He was a slight small man, much sunburned, nearly bald, and his hair snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling, and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. His voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished, indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage, was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of the journey, she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend—one of those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful honour for the delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling anxiously on her father’s left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon the little finger.
There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on old friends; but, after those first few words, home had never been mentioned.
When, at five o’clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before Adams hastened up to him with a note.
“All well at home?”
“Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig.”
“I must go at once,” said Dr May hastily—“the Larkins’ child is worse. Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to Margaret. I’ll be at home before tea.”
He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer gave her his arm, and was silent, but presently said, in a low, anxious voice, “My dear, you must forgive me, I have heard nothing for many years. Your mother—”
“It was an accident,” said Ethel looking straight before her. “It was when papa’s arm was hurt. The carriage was over-turned.”
“And—” repeated Dr Spencer earnestly
“She was killed on the spot,” said Ethel, speaking shortly, and abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise.