CHAPTER X.
True to the kindred points of Heaven and home.
WORDSWORTH.
Etheldred’s dream was over. She had wakened to the inside of a Great Western carriage, her father beside her, and opposite a thin, foreign-looking gentleman. Her father, to whom her life was to be devoted! She looked at his profile, defined against the window, and did not repent. In a sort of impulse to do something for him, she took his hat from his hand, and was going to dispose of it in the roof, when he turned, smiling his thanks, but saying, “it was not worth while—this carriage was a very transitory resting-place.”
The stranger at that moment sprang to his feet, exclaiming, “Dick himself!”
“Spencer, old fellow, is it you?” cried Dr. May, in a voice of equal amazement and joy, holding out his hand, which was grasped and wrung with a force that made Ethel shrink for the poor maimed arm.
“Ha! what is amiss with your arm?” was the immediate question. Three technical words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, as Dr. May replaced his hand in his bosom, and then, with an eager smile, said, “Ethel, here! You have heard of him!”
Ethel had indeed, and gave her hand cordially, surprised by the bow and air of deferential politeness with which it was received, like a favour, while Dr. Spencer asked her whether she had been staying in Oxford.
“Ay; and what for, do you think?” said Dr. May joyously.
“You don’t say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his voice had a trick of yours—but then I thought you would have held by old Cambridge.”