Mrs. Malling talked far more rapidly than she walked, or rather trotted, under the force of her daughter’s bustling excitement. Hervey went out into the hall to meet her. Standing framed in the doorway he saw his dog.
“Get out, you brute,” he shouted, and stepping quickly up to the animal he launched a cruel kick at it which caught it squarely on the chest. The beast turned solemnly away without a sound, and Hervey closed the door.
The mother was the first to meet him. Her stout arms were outstretched, while her face beamed with pride, and her eyes were filled with tears of joy.
“My dear, dear boy,” she exclaimed, smiling happily. Hervey made no reciprocal movement. He merely bent his head down to her level and allowed her to kiss his cheek. She hugged him forcefully to her ample bosom, an embrace from which he quickly released himself. Her words then poured forth in a swift, incoherent flow. “And to think I believed that I should never see you again. And how you have grown and filled out. Just like your father. And where have you been all this time, and have you kept well? Look at the tan on his face, Prudence, and the beard too. Why, I should hardly have known you, boy, if I hadn’t ’a known who it was. Why, you must be inches taller than your father for sure––and he was a tall man. But you must tell me all about yourself when the folks are all gone to-night. We are having a party, you know. And isn’t it nice?––you will be here for Prudence’s wedding–––”
“Don’t you think we’d better go into the parlour instead of standing out here?” the girl interrupted practically. Her mother’s rambling remarks had shown no sign of cessation, and the tea was waiting. “Hervey must be tired and hungry.”
“Well, I must confess I am utterly worn out,” the man replied with a laugh. “Yes, mother, if tea is ready let’s come along. We can talk during the meal.”
They passed into the parlour. As they seated themselves at the table, Sarah Gurridge joined them 71 from her place beside the stove. Hervey had not noticed her presence when he first entered the room, and the good school-ma’am, quietly day-dreaming, had barely awakened to the fact of his coming. Now she, too, joined in the enthusiasm of the moment.
“Ah, Hervey,” she said, with that complacent air of proprietorship which our early preceptors invariably assume, “you haven’t forgotten me, I know.
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‘Though the tempest of life will oft shut out the past, The thoughts of our school-days remain to the last.’” |