“But her ideas—”
“As for her ideas, time enough to talk about them if ever she consents to be my wife. I should not interfere with them.”
Mrs Hilton stood up, let all her knitting fall in a tangle on the floor, and laid a trembling hand on her son’s arm.
“Harry!”
“Yes, mother.”
“You mustn’t be angry. You know that your happiness is our first, our very first thought.”
“I know,” he said briefly. But he put his hand on hers.
“You have been such a son to us—my dear,”—she broke down a little—“may God bless you, and give you a good wife!”
Is not any man the better for such a benediction? Whether the desire of his heart be granted or not, I think the strength of a mother’s unselfish love carries it straight to the throne of God, and brings back a blessing, rich and plentiful.
Harry had learnt wisdom, and did not rush off impetuously to Elmslie, as he felt inclined. He stayed away, indeed, so long that Philippa began to grumble, and Claudia to feel guiltily that she was depriving her cousins of their favourite visitor. She had made an unsuccessful effort to get work through the principal of the college, but either her late experiences had shaken their faith in her; or the authorities preferred giving orders to those who needed them more; or Claudia’s first brilliant successes had been due to circumstances not so absolutely dependent upon her merits as she flattered herself. At any rate no orders came, and with winter at hand it did not seem likely that they would arrive. It was annoying, but one thing was evident to them all—Claudia’s heart was not broken. The want of interest, the evident strain of her first return, were, little by little but no less surely, wearing off. It could hardly have been otherwise, since, after all, she had been more dominated than attracted by Fenwick’s strong personality, and once having snapped its bonds, her own character reasserted itself. There was, it is true, a danger lest the reaction of this self-assertion should be too complete, and leave her hardened. Perhaps it was the nature of her surroundings which saved her from the peril. For there was a fresh and wholesome vigour about Philippa Cartwright, an honest dutifulness in Emily, a true and delicate sympathy in Anne, which she could not but recognise, now that her eyes had opened to a broader view, and she was brave enough to own to her mistakes. The result was that her heart began to cling to Elmslie, while she was still occupied with plans for the future. At last—