“I can’t afford to give you carte blanche, with all the expenses of the new house before us,” he explained, “but one or two pretty frocks apiece you must and shall have, while we are on the spot; so go ahead and make yourself smart, and I’ll brace my nerves to face the bill.”
There was no fear that Miss Peggy would not go ahead in such an occupation. The only difficulty was that she went ahead too fast; but by dint of forbearance, mingled with judicious firmness, the choice was made at last, and in due time the dresses came home, the bills were paid, and Colonel Saville, blessing Providence that he had not six women to dress instead of two, hurried on the day of departure from a city of such ruinous fascinations.
On one happy spring morning, then, behold the Saville trio once more nearing the white cliffs of Old England—blessed travellers, whose exile was over, and who could look forward to spending the rest of their lives in that dear old country which, despite its rain and fog, must ever be the dearest in the world to true-born Britons.
They stood together, amidst the bustle of arrival, looking with sparkling eyes at the well-remembered scene, for there was no necessity to hurry for the train, and Colonel Saville, with all a soldier’s intolerance of a scramble, decided to wait on board until the general exodus was over. “Then we will get a porter to take our boxes quietly ashore,” he explained to his companions; and, as if his words had been overheard, at that very moment a candidate for that post came up from behind.
“Carry your boxes, sir? Can I carry your boxes?” cried a breezy voice, at the sound of which Peggy gasped, Mrs Saville laid her hand over her heart, and the colonel wheeled round to confront Arthur himself, taller, broader, handsomer than ever.
“My boy!” he cried brokenly.
“Arthur!” gasped his mother, and lay sobbing on the dear, strong shoulder, while Peggy stroked the tails of his coat, and assiduously licked away the tears which would insist upon flowing down her cheeks. Why cry, when she was so happy? The thing was absurd! Why do anything but laugh, and dance, and sing with mirth, when at long, long last they were all four together, and Arthur stood before her in solid flesh and blood?
“How tall you are! Taller than your father, my dear big son!”
“How good it is to see you again, my boy! We have wearied for this day.”
“Oh, Arthur, what a big moustache! What a dear you look! We never, never expected to see you before we got to London.”