Verily! an ambitious literary programme for a girl over whose head scarcely eighteen years had hung their dripping drab wintry skies, and pearly summer clouds.
One March morning, as Edna entered the breakfast-room, she saw unusual gravity printed on Mrs. Murray's face; and observing an open letter on the table conjectured the cause of her changed countenance. A moment after the master came in, and as he seated himself his mother said: "St. Elmo, your cousin Estelle's letter contains bad news. Her father is dead; the estate is wretchedly insolvent; and she is coming to reside with us."
"Then I am off for Hammerfest and the midnight sun! Who the deuce invited her I should like to know?"
"Remember she is my sister's child; she has no other home, and I am sure it is very natural that she should come to me, her nearest relative, for sympathy and protection."
"Write to her by return mail that you will gladly allow her three thousand a year, provided she ensconces herself under some other roof than this."
"Impossible! I could not wound her so deeply."
"You imagine that she entertains a most tender and profound regard for both of us?"
"Certainly, my son; we have every reason to believe that she does."
Leaning back in his chair, St. Elmo laughed.
"I should really enjoy stumbling upon something that would overtax your most marvellous and indefinitely extensible credulity! When Estelle Harding becomes an inmate of this house I shall pack my valise, and start to Tromso! She approaches like Discord, uninvited, armed with an apple or a dagger. I am perfectly willing to share my fortune with her, but I'll swear I would rather prowl for a month through the plague-stricken district of Constantinople than see her domesticated here! You tried the experiment when she was a child, and we fought and scratched as indefatigably as those two amiable young Theban bullies, who are so often cited as scarecrows for quarrelsome juveniles. Of course, we shall renew the battle at sight."
"But, my dear son, there are claims urged by natural affection which it is impossible to ignore. Poor Estelle is very desolate, and has a right to our sympathy and love."
"Poor Estelle! Hoeredipetoe! The frailties of old Rome survive her virtues and her ruins!"
Mr. Murray laughed again, beat a tattoo with his fork on the edge of his plate, and, rising, left the room.
Mrs. Murray looked puzzled, and said: "Edna, do you know what he meant? He often amuses himself by mystifying me, and I will not gratify him by asking an explanation."