When she heard the cab-wheels crunching the gravel, Beatrice Forsyth ran out without a hat, and Harry seeing her, opened the door and “quitted the vehicle while yet in motion,” as the railway notices have it, whereby he nearly came a cropper, but recovered his balance, and was immediately fitted with a live necklace. Beatrice was a slight, fair, blue-eyed, curly-haired girl of fifteen; so light and springy that her brother carried her, without an effort, to the hall steps, where, being set down, she sprang into the cab and began collecting the smaller packages, rug, umbrella, and other articles, inside it, while Harry hugged his mother in the hall.
“Your father will be home by four,” said Mrs Forsyth, when the first greetings and inquiries as to health were over.
“And Haroun Alraschid has taken possession of his study,” added Trix, with a sort of awe.
“Haroun, how much?” asked Harry.
“Don’t be absurd, Trix!” said Mrs Forsyth. “It is only your uncle, Ralph Burke.”
“Burke, that was your name, mother; this uncle was your brother then?”
“Of course, Harry. Have you never heard me speak of your uncle Ralph?”
“Now you mention it, yes, mother. But I had a sort of idea that he was dead.”
“So we thought him for some time,” said Mrs Forsyth, “for he left the Indian Civil Service, in which he had a good appointment, and disappeared for years. He met with disappointments, and had a sunstroke, and went to live with wild men in the desert, and, I believe, has taken up with some strange religious notions. In fact, I fear that he is not quite right in his head. But he talks sensibly about things too, and seems to wish to be kind. We were very fond of one another when we were children, and he seems to remember it in spite of all he has gone through.”
“I am frightened to death at him,” said Trix. “I know he has a large cupboard at home with the heads of all the wives he has decapitated hanging up in a row by the back hair!”