“There, Louisa; it will be a fine day, after all,” exclaimed her delighted brother.
“No, indeed,” continued the gardener; “on returning just now to the flower, which never deceives us, I found it had closed itself, so that rain is inevitable.”
Nor was this opinion erroneous; for before the brother and sister could reach the lodge, the heavy clouds began to discharge their watery burthen, and the rain continued in one incessant shower for more than two hours; it then gradually abated, and the children, who had been anxiously watching it at the library window, were suddenly relieved from their anxiety by the appearance of the vicar, whom they espied slowly winding his way through the dripping shrubbery.
“‘Heu! quianam tanti cinxerunt æthera nimbi?’
as Virgil has it,” exclaimed the vicar, as he approached the portico, where Mr. Seymour and his family had assembled to salute him.
“We are under the influence of St. Swithin, vicar,” said Mrs. Seymour, “and I fear there is but slender hope of its becoming fair.”
“Psha! who cares for St. Swithin?[(34)] My barometer is rising rapidly, and I place more confidence in that classical deity, Mercury, than in a saint of so very questionable a character.”
At this moment, Phœbus, as if delighted by the compliment thus bestowed upon his heathen brother, cast a sly glance from behind a dark cloud, and illumined the spot upon which the vicar was standing. In short, after the lapse of half an hour, the sun broke through the gloom, and a brisk gale followed; the countenances of the children sympathised with the face of the heavens, and the expression of hope lighted them up, in proportion as the sun illumined the departing clouds with its radiance.
“It is now quite fair, papa,” cried Tom, in a voice of triumph, “and there is a most delightful wind; shall we not proceed at once to the common?”
“Presently,” answered his father: “the ground is yet extremely wet.”