Milly Darrell and Other Tales | Page 8

happy companionship, the perfect
confidence that had existed between them.
Julian Stormont sat talking to her--and a little, a very little, to me--for
about half an hour longer, and then departed. He was to sleep at
Fendale, and go back to North Shields next morning. He was his uncle's
right hand in the business, Milly told me; and from the little I had seen

of him I could fancy him a power in any sphere.
'Papa has a very high opinion of him,' she said, when we were talking
of him after he had left us.
'And you like him very much, I suppose?'
'O yes, I like him very well. I have known him all my life. We are
almost like brother and sister; only Julian is one of those thoughtful
reserved persons one does not get on with very fast.'
CHAPTER III.
AT THORNLEIGH.
The midsummer holidays began at last, and Mr. Darrell came in person
to fetch his daughter, much to her delight. She was not to return to
school any more unless she liked, he told her. Her new mamma was
most anxious to receive her, and she could have masters at Thornleigh
to complete her education, if it were not already finished.
Her eyes were full of tears when she came to tell me this, and carry me
off to the drawing-room to introduce me to her father, an introduction
she insisted upon making in spite of my entreaties,--for I was rather shy
at this period of my life, and dreaded an encounter with a stranger.
Mr. Darrell received me most graciously. He was a tall fine-looking
man, very like the photograph in Milly's bedroom, and I detected the
hard look about the mouth which I had noticed in both portraits. He
seemed remarkably fond of his daughter; and I have never seen a
prettier picture than she made as she stood beside him, clinging to his
arm, and looking lovingly up at him with her dark hazel eyes.
He asked me where I was to spend my holidays; and on hearing that I
was to stay at Albury Lodge, asked whether I would like to come to
Thornleigh with Milly for the midsummer vacation. My darling
clapped her hands gaily as he made this offer, and cried:

'O yes, Mary, you will come, won't you?--You dear kind papa, that is
just like you, always able to guess what one wishes. There is nothing in
the world I should like better than to have Mary at Thornleigh.'
'Then you have only to pack a box with all possible expedition, and to
come away with us, Miss Crofton,' said Mr. Darrell; 'the train starts in
an hour and a half. I can only give you an hour.'
I thanked him as well as I could--awkwardly enough, I daresay--for his
kindness, and ran away to ask Miss Bagshot's consent to the visit. This
she gave readily, in spite of some objections suggested by Miss Susan,
and I had nothing more to do than to pack my few dresses--my two
coloured muslins, a white dress for festive occasions, a black- silk dress
which was preëminently my 'best,' and some print morning-
dresses--wondering as I packed them how these things would pass
current among the grandeurs of Thornleigh. All this was finished well
within the hour, and I put my bonnet and shawl, and ran down-- flushed
with hurry and excitement, and very happy--to join my friends in the
drawing-room.
Miss Bagshot was there, talking of her attachment to her sweet young
friend, and her regret at losing her. Mr. Darrell cut these lamentations
short when he found I was ready, and we drove off to the station in the
fly that had brought him to Albury Lodge.
I looked at the little station to-day with a very different feeling from
that dull despondency which had possessed me six months before,
when I arrived there in the bleak January weather. The thought of five
weeks' respite from the monotonous routine of Albury Lodge was
almost perfect happiness. I did not forget those I loved at home, or
cease to regret the poverty that prevented my going home for the
holidays; but since this was impossible, nothing could have been
pleasanter than the idea of the visit I was going to pay.
Throughout the journey Mr. Darrell was all that was gracious and kind.
He talked a good deal of his wife; dwelling much upon her
accomplishments and amiability, and assuring his daughter again and
again that she could not fail to love her.

'I was a little bit of a coward in the business, I confess, Milly,' he said,
in the midst of this talk, 'and hadn't courage to tell you anything till the
deed was done; and then I thought it