"Then it was entirely out of devotion to your father?"
"Entirely," said Flora. "No one could look at her without seeing that she liked him. I had left her to be the only effective one at home, and she sacrificed herself."
"I am glad that I have seen her," said Mrs. Arnott. "I should never have understood her by description. I always said that I must come home to set my correspondence going rightly."
"Aunt Flora," said her niece, "do you remember my dear mother's unfinished letter to you?"
"To be sure I do, my dear."
"Nothing ever was more true," said Flora. "I read it over some little time ago, when I set my papers in order, and understood it then. I never did before. I used to think it very good for the others."
"It is what one generally does with good advice."
"Do you recollect the comparison between Norman, Ethel, and me? It is so curious. Norman, who was ambitious and loved praise, but now dreads nothing so much; Ethel, who never cared for anything of the kind, but went straight on her own brave way; and oh! Aunt Flora--me- -"
"Indeed, my dear, I should have thought you had her most full approbation."
"Ah! don't you see the tone, as if she were not fully satisfied, as if she only could not see surface faults in me," said Flora; "and how she said she dreaded my love of praise, and of being liked. I wonder how it would have been if she had lived. I have looked back so often in the past year, and I think the hollowness began from that time. It might have been there before, but I am not so sure. You see, at that dreadful time, after the accident, I was the eldest who was able to be efficient, and much more useful than poor Ethel. I think the credit I gained made me think myself perfection, and I never did anything afterwards but seek my own honour."
Mrs. Arnott began better to understand Flora's continued depression, but she thought her self-reproach exaggerated, and said something at once soothing and calculated to encourage her to undraw the curtain of reserve.
"You do not know," continued Flora, "how greedy I was of credit and affection. It made me jealous of Ethel herself, as long as we were in the same sphere; and when I felt that she was more to papa than I could be, I looked beyond home for praise. I don't think the things I did were bad in themselves--brought up as I have been, they could hardly be so. I knew what merits praise and blame too well for that- -but oh! the motive. I do believe I cared very much for Cocksmoor. I thought it would be a grand thing to bring about; but, you see, as it has turned out, all I thought I had done for it was in vain; and Ethel has been the real person and does not know it. I used to think Ethel so inferior to me. I left her all my work at home. If it had not been for that, she might have been happy with Norman Ogilvie--for never were two people better matched, and now she has done what I never thought to have left to another--watched over our own Margaret. Oh! how shall I ever bear to see her?"
"My dear, I am sure nothing can be more affectionate than Ethel. She does not think these things."
"She does," said Flora. "She always knew me better than I did myself. Her straightforward words should often have been rebukes to me. I shall see in every look and tone the opinion I have deserved. I have shrunk from her steadfast looks ever since I myself learned what I was. I could not bear them now--and yet--oh, aunt, you must bring her! Ethel! my dear, dear old King--my darling's godmother-- the last who was with Margaret!"
She had fallen into one of those fits of weeping when it was impossible to attempt anything but soothing her; but, though she was so much exhausted that Mrs. Arnott expected to be in great disgrace with Dr. May for having let her talk herself into this condition, she found that he was satisfied to find that she had so far relieved her mind, and declared that she would be better now.
The effect of the conversation was, that the next day, the last of the twelve Christmas days, when Ethel, whose yearning after her sister was almost equally divided between dread and eagerness-- eagerness for her embrace, and dread of the chill of her reserve, came once again in hopes of an interview. Dr. May called her at once. "I shall take you in without any preparation," he said, "that she may not have time to be flurried. Only, be quiet and natural."
Did he know what a mountain there was in her throat when he seemed to think it so easy to be natural?
She found him leading her into a darkened room, and heard his cheerful tones saying, "I have brought Ethel to you!"
"Ethel! oh!" said a low, weak voice, with a sound as of expecting a treat, and Ethel was within a curtain, where she began, in the dimness, to see something white moving, and her hands were clasped by two long thin ones. "There!" said Dr. May, "now, if you will be good, I will leave you alone. Nurse is by to look after you, and you know she always separates naughty children."
Either the recurrence to nursery language, or the mere sisterly touch after long separation, seemed to annihilate all the imaginary mutual dread, and, as Ethel bent lower and lower, and Flora's arms were round her, the only feeling was of being together again, and both at once made the childish gesture of affection, and murmured the old pet names of "Flossy," and "King," that belonged to almost forgotten days, when they were baby sisters, then kissed each other again.
"I can't see you," said Ethel, drawing herself up a little. "Why, Flora, you look like a little white shadow!"
"I have had such weak eyes," said Flora, "and this dim light is comfortable. I see your old sharp face quite plain."
"But what can you do here?"
"Do? Oh, dear Ethel, I have not had much of doing. Papa says I have three years' rest to make up."
"Poor Flora!" said Ethel; "but I should have thought it tiresome, especially for you."
"I have only now been able to think again," said Flora; "and you will say I am taking to quoting poetry. Do you remember some lines in that drama that Norman admired so much?"
"Philip von Artevelde?"
"Yes. I can't recollect them now, though they used to be always running in my head--something about time to mend and time to mourn."
"These?" said Ethel--
"He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that."
"I never had time before for either," said Flora. "You cannot think how I used to be haunted by those, when I was chased from one thing to another, all these long, long eighteen months. I am in no haste to take up work again."
"Mending as well as mourning," said Ethel thoughtfully.
Flora sighed.
"And now you have that dear little Christmas gift to--" Ethel paused.
"She is not nearly so fine and healthy as her sister was," said Flora, "poor little dear. You know, Ethel, even now, I shall have very little time with her in that London life. Her papa wants me so much, and I must leave her to--to the nurses." Flora's voice trembled again.
"Our own dear old nurse," said Ethel.
"Oh! I wanted to thank you all for sparing her to us," said Flora. "George wished it so much. But how does poor little Daisy bear it?"
"Very magnanimously," said Ethel, smiling. "In fact, nurse has had but little to do with Daisy of late, and would have been very forlorn at home. It is better for Aubrey and for her, not to return to be babies to comfort poor nurse. I have been breaking up the nursery, and taking Gertrude to live with me."
"Have you gone back there again?"
"It would not have been better for waiting," said Ethel; "and Gertrude was so proud to come to me. I could not have done it without her, but papa must not have vacancy next to him."
"It has been hard on you for me to engross him," said Flora; "but oh, Ethel, I could not spare him. I don't think even you can tell what papa is."
"You have found it out," said Ethel, in an odd, dry manner; which in sound, though not in feeling, was a contrast to the soft, whispering, tearful murmurs of her sister.
"And my aunt!" continued Flora-- "that I should have taken up such a great piece of her short visit!"