But she laid the letter down and clasped both arms around his neck. “My darling,” she whispered, “I am so proud of you. How can I thank Heaven for raising you from the depths of that cruel slough of despond and making you useful and famous? I am so happy, love.” She kissed him with tears falling like rain.
“I shall not go, Hermione,” he said. “I would not leave you, my wife, to have my name put at the very head of the roll of science.”
“We will not decide hastily. You would be away two years, and it seems to me, Ronald, that the change of air and scene, the novelty of travel, the incessant occupation and the constant companionship of such men as Dr. L—— and Sir George Aiken would complete the cure. We will not decide; let us take time to consider.”
So she knelt, clinging to him, loving him, admiring him, thinking only of what was for his good—sweet, simple, loving soul, so utterly unconscious of the doom her innocent prayers were bringing down on her own head. They took time to think of it. They consulted friends, who had their interest best at heart, and the universal opinion was that Sir Ronald should go. It was with her own heart that Lady Hermione consulted most. “If it were for five, or even four years,” she said to herself, “I should not be willing for him to leave us, but only for two, and they will be so happily spent. How often I have wished that he would travel, that he would seek change of scene! And now the very opportunity offers for travel, with men whose very names refresh him when he hears them. If I can make up my mind to the sacrifice he will return strong, well, hearty, happy, with the last vestige of gloom vanished, and we shall be happy as long as we live. He has never left this spot since the tragedy happened, and he has brooded over it too long.”
Sir Ronald asked his friend and comrade, Kenelm Eyrle to spend a week at Aldenmere, and help them to come to some decision. Kenelm spoke boldly. “If I live in the shade, Ronald,” he said, “you may go into the sun. Nothing does my heart so much good as to see you happy, and to know that men do homage to your talent. My advice is to—go.”
“And you say that from your heart?” asked Sir Ronald.
“Yes; and Ronald, I promise to watch over your wife and children while you are away.”
“Then,” said Sir Ronald, “I think I shall go. Let me see what does Baby Clare say? Baby, what shall papa do—shall he go?”
Baby Clare, quite unconscious of all that hung upon her answer, said, in her quaint, baby fashion: “Yis, papa, go.”
So the wife who idolized him, the little children who loved him best in the world, and the friend who was to him as a brother, all joined in persuading him to go, knowing so little—God help them!—of what would come from it.