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.