At luncheon the day after we came in, our chief engineer said, in his quiet, stoical manner,—
“My wife is coming to-day by the three train.”
“What!” cried somebody. “And you are not going to meet her at the station, after so long an absence?”
“No, I’m not,” was the answer. “The fact is, I’ve a very great horror of anything approaching what people call a scene. Now if I had gone to meet my wife, the poor thing, overcome by her feelings, would be sure to faint in my arms or something. So I’ve sent my assistant to meet her. She isn’t likely to faint in little Jones’s arms.”
On the same principle, the reader must excuse me if I omit describing the scene of the meeting and reunion at Grayling House. I will not even tell of the tears that were shed, tears of joy and anxiety long pent up, of the hearty handshakes, of the whispered words and half-spoken sentences of welcome, for all this can be better imagined than told.
It was three days, at least, before the old house settled down again to anything like solid order, and conversation became less spasmodic in character.
Old Peter, who, of course, was quite one of the family, was probably the last to settle down, owing perhaps to the fact that he listened with wonder and astonishment to the conversation at table, and to the tales the wanderers had to tell, about the wonders they had seen, and the adventures they had come through. More than once, indeed, he had let fall a plate, and he had actually filled up Effie’s cup on the second morning from the water-bottle instead of the teapot. That same day, when he found Leonard and Douglas in the garden by themselves, he treated them to the following morsel of edification.
“Oh, laddies!” he said, “it’s a wondrous warld we live in, whether we dwall upo’ the dry lan’ or gang doon to the sea in ships. But few, unco few, hae come through what ye’ve come through. And what brocht ye back, think ye? What else but prayer, prayer, prayer? Your father prayed, and your lady mither prayed, and Miss Effie prayed, and poor auld Peter prayed, and—and thare ye are. And yonder is Grayling Ha’, and all aroond us is the bonnie estate o’ Glen Lyle, its hills and dells, and moors and fields, and woods and waters, a’ oor ain again. And the muckle pike ploupin’ aboot (ploupin’, Scottice—plunging) as if naething had ever ailed him. Verily, verily, we’ve a lot to be thankfu’ for!”
“Well, bless you, Peter, dear old friend, for your prayers, and long may you live to pray. But tell me, Peter, for I forgot to ask mother, what has become of Zella the gipsy girl?”
“Oh! hae they no tauld you? It’s a year ago come Whitsunday since they cam’ for her.”