There was no time for more, but the sound counsel,
the sympathy, and playfulness had done Albinia wonderful
good, and she was almost glad there had been no more
privacy, or her friends might have guessed that she
had not quite found a counsellor at home.
The Christmas holidays did indeed put an end to the
walks to meet Gilbert, but only so as to make Albinia
feel responsible for him all day long, and uneasy
whenever he was not accounted for. She played
chess with him, found books, and racked her brains
to seek amusements for him; but knowing all the time
that it was hopeless to expect a boy of fourteen to
be satisfied with them. One or two boys of his
age had come home for the holidays, and she tried to
be relieved by being told that he was going out with
Dick Wolfe or Harry Osborn, but it was not quite satisfactory,
and she began to look fagged and unwell, and had lost
so much of her playfulness, that even Mr. Kendal was
alarmed.
Sophia’s birthday fell in the last week before
Christmas, and it had always been the family custom
to drink tea with Mrs. Meadows. Albinia made
the engagement with a sense of virtuous resignation,
though not feeling well enough for the infliction,
but Mr. Kendal put a stop to all notion of her going.
She expected to enjoy her quiet solitary evening,
but the result was beyond her hopes, for as she was
wishing Gilbert good-bye, she heard the click of the
study lock, and in came Mr. Kendal.
‘I thought you were gone,’ she said.
‘No. I did not like to leave you alone
for a whole evening.’
If it were only an excuse to himself for avoiding
the Meadows’ party, it was too prettily done
for the notion to occur to his wife, and never had
she spent a happier evening. He was so unusually
tender and unreserved, so desirous to make her comfortable,
and, what was far more to her, growing into so much
confidence, that it was even better than what she
used last year to picture to herself as her future
life with him. It even came to what he had probably
never done for any one. She spoke of a beautiful
old Latin hymn, which she had once read with her brother,
and had never seen adequately translated, and he fetched
a manuscript book, where, written out with unrivalled
neatness, stood a translation of his own, made many
years ago, full of scholarly polish. She ventured
to ask leave to copy it. ‘I will copy it
for you,’ he said, ’but it must be for
yourself alone.’
She was grateful for the concession, and happy in
the promise. She begged to turn the page, and
it was granted. There were other translations,
chiefly from curious oriental sources, and there were
about twenty original poems, elaborated in the same
exquisite manner, and with a deep melancholy strain
of thought, and power of beautiful description, that
she thought finer and more touching than almost anything
she had read.
