Norman tried to call his companions to order, for they were close upon the village, and he began to tax himself with unbecoming levity; the effect of spirits pitched rather low, which did not easily find their balance, under unwonted exhilaration, but Harry’s antics were less easily repressed than excited, and if Tom had not heard the Grange clock strike half-past six, and had not been afraid of not having time to array himself, and watch over Harry’s neckcloth, they would hardly have arrived in reasonable time. Dr. May had gone home, and there was no one in the drawing-room; but, as Norman was following the boys upstairs, Flora opened her sitting-room door, and attracted his attention by silently putting her cold fingers into his hand, and drawing him into the room.
“Dear Norman, this is pleasant,” she said affectionately; but in a voice so sunken, that all gladness seemed to be dead within, and the effect was far more mournful than if she had not attempted to smile congratulation.
“I will give you till Dr. Spencer comes,” she said. “Then Norman can dress, and you must be a good child, and come down to me.”
The playfulness ill suited the wan, worn face that seemed to have caught a gray tint from her rich poplin, her full toilet making the contrast almost more painful; and, as she closed the door, her brother could only exclaim, “Poor Flora!”
“She is so kind,” said the voice of the white figure that moved towards him. “Oh, if we could comfort her!”
“I trust to her own kindness working comfort to her, at last,” said Norman. “But is she often thus?”
“Whenever she is not bearing up for George’s sake,” said Meta. “She never says anything when she is alone with me, only she does not struggle with her looks.”
“It must be very trying for you.”
“Nay, I feel grateful to her for even so far relaxing the restraint. If I could but do her any good.”
“You cannot help doing her good,” said Norman.