‘Makes the misery he does not find.’”
The captain had no more leisure for his reflections, for, as he threw open the gate of Summer Villa, his approach was seen from the house, and two of its inmates hastened forth to meet a favourite uncle. A graceful maiden ran lightly down the shrubbery path, followed by her younger brother, a handsome lad of some sixteen or seventeen years of age.
“Oh, you are so welcome; we were so glad to get your telegram and know that your long cruise was over!” cried Emmie as she gave to her mother’s brother an affectionate greeting.
“We’ve so much to tell you, captain,” said Vibert Trevor, cordially shaking the hand of the newly-arrived guest. “John is away, so let me carry your carpet-bag into the house.”
This, from Vibert, was rather a remarkable offer of service. The captain accepted it with a smile, for Vibert was little accustomed to act the part of a porter.
“Where is Bruce?” asked Arrows. “As for your father, I suppose that he is at his office in London.”
“No; papa is not at his office,” replied Emmie, slipping her arm into that of her uncle. “But come into the house and have refreshment, and while you take it—”
“We’ll tell you the whole story,” cried Vibert, looking like one who has a grand piece of news to impart.
While the three enter Summer Villa, let us pause and glance at them for a few moments.
Captain Arrows is a naval officer. He has scarcely reached middle age, and looks young to be addressed as “uncle” by the young lady who rests on his arm, or the tall brother at her side. The captain’s face, bronzed by sun and wind, is not one to be easily forgotten, so keen and piercing are the dark eyes which glance from beneath projecting brows. An expression of satire sometimes plays around the thin lips, but of satire tempered and controlled. The impression conveyed by Arrows’ appearance and manner would be, “That is a man of character, a man of decision, a keen observer, who looks as if he were making notes for a book satirizing the follies of mankind.” But there is a kindly frankness about the sailor which tends to counteract the sense of restraint which might otherwise be felt in his society. If he carry the sharp rapier of wit at his side, it is sheathed in the scabbard of good-nature.
Never does Arrows look more kindly or soften his tone to more gentleness than when addressing the motherless daughter of a sister loved and mourned. Emmie is, indeed, one to draw out the affections of those around her. Not only is her face fair, but it has the sweetness of expression which is more winsome than beauty. Her soft dark-brown hair does not, in the shapeless masses prescribed by modern fashion, mar the classical contour of a gracefully formed head. Gentle, tender, and clinging, the maiden’s type might be found in the fragrant white jasmine that embowers the porch of her pleasant home. Emmie’s school companions have loved her; not one of them could remember a harsh or unkind word spoken by the lips of the gentle girl. Her brothers love her; Emmie has shared their interests, and joined them in their amusements, without ever brushing away that feminine softness which, as the down to the peach, is to woman one of the greatest of charms. Bruce would have disliked having “a fast girl” for his sister almost as much as Mr. Trevor would have disapproved of his daughter earning that title. The slang in which some modern ladies (?) indulge would have sounded from the lips of Emmie as startling as the blare of a child’s trumpet toy breaking in on a melody of Beethoven.
Vibert Trevor in appearance resembles his sister; but what is pleasingly feminine in the woman looks somewhat effeminate in the boy. Boy! how could the word escape my pen! Vibert, in his own estimation at least, has left boyhood long ago. His auburn hair, parted carefully down the middle, falls on either side of a face which would be singularly handsome but for the somewhat too great fulness about the mouth. The lad is dressed fashionably and in good taste. If there be a little tinge of foppishness in his appearance, it is as slight as the scent which a superfine cigar has left on his clothes.
“No more refreshment for me, thanks; I have taken some in London,” said the captain in reply to a question from his niece as they entered the house together.
“Then we will go into the drawing-room,” said Emmie. “We expect papa and Bruce by the next train from Wiltshire. Papa wrote that they would reach this an hour before dinner-time.”
A cheerful drawing-room was that which looked out on the lawn of Summer Villa, lighted up as it was by the rich glow of a September sun, then just at its setting. The red light sparkled on the crystal globe in which gold-fish were gliding, and lent vividness to the green of the graceful ferns which ornamented both the windows. Emmie’s piano was open, with a piece of music upon it. Emmie was an enthusiast in music. She had to displace her guitar from the sofa on which she had left it, to make room for her uncle to sit by her side. Emmie’s basket with its fancy work lay on the table, and traces of her late employment in the shape of dropped beads and morsels of bright German wool strewed the soft carpet. Emmie rather felt than saw that her uncle’s eye detected the little untidiness; the naval officer was himself “so dreadfully neat!”
“Now for your news,” said the captain, as he seated himself by his niece, while Vibert threw himself into an arm-chair. Vibert usually chose, as if by instinct, the most luxurious chair in the room.
“What would you say if papa were to throw up office, leave Summer Villa for ever and for aye, and carry us all off to be buried alive?” cried Vibert.
“In Labrador—or equatorial Africa?” inquired the captain.
“Not quite so bad as either of those distant deserts,” laughed Vibert. “Myst Hall is not a hundred miles from London, and Wiltshire is not quite beyond the pale of civilized life.”
“What has happened to make such a migration probable?” inquired Arrows. “You know that during our northern cruise I have had no letters, and that as regards home news, the last three months have been to me an absolute blank.”
“Our story is easily told,” said Emmie. “You will, I dare say, remember that papa had an aunt, Mrs. Myers, who lived in Wiltshire.”
“I recollect the name, but little besides,” replied Arrows.
“None of us knew much of Aunt Myers,” continued his niece. “Except a hamper of home-made preserves which came to us from Myst Court every Christmas, we had little to remind us of a relative who shut herself up from her family and friends for fifty long years.”
“But