“My home is where you are. I shall be perfectly happy, dear, so long as we are together,” said the mother, who had never been known to oppose her own wishes to those of her family; and in this easy fashion the matter was settled. One moment the project was mooted, the next dates and routes were being eagerly discussed, and the question of wardrobe being taken into account. Presently Mr Chester must needs consult the atlas which was in constant reference in every conversation, and away went the three in happy conclave to turn over the leaves on the library table, while Evie was left to look after them with wistful eyes, and Harold to study her face in his turn. She turned to find his eyes fixed upon her, and struggled hard to speak brightly.
“They all seem so happy—it is good to see them; and how pretty Rhoda looks to-night! It is so interesting to see the girls grow up, and come out as full-fledged young ladies. I’ve seen two transformations to-day—Rhoda and Tom!”
“Miss Bolderston? Really! Would you call her a transformation?” queried Harold, raising his eyebrows with an expression which said all that he dare not put into words. “If that is a transformation, one is tempted to wonder what she was like before—”
“Don’t!” Evie looked at him pleadingly. “Don’t make fun of her, please, because we love her so dearly. Men don’t appreciate Tom, and she doesn’t show her best side to them, but she is a splendid girl, and the truest of friends. She was so kind to me to-day.”
“You were talking to her about your work, and worrying because you could not go back at once!” said Harold shrewdly, and Evie looked at him under raised, apologetic eyebrows, quite overcome at being read in so easy a fashion.
“Well—just a little! I said that I could not go back to Hurst, as I should not be able to take part in games again—”
“And she sympathised with you, and agreed that it was a desperate lot?”
“No, indeed! You don’t know Tom! She is far too much of an optimist to see the black side. She only said she was interested to see what would happen next, and that it was like being stopped suddenly in the middle of a story. I thought it was a very cheerful way of looking at it.” She paused, not caring, for some indefinite reason, to say anything of that later proposition, in the carrying out of which she and Tom were to grow old side by side; but the idea lay on her mind, and presently she added dreamily, “But, even if I am lame, my mind is not affected. I can teach just as well as ever. There must be an opening for me somewhere. There are plenty of small schools where they don’t go in for sports, plenty of girls who have to be educated at home—delicate girls, backward girls, girls who are, perhaps, like myself! I could teach them still if they would let me try—”
It was a very sweet little voice, and the quiver with which it broke off sounded strangely pathetic in the silence. Harold did not speak, and his head was bent forward so that Evie could not see his face. His hands were clasped and pressed so tightly together that the muscles stood out under the skin, but presently one of them was stretched forward and laid pleadingly over her own.
“Dearest and sweetest,” said Harold softly; “teach me instead!”