If he did not see Magdalen or Otho, he did see very distinctly upon Eleanor’s face an expression of gravity and even anxiety, impossible to be mistaken; a very different expression from the one of hope and strength and light-heartedness which she had worn when he had first seen her. Gilbert’s countenance wore an expression of composure and even contentment.
Michael sat still, and the crowded, lighted room, and loud voices of the singers seemed to disappear. He was alone with his brother. In all the years that had passed since his breaking with Gilbert, in all the occasions on which Gilbert had been in Bradstane since then, they had never met thus closely, and, as it were, side by side. A deep oppression came over Michael’s heart. What was this thing that he felt? He scarcely seemed to himself the same man he had been, even five minutes ago. Gilbert and Eleanor, sitting side by side, and, as it were, alone; that was all of which he was really conscious.
‘Where have you been for such a long time, Dr. Langstroth?’ whispered Effie, as she nestled up to his side with the confidence of childhood—that confidence which is seldom at fault.
‘I have been very busy, Effie, and I have neglected you. I am going to amend my conduct very soon.’
‘But you never forget us, do you?’ said Effie.
‘No, I never forget you, my child; I will come and see you soon.’
Contented, she was silent, and observed the scene with her bright, keen childish eyes looking from her little thin face.
Michael was uneasy and unhappy. At last, unable to endure his suspense any longer, he leaned over to Mrs. Johnson, and asked, in a cautious undertone—
‘Have not Otho Askam and Miss Wynter come?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, in the same tone, and with a significant look. ‘They have both gone into the room where the performers wait. Some people think he is going to volunteer a song.’