had amiably poured out tea for afternoon callers all her life. Women who were uncertain of themselves were not amiably at ease with small social amenities. Her ingenuous talk and her fervent italics were an absolute delight to the man who was studying her. He, too, had noticed the carriage of her head Jane Cupp had deplored.
“I should say she was well born,” he commented to his wife. “She holds herself as no common woman could.”
“Ah! I haven’t a doubt that she is well born, poor soul.”
“No, not ‘poor soul.’ No woman who is as happy as she is needs pity. Since she has had time to rest, she looks radiant.”
In course of time, however, she was less radiant. Most people know something of waiting for answers to letters written to foreign lands. It seems impossible to calculate correctly as to what length of time must elapse before the reply to the letter one sent by the last mail can reach one. He who waits is always premature in the calculation he makes. The mail should be due at a certain date, one is so sure. The letter could be written on such a day and posted at once. But the date calculated for arrives, passes,—the answer has not come. Who does not remember?
Emily Walderhurst had passed through the experience and knew it well. But previously the letters she had sent had been of less vital importance. When the replies to them had lingered on their way she had, it is true, watched eagerly ‘, for the postman, and had lived restlessly between the arrivals of the mails, but she had taught herself resignation to the inevitable. Now life had altered its aspect and its significance. She had tried, with the aid of an untried imagination, to paint to herself the moments in which her husband would read the letter which told him what she had told. She had wondered if he would start, if he would look amazed, if his grey-brown eyes would light with pleasure! Might he not want to see her? Might he not perhaps write at once? She never could advance farther in her imagined reading of this reply than the first lines:
“MY DEAR EMILY,—The unexpected good news your letter contains has given me the greatest satisfaction. You do not perhaps know how strong my desire has been—”
She used to sit and flush with happiness when she reached this point. She so wished that she was capable of depicting to herself what the rest would be.
She calculated with the utmost care the probable date of the epistle’s arrival. She thought she made sure of allowing plenty of time for all possible delays. The safety of her letters she had managed, with Hester’s aid, to arrange for. They were forwarded to her bankers and called for. Only the letters from India were of any importance, and they were not frequent. She told herself that she must be even more than usually patient this time. When the letter arrived, if he told her he felt it proper that he should return, no part of the strange experience she had passed through would be of moment. When she saw his decorous, well-bred face and heard his correctly modulated voice, all else would seem like an unnatural dream.
In her relief at the decent composure of the first floor front in Mortimer Street the days did not seem at first to pass slowly. But as the date she had counted on drew near she could not restrain a natural restlessness. She looked at the clock and walked up and down the room a good deal. She was also very glad when night came and she could go to bed. Then she was glad when the morning arrived, because she was a day nearer to the end.
On a certain evening Dr. Warren said to his wife, “She is not so well to-day. When I called I found her looking pale and anxious. When I commented on the fact and asked how she was, she said that she had had a disappointment. She had been expecting an important letter by a mail arriving yesterday, and it had not come. She was evidently in low spirits.”
“Perhaps she has kept up her spirits before because she believed the letter would come,” Mrs. Warren speculated.
“She has certainly believed it would come.”
“Do you think it will, Harold?”
“She thinks it will yet. She was pathetically anxious not to be impatient. She said she knew there were so many reasons for delay when people were in foreign countries and very much occupied.”
“There are many reasons, I daresay,” said Mrs. Warren with a touch of bitterness,” but they are not usually the ones given to waiting, desperate women.”
Dr. Warren stood upon the hearthrug and gazed into the fire, knitting his brows.
“She wanted to tell or ask me something this afternoon,” he said, “but she was afraid. She looked like a good child in great trouble. I think she will speak before long.”
She looked more and more like a good child in trouble as time passed. Mail after mail came in, and she received no letter. She did not understand, and her fresh colour died away. She spent her time now in inventing reasons for the non-arrival of her letter. None of them comprised explanations which could be disparaging in any sense to Walderhurst. Chiefly she clung to the fact that he had not been well. Anything could be considered a reason for neglecting letter writing if a man was not well. If his illness had become serious she would, of course, have heard from his doctor. She would not allow herself to contemplate that. But if he was languid and feverish, he might so easily put off writing from day to day. This was all the more plausible as a reason, since he had not been a profuse correspondent. He had only written when he had found he had leisure, with decent irregularity, so to speak.
At last, however, on a day when she had felt the strain of waiting greater than she had courage for, and had counted every moment of the hour which must elapse before Jane could return from her mission of inquiry, as she rested on the sofa she heard the girl mount the stairs with a step whose hastened lightness wakened in her an excited hopefulness.
She sat up with brightened face and eager eyes. How foolish she had been to fret. Now—now everything would be different. Ah! how thankful she was to God for being so good to her!
“I think you must have a letter, Jane,” she said the moment the door opened. “I felt it when I heard your footstep.”
Jane was touching in her glow of relief and affection.
“Yes, my lady, I have, indeed. And they said at the bank that it had come by a steamer that was delayed by bad weather.”
Emily took the letter. Her hand shook, but it was with pleasure. She forgot Jane, and actually kissed the envelope before she opened it. It looked like a beautiful, long letter. It was quite thick.
But when she had opened it, she saw that the letter itself was not very long. Several extra sheets of notes or instructions, it did not matter what, seemed to be enclosed. Her hand shook so that she let them fall on the floor. She looked so agitated that Jane was afraid to do more than retire discreetly and stand outside the door.
In a few minutes she congratulated herself on the wisdom of not having gone downstairs. She heard a troubled exclamation of wonder, and then a call for herself.
“Jane, please, Jane!”
Lady Walderhurst was still sitting upon the sofa, but she looked pale and unsteady. The letter was in her hand, which rested weakly in her lap. It seemed as if she was so bewildered that she felt helpless.
She spoke in a tired voice.
“Jane,” she said, “I think you will have to get me a glass of wine. I don’t think I am going to faint, but I do feel so—so upset.”
Jane was at her side kneeling by her.
“Please,
