CHAPTER X

TOM'S SPECIMENS

"The languages, especially the dead, The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, The arts, at least all such as could be said To be the most remote from common use."

"VERY pretty," said Ethel, gaping furtively behind one hand, as she gazed upon the open page of Tom Elvey's beloved companion, a neat herbarium of dried flowers and leaves. The cover of the volume was dark brown, the pages were light brown, and most of the gummed-down specimens were of a more or less dirty brown. Tom handled his treasure affectionately, and Ethel viewed each new page with outward politeness and inward wonder. That anybody should care for dead brown leaves, when living green ones were to be had, was a mystery to her.

"Yes, very pretty," she repeated, smothering a second yawn, as Tom waited for appreciation. What would Nigel be doing just then? Ah, coming homeward, of course, for the afternoon was growing old.

"At least, I mean that it must have been pretty once," continued truthful Ethel. "What is that on the next page? Edelweiss—is it really? I like the edelweiss. Yes, that does bear drying. How nice!"

"It is a first-rate specimen," said Tom.

"Did you gather it yourself?"

"On the Matterhorn—no, I mean on the Jungfrau. I never put any specimen into this herbarium which I have not procured with my own hands."

"I see—so it becomes a sort of record of your wanderings," said Ethel. "And you really are a mountain-climber?"

"Not to any perilous extent. I went for this specimen."

"And turned back as soon as you had got it!"

Tom's "yes" was innocent. He did not understand Ethel's tone.

"Of course I could have bought a specimen; but that would not have been the same thing."

"Like bagging partridges," suggested Ethel, wanting a flash of some sort to relieve the dead level of talk.

But though Tom could sometimes originate slow fun, he never could respond to anybody else's fun; and his look of blank inquiry made it needful for her to explain.

"I mean, you would only count the partridges which you had shot yourself; not what—But perhaps you don't shoot."

"I have been after kangaroos—once," said Tom.

Ethel gave a private glance towards the clock, taking care that Tom should not see. She was bent upon making this a pleasant visit to him, not letting him see how very much she would have preferred to be somewhere else. Some girls would have been glum and flat under the circumstances; but Ethel was not. She exerted herself to be bright, made Tom tell her all about the one kangaroo hunt which had been a leading event in his existence, and when he came back to the inevitable herbarium she submitted without a sigh to be lectured upon "the Australian flora."

Tom was quite a botanist in a small way; and he dearly liked to air his knowledge before a good listener. Ethel loved flowers intensely, yet she was no botanist. She made friends of her plants, studied their ways, and was delighted to know how they grow, how they bore flowers, what manner of soil suited them, whether they preferred heat or cold, sunshine or shade. But she detested classifications and Latin names, and would have nought to do with what Lance irreverently termed "Tom's genuses and specieses." She cared not one rap whether a blossom had stamens which adhered to the corolla or sprang from the calyx; whether the anthers opened inwards or outwards; whether the petals were in multiples of twos or of threes.

The Elveys were not as a family scientifically inclined, and Ethel's tastes had never been cultivated in that direction. Tom, on the other hand, delighted in rolling off his tongue this or that lengthy Linnean "—andria," or Natural History "—aceæ"; and Ethel submitted with the utmost sweetness.

Tom was charmed. He thought Ethel one of the most agreeable girls he had ever seen. She was immensely improved, he thought—"really quite intelligent, and capable of growing into a well-informed young woman, with proper supervision." Who so fitted to give the needed supervision as Tom himself? He began to think that a long visit at the Rectory would be no bad plan. Something had been said about it. Yes, he would accept the invitation; and then he could take Ethel's higher education in hand. Mr. Elvey was a very able man, no doubt, a man indeed of considerable attainments, but "classical—merely classical": Tom decided pityingly. Ethel would never gain any scientific bias from her father.

So it was full time that Tom should step forward and bestir himself, with perhaps a view to future possibilities. Who could tell what might come of it? Tom was young still, under thirty, and not bad-looking, though of awkward make. He would be a well-to-do man out in Australia one of these days. Even now he could afford to enjoy life, and to indulge himself in an occasional bout of sight-seeing—more correctly, of specimen-hunting.

In due time he would require a wife to look after him, to sew on his buttons, to pour out his tea, to attend generally to his needs. Tom had come to England with the vague idea of finding a wife before he went back. He began to wonder whether Ethel might not do. Those dainty little fingers of hers would be invaluable for arranging dried flowers upon the pages of his herbariums. Tom's own fingers being thick, and by no means dainty in action, there was the more need that he should choose a wife to supply his own deficiencies.

Thus a new thought grow into existence, as the afternoon waned—a short afternoon to Tom, though a long one to Ethel. But Tom's mental processes were always slow; and he gave no sign of what was brewing.

Mrs. Elvey made her appearance downstairs for a space, and Tom regaled her with sumptuous descriptions of the eucalyptus. Mrs. Elvey sighed, and said "How nice!" to everything.

By-and-by she vanished, and again Ethel found it difficult to hide her recurring yawns. Mr. Elvey had a succession of engagements all day, therefore he could not give help; and the boys always fled from Tom, in dread of Tom's perpetual outpour of "information."

So Ethel had nothing in the way of assistance from others, and talk began to flag irresistibly. They had gone through the herbarium from end to end. They had done any amount of Australian kangaroos and plants. Ethel had shown Tom everything in the house worth seeing. She had taken him round the garden for a stroll, and had proposed "a good ramble," which Tom to her disappointment had declined. His bodily action was like his mental action, somewhat slow; and though he could walk any amount with an object—in search of a "specimen," for instance—he scorned exercise for the sake of exercise. Ethel loved it, and she thought it would be so much easier to get on out-of-doors than indoors; if only Tom would have consented. Would the afternoon never end? Was Malcolm ever coming back?

A step at last! Ethel sprang up, with a word of excuse, and flew to the front door.

No, not Malcolm, but her father! Mr. Elvey looked, down with a stirred expression, and said, "Well—" a long breath following. "Have you heard?"

"No, what? O father—not an accident!"

"Nothing serious, though it might have been. Why, Ethel—child—I did not mean to frighten you. They are all right—safe at home—and Malcolm will be here presently. Fulvia's dress caught fire, and she would have been badly burnt but for Nigel. He was splendidly prompt—caught Fulvia in his arms, and went straight over into the river. Mr. Carden-Cox says it was the finest thing he ever saw. Capital fellow, isn't he?"

The light of pride shone through Ethel's eyes, even while they were brimming with tears. "Not hurt?" she managed to say.

"Fulvia hardly at all, only shaken and scorched. Nigel's right hand has suffered a good deal. Duncan says he will have to wear a sling for some days. Nobody knew a word about it for ever so long: he didn't want to distress Fulvia. I'm not sure that he did not show greater pluck there than in saving her. Difference of doing a thing when one is under excitement, and when one is cool, you know. We shall have to make much of him after this. Why, child!—"

Ethel's face dropped against the shoulder of his greatcoat.

"Father—if he had been—"

"Had been badly hurt? But he was not, nor she either—thank God! Come, cheer up."

He patted her arm, and Ethel clung to him more closely. Somebody was passing through the garden, and Mr. Elvey smiled but said nothing till the somebody came close; then only, "It is about you. Never mind. She'll be herself in a minute."

"I thought I would call, for fear of any exaggerated story getting round," said Nigel, his voice brighter than usual, as he stood with his arm in a sling, looking at Ethel. She lifted a pair of wet cheeks.

"I'm going in to see Tom. You can reassure her yourself," cheerily observed Mr. Elvey, who, being the most innocent of men, never suspected anybody of growing up or wishing to marry. Ethel and Nigel were "the children" to him still. But as he turned away, his grasp fell upon the young man's shoulder, and "God bless you!" went with it.

"I'm not the worse, really. It is nothing—not worth your caring about," Nigel said to Ethel, though the fact of her so caring was worth a great deal to him. "Come here for a minute—won't you?" and he opened the dining-room door. "It was a shock, I dare say, to hear about Fulvia. Things might have been serious if we had not had the river so near; but I don't think she will suffer, after a good night's rest."

"Yes—Fulvia. Oh yes," murmured Ethel, trying to recover herself. "Yes—but it must have been danger—"

"Would have been, without the river—for Fulvia, I mean. Not for me. In the water—no. I am a good swimmer. Even if she had pulled me under, there were plenty at hand to help. Malcolm was wild for a bath."

"I wish I had been there."

"It's a good thing you were not. That was the first moment I could be glad we had left you at home. I shouldn't have liked you to be looking on. You might not have been so discreet as Anice and her friend."

"Why, what did they do?"

"The better part of valour! Most wise, others being at hand to help. I'm not sure that you would have been sensible enough to run away."

"Nobody can tell till the moment comes; I think I should have seen that you were hurt."

"Yes—you always see everything. But one didn't want Fulvia to be more upset than she was. How have you got on at home—with—?"

"Oh, very well. We've done lots of botany." Ethel's face lighted up with fun, and Nigel thought it was with a recollection of enjoyment. He suddenly remembered Tom Elvey, and Fulvia's words about Tom.

Then, before the two could arrive at an understanding, Lance dashed in, shouting a string of inquiries about the day's adventure; and the little tête-à-tête was over.