“When does the expedition start?” asked Kenelm, after the decision had been reached.
“In the middle of October,” replied Sir Ronald, and from that time Lady Alden knew she had done right, in trying to persuade him to go. There was, of course, the natural sorrow of a man who is about to leave wife, home and children, but he was so eager, so interested, so active. Day by day, hour by hour, the clouds seemed to go farther from him. There was little trace left now of the once gloomy Sir Ronald. Letters of compliment and congratulation poured in upon him, in the midst of the hurry of his preparations. The number of visitors and the many engrossing affairs to be settled before his departure left him little or no time for sad thoughts, and if she who loved him so generously troubled over his going, no words of hers ever said so. If her pillow at night was wet with tears, her smile was bright enough during the day. “It was best for him,” she knew, and love went no farther than that.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
“REMEMBER YOUR VOW.”
“No,” replied Sir Ronald, in answer to his wife’s question, “I would rather that you did not go to London with me. I shall like to bid you farewell here, so that my last picture of you may be in our home, Hermione. I cannot fancy you on board a ship, or by a steamer’s side, or on a crowded platform. I like to picture you here under the rich, rippling shade of the green trees I love so well.”
“It shall be as you wish,” she replied. “I wanted to be with you as long as I could, Ronald, but if it pleases you, we will part here at home.”
“Yes; where I shall find you on my return. I can keep the picture with me then while we cross warm seas and torrid climes. So cool, so sweet, so beautiful—the picture of my beloved wife, among the trees at home.” The September day came at last. It dawned bright and beautiful, as some of the most unhappy days of our lives do at times, and there was a rich, mellow gleam of sunshine in the air, a rich fragrance from the autumn leaves and flowers, a sweet sound of clear, birdlike music in the air, a day when Aldenmere looked its fairest, and he was about to leave it. He rose early and went through the grounds that he might bid them farewell in all their early, dewy beauty. Every preparation was made, his luggage all packed and sent on before him. He had bidden farewell to his friends—only Kenelm Eyrle remained.
When Hermione, his wife, came out to walk with him through the pleasant home scenes they had so often enjoyed together, he saw the gleam of her dress in the trees and hastened to her.
“You may find taller and more beautiful flowers in Africa,” she said, smilingly, “but you will never enjoy such mornings as these.”
“Nor shall I ever see such a face as yours. Oh, Hermione, I am just asking myself whether I am not foolish to leave home and you in pursuit of science and fame. What is all the science on earth compared to one look at your dear face, one loving word from your sweet lips?”
“Ah, you forget,” she said, gently. “Love is very grand and noble, but when it weakens a man’s purpose in life, instead of strengthening it, then it is not the love it should be. You remember the grand old lines,