“You take my word for it, he’ll not be with us long,” he said. “He’s not in his place, and he’ll never take to it. He blushed up scarlet every time I called him, even though it was only old mother Green wanting grey flannel for a best jacket, or Miss Snippers’ apprentice for some hooks and needles. If it had been any of the quality, I believe he’d have turned tail altogether. You’ll see his friends’ll be fetching him away. But if he likes to stay for a bit, he’s welcome. I like a lad with a spirit of his own.”
“And there’s no doubt he has a very genteel appearance,” observed Eliza complacently.
Chapter Twelve.
Ending Well.
“Wondrous it is to see in diverse mindes
How diversely Love doth his pageant play,
And shows his power in variable kindes.”
Spenser.
The days went on. It was nearly a fortnight past the New Year, and nothing of moment had happened. Arthur’s letter, written on Christmas Day, had been duly received, but it, any more than its predecessors, gave no clue to his present quarters. But to his sisters—to Nina especially—there was a softer tone in it; it was less bitter and yet less morbid. He wrote of his intense wish to see them, of his hope that he had acted rightly, of his earnest trust that some day they would, Lettice above all, learn to think of him as no longer one to be ashamed of, as a poor miserable failure. In all this there was comfort to Nina, but not to Lettice.
“I am sure, I can see he is getting into a healthier state of mind,” said the younger sister eagerly. “If we could but write to him and tell him all we feel, I am sure he would come back, and we should all be happy again.”
But Lettice shook her head.