him on fine days; and Dulcibel soon had him in this chair, resting contentedly.
“Don’t feel bound to stay all the time, Dulcie,” he said.
“No; I shall just come and go,” responded Dulcibel, who was famous for never remaining long in one position. “By-and-by I can read to you, perhaps, but you had better keep quiet for a time. George dear, you really are looking so nicely to-day—positively like yourself again!”
George smiled in answer, and she moved away to the bank of violets, filling a small basket with the purple blossoms. Then the violets had to be taken indoors and arranged, which occupied some little time; and, just as Dulcibel was about to return to her husband, a caller claimed attention. Dulcibel had intended to deny herself to callers; but, as she had forgotten to give the order, this lady was admitted.
Meanwhile George sat alone in his cosy nook, watching the movements of birch and lilac leaves, listening to the perpetual twitter of countless birds. The air was laden with violet scent. He could hardly have been in a sweeter spot for a reverie.
It brought back curiously to his mind a certain fair valley, and a little child seated solemnly beside a “shaking bridge.” George Rutherford’s memory served him far better for things which had happened many years earlier than for occurrences of a day or a week before. He could recall that scene most vividly, and he leant back, picturing it to himself, his brown eyes closed, a smile on his lips, and a gleam of sunshine falling through the boughs overhead upon his tawny gray-streaked hair and beard.
A movement near made him look up, expecting to see Dulcibel. But a stranger stood there—an old gentleman of dignified bearing, with snowy locks, full white eyebrows, and piercing black eyes. George rose at once, with his instinctive courtesy. The appearance of a stranger fluttered him slightly, for he had seen and spoken to few people since the railway accident, and he had grown into somewhat of helpless dependence upon others. His first glance round was for Joan, then for Dulcibel; but neither was at hand. The flutter did not show in George’s manner, nor would a stranger have supposed him to be in any sense an invalid.
“Mr. Rutherford, I believe?” the old gentleman said.
George signified assent.