Margaret gave a little space for the struggle with herself, then advised her resolutely to fix her attention on something else. It was a Saturday morning, and time was more free than usual, so Margaret was able to persuade her to continue a half-forgotten drawing, while listening to an interesting article in a review, which opened to her that there were too many Cocksmoors in the world.
The dinner-hour sounded too soon, and as she was crossing the hall to put away her drawing materials, the front door gave the click peculiar to Dr. May’s left-handed way of opening it. She paused, and saw him enter, flushed, and with a look that certified her that something had happened.
“Well, Ethel, he is come.”
“Oh, papa, Mr. Ernes—”
He held up his finger, drew her into the study, and shut the door. The expression of mystery and amusement gave way to sadness and gravity as he sat down in his arm-chair, and sighed as if much fatigued. She was checked and alarmed, but she could not help asking, “Is he here?”
“At the Swan. He came last night, and watched for me this morning as I came out of the hospital. We have been walking over the meadows to Fordholm.”
No wonder Dr. May was hot and tired.
“But is he not coming?” asked Ethel.
“Yes, poor fellow; but hush, stop, say nothing to the others. I must not have her agitated till she has had her dinner in peace, and the house is quiet. You know she cannot run away to her room as you would.”
“Then he is really come for that?” cried Ethel breathlessly; and, perceiving the affirmative, added, “But why did he wait so long?”