CHAPTER XXIII.
SUNSHINE.
It was a balmy day at the end of April, and in the great conservatory at Monckton Manor a little group of people had established themselves amongst the tall ferns and flowers, and girlish voices and laughter mingled with the plash of the fountain in the centre of the warm fragrant place.
Upon a cane lounge lay Oscar, white and thin, and frail of aspect, yet with something of the vigour and animation of returning health, which was very visible to those who had watched tremblingly beside him during the weeks of his tedious illness.
Sheila and May Lawrence sat near him, chatting with the ease and familiarity of an intimate friendship. It had long been May’s most cherished plan that so soon as Oscar should be strong enough for the move, he should be transported to Monckton Manor; and her mother had fallen in with the idea so soon as she had been assured on medical testimony that there was no fear of his bringing infection into the house.
So a fortnight ago the move had been made, and out in the pure fresh air of the country, away from the noise and bustle of the streets and a busy household, Oscar had made a fresh start, and had surprised everybody by the rapidity with which he gained ground.
For a week past he had almost lived in the conservatory, which, with its evenly regulated atmosphere, its sweet flower scents and the sensation of airiness and freshness, was almost like a new world to the invalid. He felt as though he were living out of doors “in Madeira,” as he would smilingly say; and then he and May would get Sheila to tell of beautiful Madeira, its rainbows, its flowers, its sunshine and long cloudless days; and Oscar would lie listening and dreaming, till he felt as though he were living the life there himself.
And Sheila, talking with absolute freedom to the brother with whom she had always shared her thoughts, and from whom she had never kept a secret, and to the girl-friend whom she now felt as though she had always known, soon talked away every bit of bitterness or vexation, and would enjoy a hearty laugh with her companions over the little weaknesses of her aunt, and think instead of her devotion to her daughter, which had led her into some comical errors. Since Sheila had learned to forget herself, to lose the sense of her own little wrongs, to feel everything merged in the great ocean of the unchangeable love which had wrapped her round in the hour of her keenest need, and had given her back her brother from the very gates of the grave, it had been so easy to forgive and forget. All the bitterness had been washed away. She was ashamed to think how angry she once had been. Everything else had looked so small, so insignificant, when seen in the light of the solemn realities of life. And although now the graver mood had passed, and with a rebound of nature, Sheila was her own bright laughing self again, yet there was a new sweetness in her smile, and new softness in her manner, and Oscar would lie and look at her in a great content, wondering what the change was and whence it had come.
“Here is North!” cried Sheila, suddenly springing up to get a better view through the palm leaves, whilst a bright flush suddenly rose in May’s cheeks, and the light leaped into her eyes. “I suppose he has come to see Oscar; really he is wonderfully attentive just now. He comes very often.”
May’s eyes were dancing, as she looked eagerly towards the advancing figure; and though his errand was ostensibly to ask for the invalid, it was to her face that his eyes first leapt as he made his way towards them.