[CHAPTER XLII.]
A HALCYON DAY.
'They had been much together; and one for ever bears
A name upon the loyal heart, and in the daily prayers;
The other but remembers, when the pleasant hours are past,
That something has been sending them so sweetly and so fast.'
S M.
On Whit-Monday forenoon 'Mr. Underwood' was announced in the drawing-room at Stoneborough, and Gertrude May's face, which had at first clouded at the pre-prandial intrusion of any visitor, brightened at the name, but lost a little eagerness when the entering visitor proved himself to be only Lancelot, shaven now all but his moustache, and with an air of entirely recovered health, justifying his declaration that he had no desire to see the Doctor professionally, and had been quite well ever since his return to Bexley at Easter. He was now on his way to keep his holiday at home, but had made a deviation 'to show that I have tried to obey you,' he said, proffering to Gertrude a roll of music, the stiff paper cover beautifully and delicately adorned with a daisy border, with pen-and-ink etchings in the corners illustrating the receipt of telegrams for weal or woe, and the first bars were made to resemble the wires and posts, the notes, the birds perched thereon, the whole being of course William Harewood's poem set to music. So beautiful and elaborate was the finish, that Gertrude was startled and confused; the meaning flashed on her, and the sudden recoil roused the contradictoriness of her nature. The earnest look abashed and frightened her, and with a sort of anger she coldly said, 'Very pretty, very nicely got up.'
'I think it may suit your voice,' said Lance wistfully.
'Thank you' (more nervously, and therefore more coldly), 'we will order some copies.'
Lance, after a moment's pleading gaze, dropped his eyes, coloured, and stammered, 'Not that.'