Norman was, to a certain extent, right with regard to Margaret—her thoughts and interest had been chiefly engrossed by Alan Ernescliffe, and so far drawn away from her own family, that when the Alcestis was absolutely gone beyond all reach of letters for the present, Margaret could not help feeling somewhat of a void, and as if the home concerns were not so entire an occupation for her mind as formerly.
She would fain have thrown herself into them again, but she became conscious that there was a difference. She was still the object of her father’s intense tenderness and solicitude, indeed she could not be otherwise, but it came over her sometimes that she was less necessary to him than in the first year. He was not conscious of any change, and, indeed, it hardly amounted to a change, and yet Margaret, lying inactive and thoughtful, began to observe that the fullness of his confidence was passing to Ethel. Now and then it would appear that he fancied he had told Margaret little matters, when he had really told them to Ethel; and it was Ethel who would linger with him in the drawing-room after the others had gone up at night, or who would be late at the morning’s reading, and disarm Miss Winter, by pleading that papa had been talking to her. The secret they shared together was, of course, the origin of much of this; but also Ethel was now more entirely the doctor’s own than Margaret could be after her engagement; and there was a likeness of mind between the father and daughter that could not but develop more in this year, than in all Ethel’s life, when she had made the most rapid progress. Perhaps, too, the doctor looked on Margaret rather as the authority and mistress of his house, while Ethel was more of a playfellow; and thus, without either having the least suspicion that the one sister was taking the place of the other, and without any actual neglect of Margaret, Ethel was his chief companion.
“How excited and anxious Norman looks!” said Margaret, one day, when he had rushed in at the dinner-hour, asking for his father, and, when he could not find him, shouting out for Ethel. “I hope there is nothing amiss. He has looked thin and worn for some time, and yet his work at school is very easy to him.”
“I wish there maybe nothing wrong there again,” said Flora. “There! there’s the front door banging! He is off! Ethel!—” stepping to the door, and calling in her sister, who came from the street door, her hair blowing about with the wind. “What did Norman want?”
“Only to know whether papa had left a note for Dr. Hoxton,” said Ethel, looking very confused and very merry.
“That was not all,” said Flora. “Now don’t be absurd, Ethel—I hate mysteries.”
“Last time I had a secret you would not believe it,” said Ethel, laughing.
“Come!” exclaimed Flora, “why cannot you tell us at once what is going on?”
“Because I was desired not,” said Ethel. “You will hear it soon enough,” and she capered a little.
“Let her alone, Flora,” said Margaret. “I see there is nothing wrong.”