“The unanswerable argument to make one contented,” said Meta. “And, certainly, to be wife to a Member of Parliament is not so very delightful that one would covet it for her.”
“Any more than she does for herself.”
Norman was right in his view of his friend’s motives, as well as of Ethel’s present feelings. If there had ever been any disappointment about Norman Ogilvie, it had long since faded away. She had never given away the depths of her heart, though the upper surface had been stirred. All had long subsided, and she could think freely of him as an agreeable cousin, in whose brilliant public career she should always be interested, without either a wish to partake it, or a sense of injury or neglect. She had her vocation, in her father, Margaret, the children, home, and Cocksmoor; her mind and affections were occupied, and she never thought of wishing herself elsewhere.
The new church and the expected return of her sisters engrossed many more of her thoughts than did anything relating to Glenbracken.
She could not bear to talk of Flora, though almost as uneasy as was Margaret; and not able to lay aside misgivings, lest even her good simple Mary might have had her head turned by gaiety.
Mr. and Mrs. Rivers arrived on the Saturday before the Tuesday fixed for the consecration, and stopped on their way, that they might see Margaret, deposit Mary, and resume Meta.
It was a short visit, and all that Ethel could discover was, that Flora was looking very ill, no longer able to conceal the worn and fagged expression of her countenance, and evidently dreadfully shocked by the sight of the havoc made by disease on Margaret’s frame. Yet she talked with composure of indifferent subjects—the yacht, the visits, the Bucephalus, the church, and the arrangements for St. Andrew’s Day. She owned herself overworked, and in need of rest, and, as she was not well enough to venture on being present at the consecration, she undertook to spend the day with Margaret, thus setting the others at liberty. This settled, she took her leave, for the journey had fatigued her greatly.
During the short visit, Mary had moved and spoken so quietly, and looked so well-dressed and young-lady-like, that, in spite of her comfortable plump cheeks, Ethel felt quite afraid!
But the instant the carriage had driven off, there was a skipping, a hugging, a screaming, “Oh, it is so nice to be at home again!”—and Ethel knew she had her own Mary. It was only a much better looking and more mannerly Mary, in the full bloom of seventeen, open and honest-faced, her profuse light hair prettily disposed, her hands and arms more civilised, and her powers of conversation and self-possession developed. Mary-like were her caresses of Gertrude, Mary-like her inquiries for Cocksmoor, Mary-like her insisting on bringing her boxes into Margaret’s room, her exulting exhibition of all the pretty things that Flora and George had given to her, and the still more joyous bestowal of presents upon everybody.
Her tastes were not a whit altered, nor her simplicity diminished. If she was pleased by joining a large dinner-party, her satisfaction was in the amusement of seeing well-dressed people, and a grand table; her knowledge of the world only reached to pronouncing everything unlike home, “so funny;” she had relished most freshly and innocently every pleasure that she could understand, she had learned every variety of fancy work to teach Blanche and Miss Bracy, had been the delight of every schoolroom and nursery, had struck up numberless eternal friendships, and correspondences with girls younger and shyer than herself, and her chief vexations seemed to have been first, that Flora insisted on her being called Miss May, secondly, that all her delights could not be shared by every one at home, and thirdly, that poor Flora could not bear to look at little children.