Valentine, though he often amazed Laura by his fits of melancholy, never forgot to be kind and considerate to her; he had long patience with her little affectations, and the elaborate excuses she made about all sorts of unimportant matters.  She found herself, for the first time in her life, with a man of whom she could exact attendance, and whom she could keep generally occupied with her affairs.  She took delighted advantage of this state of things, insomuch that before she was finally escorted to Liverpool and seen off, people in the neighbourhood, remarking on his being constantly with her, and observing his only too evident depression, thought he must have formed an attachment to her; it was universally reported that young Mr. Melcombe was breaking his heart for that silly Laura; and when, on his return, he seemed no longer to care for society, the thing was considered to be proved.

It was the last week in October when he reached Wigfield, to be present at his sister’s wedding.  All the woods were in brown and gold, and the still dry October summer was not yet over.  John’s children were all well again, and little Anastasia came to meet him in the garden, using a small crutch, of which she was extremely proud, “It was such a pretty one, and bound with pink leather!” Her face was still pinched and pale, but the nurse who followed her about gave a very good account of her, it was confidently expected that in two or three months she would walk as well as ever.  “A thing to be greatly wished,” said the nurse, “for Mr. Mortimer makes himself quite a slave to her, and Mrs. Walker spoils her.”

Valentine found all his family either excited or fully occupied, and yet he was soon aware that a certain indefinable change in himself was only the more conspicuous for his fitful attempts to conceal it.

As to whether he was ill, whether unhappy, or whether displeased, they could not agree among themselves, only, as by one consent, they forbore to question him; but while he vainly tried to be his old self, they vainly tried to treat him in the old fashion.

He thought his brother seemed, with almost studied care, to avoid all reference to Melcombe.  There was, indeed, little that they could talk about.  One would not mention his estate, the other his wife, and as for his book, this having been a great failure, and an expensive one, was also a sore subject.  Almost all they said when alone concerned the coming marriage, which pleased them both, and a yachting tour.

“I thought you had settled into a domestic character, St. George?” said Valentine.

“So did I, but Tom Graham, Dorothea’s brother, is not going on well, he is tired of a sea life, and has left his uncle, as he says, for awhile.  So as the old man longs for Dorothea, I have agreed to take her and the child, and go for a tour of a few months with him to the Mediterranean.  It is no risk for the little chap, as his nurse, Mrs. Brand, feels more at home at sea than on shore.”