“Oh! but Armyn, Armyn, do only get home, and see what Papa says.”
“I am certain what he will say, and it would only be the trouble of sending someone in, and keeping the poor women in a fright all the longer. Besides, depend on it, the way to have them sending down after you would be to say nothing. Now, if they hear you are safe, you are pretty secure of spending to-morrow at least with us. Let me go, Kate; it must be done. I cannot help it.”
Even while he spoke, the kind way of crossing her will was so like home, that it gave a sort of happiness, and she felt she could not resist; so she gave a sigh, and he turned back.
How much of the joy and hope of her journey had he not carried away with him! His manner of treating her exploit made her even doubt how his father might receive it; and yet the sight of old scenes, and the presence of Charlie, was such exceeding delight, that it seemed to kill off all unpleasant fears or anticipations; and all the way home it was one happy chatter of inquiries for everyone, of bits of home news, and exclamations at the sight of some well-known tree, or the outline of a house remembered for some adventure; the darker the twilight the happier her tongue. The dull suburb, all little pert square red-brick houses, with slated roofs and fine names, in the sloppiness of a grey November day, was dear to Kate; every little shop window with the light streaming out was like a friend; and she anxiously gazed into the rough parties out for their Saturday purchases, intending to nod to anyone she might know, but it was too dark for recognitions; and when at length they passed the dark outline of the church, she was silent, her heart again bouncing as if it would beat away her breath and senses. The windows were dark; it was a sign that Evening Service was just over. The children turned in at the gate, just as Armyn overtook them. He lifted Kate off her pony. She could not have stood, but she could run, and she flew to the drawing-room. No one was there; perhaps she was glad. She knew the cousins would be dressing for tea, and in another moment she had torn open Sylvia’s door.
Sylvia, who was brushing her hair, turned round. She stared—as if she had seen a ghost. Then the two children held out their arms, and rushed together with a wild scream that echoed through the house, and brought Mary flying out of her room to see who was hurt! and to find, rolling on her sister’s bed, a thing that seemed to have two bodies and two faces glued together, four legs, and all its arms and hands wound round and round.
“Sylvia! What is it? Who is it? What is she doing to you?” began Mary; but before the words were out of her mouth, the thing had flown at her neck, and pulled her down too; and the grasp and the clinging and the kisses told her long before she had room or eyes or voice to know the creature by. A sort of sobbing out of each name between them was all that was heard at first.
At last, just as Mary was beginning to say, “My own own Katie! how did you come—” Mr. Wardour’s voice on the stairs called “Mary!”
“Have you seen him, my dear?”
“No;” but Kate was afraid now she had heard his voice, for it was grave.
“Mary!” And Mary went. Kate sat up, holding Sylvia’s hand.