“When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown,
And all the sport is stale, lad.
And all the wheels run down.”
It was on a soft mild afternoon early in February that Arthur came home—an afternoon with a pearly sky and gleams of pale spring sunshine to light the starry celandines and budding palms. Spring was coming—there were lambs in the meadows, and birds in the hedges, the gaily-painted barges floated down the slow water, children and young ladies tripped along the path—nothing was changed. Redhurst, always a cheerful place, was at its brightest, fresh and spring-like, yet familiar as the golden crocuses in the garden-beds.
Mrs Crichton was glad of the sunshine. Though rarely nervous she longed for the arrival to be over, and sent her young ladies to meet Frederica as she came from school, so that there was no one to receive her nephew but herself, arrayed in mourning, purposely lightened before his return. She heard him ring the bell, perhaps for the first time in his life, and came out to meet him.
“Well, my dear boy, I hardly expected you so soon; come in—I’m glad to see you.”
Arthur kissed her warmly, and followed her into the drawing-room.
“I think the train was punctual,” he said.
“Are you tired—did you stop in London?”
“Oh, yes, and I saw Jem. He says he will run down soon. I crossed yesterday, so I have had nothing of a journey to-day.”
“And—are you quite well, my dear?”
Mrs Crichton did not mean to make much of the meeting; but she put her hand on his arm and looked at him tenderly, hardly able to speak. Arthur smiled a little.