“Well, the close of summer. There now! be satisfied.”
While she was speaking Arthur re-entered the room—good boy for keeping out so long.
“Mamma, I couldn’t find the book in either of the places you told me to look for it” (there was a conscious something in mamma’s smile that seemed to say, “No, dear, I knew you could not”), “but Rachel got it for me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history, with all kinds of birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures!”
In great good humour I sat down to examine the book, and drew the little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before I should have received him less graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his curling locks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: he was my own Helen’s son, and therefore mine; and as such I have ever since regarded him. That pretty child is now a fine young man: he has realised his mother’s brightest expectations, and is at present residing in Grassdale Manor with his young wife—the merry little Helen Hattersley of yore.
I had not looked through half the book before Mrs. Maxwell appeared to invite me into the other room to lunch. That lady’s cool, distant manners rather chilled me at first; but I did my best to propitiate her, and not entirely without success, I think, even in that first short visit; for when I talked cheerfully to her, she gradually became more kind and cordial, and when I departed she bade me a gracious adieu, hoping ere long to have the pleasure of seeing me again.
“But you must not go till you have seen the conservatory, my aunt’s winter garden,” said Helen, as I advanced to take leave of her, with as much philosophy and self-command as I could summon to my aid.
I gladly availed myself of such a respite, and followed her into a large and beautiful conservatory, plentifully furnished with flowers, considering the season—but, of course, I had little attention to spare for them. It was not, however, for any tender colloquy that my companion had brought me there:—
“My aunt is particularly fond of flowers,” she observed, “and she is fond of Staningley too: I brought you here to offer a petition in her behalf, that this may be her home as long as she lives, and—if it be not our home likewise—that I may often see her and be with her; for I fear she will be sorry to lose me; and though she leads a retired and contemplative life, she is apt to get low-spirited if left too much alone.”
“By all means, dearest Helen!—do what you will with your own. I should not dream of wishing your aunt to leave the place under any circumstances; and we will live either here or elsewhere as you and she may determine, and you shall see her as often as you like. I know she must be pained to part with you, and I am willing to make any reparation in my power. I love her for your sake, and her happiness shall be as dear to me as that of my own mother.”
“Thank you, darling! you shall have a kiss for that. Good-by. There now—there, Gilbert—let me go—here’s Arthur; don’t astonish his infantile brain with your madness.”