When August came, however, Darrell was not so well, but he was eager for the Continental tour, upon which Elizabeth had set her heart. Elizabeth, however, would not hear of his going, and as Pelham’s leave was limited he would be forced to go without the Darrells. The doctors had not absolutely said that Darrell should not go, but considered it best that he remain in England; it was Elizabeth’s over–solicitude for Darrell which really induced her to give up a plan so dear not only to her, but, as she well knew, to Pelham also. It cost her far more to deny Pelham than to deny herself, and this he well understood; for by that time they read each other like an open book, although no word of love had been spoken between them after that sudden out–break of their hearts on that night now eight years past when, standing in the solemn gloom of the cypress trees in the sultry Indian night, they had uttered unforgetable words. Pelham never felt prouder of Elizabeth and her forgetfulness of self than on the day she told him of her decision about the Continental tour, in her pretty London drawing–room, in which she fitted beautifully. It was so, as Pelham thought, that she fitted every place in which he had seen her.
“You know how delightful it would be for us to go,”—she always spoke of “us,” Darrell and herself being in fact never separated,—“but the doctor says it wouldn’t be the best thing for Jack; he would be sure to overdo it, and that is what I don’t intend to let him do.”
“Elizabeth,” said Pelham, after a pause, “I think you are all in all the best wife I ever knew.”
“Why shouldn’t I be a good wife—haven’t I the best husband in the world? Jack often reminds me of my father, who has just such an open, frank, simple nature as Jack’s,—one of those natures which nobody fears and yet of which everybody is a little afraid.”
“That is true,” replied Pelham. “Jack as a little fellow was the straightest lad I ever knew. If your boy had lived, I think he would have been as straight a little fellow as Jack.”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled. She had not yet learned to bear unmoved any mention of the child, who was quite forgotten by all except Darrell, Pelham, and herself. Just then Darrell entered from riding. He was neither as handsome nor as young–looking as he had been ten years before; and Pelham, who never had been handsome or particularly good–looking, was now quite gray and looked as if he had been baked in an oven, but he had the clearest, kindest eye and the firmest thin–lipped, sensible mouth, which redeemed his face from positive ugliness. Elizabeth was no longer a girl, but with the same striking and touching beauty of her girlhood.