“Famous!” cried Harry. “Hector will hurrah now! Is that all?”
“Except legacies to Captain Gordon, and some Scottish relations. But poor Margaret ought to hear it. Ethel, don’t be long in coming.”
With all Ethel’s reputation for bluntness, it was remarkable how her force of character made her always called for whenever there was the least dread of a scene.
She turned abruptly from Harry; and, going outside the window, tried to realise and comprehend the tidings, but all she could have time to discover was that Alan’s memory was dearer to her than ever, and she was obliged to hasten upstairs.
Her father quitted the room by one door, as she entered by the other; she believed that it was to hide his emotion, but Margaret’s fair wan face was beaming with the sweetest of congratulating smiles.
“I thought so,” she said, as Ethel came in. “Dear Ethel, are you not glad?”
“I think I am,” said Ethel, putting her hands to her brow.
“You think!” exclaimed Margaret, as if disappointed.
“I beg your pardon,” said Ethel, with quivering lip. “Dear Margaret, I am glad—don’t you believe I am, but somehow, it is harder to deal with joy than grief. It confuses one! Dear Alan—and then to have been set on it so long—to have prayed so for it, and to have it come in this way—by your—”
“Nay, Ethel, had he come home, it was his great wish to have done it. He used to make projects when he was here, but he would not let me tell you, lest he should find duties at Maplewood—whereas this would have been his pleasure.”