So in the same strain and spirit was the next, and then came September, and he wrote: “This day month, dearest—this day month, I am to sail. Already when these lines are before you, the interval, which to me now seems an age, will have gone over, and you can think of me as hastening towards you.”
“Oh, aunt dearest, listen to this. Is not this happy news?” cried Florence, as she pressed the loved letter to her lips. “Joseph says that on the 18th—to-day is—what day is to-day? But you are not minding me, aunt What can there be in that letter of yours so interesting as this?”
This remonstrance was not very unreasonable, seeing that Miss Grainger was standing with her eyes fixed steadfastly at a letter, whose few lines could not have taken a moment to read, and which must have had some other claim thus to arrest her attention.
“This is wonderful!” cried she, at last. “What is wonderful, aunt? Do pray gratify our curiosity!”
But the old lady hurried away without a word, and the door of her room, as it sharply banged, showed that she desired to be alone.
CHAPTER XIX. A SHOCK.
NO sooner did Mrs. Grainger find herself safely locked in her room, than she re-opened the letter the post had just brought her. It was exceedingly brief, and seemed hastily written:
“Strictly and imperatively private.
“Trieste, Tuesday morning.
“My dear Miss Grainger,—I have just arrived here from
India, with important despatches for the government. The
fatigues of a long journey have re-opened an old wound, and
laid me up for a day; but as my papers are of such a nature
as will require my presence to explain, there is no use in
my forwarding them by another; I wait, therefore, and write
this hurried note, to say that I will make you a flying
visit on Saturday next I say you, because I wish to see
yourself and alone. Manage this in the best way you can. I
hope to arrive by the morning train, and be at the villa by
eleven or twelve at latest. Whether you receive me or not,
say nothing of this note to your nieces; but I trust and
pray you will not refuse half an hour to your attached and
faithful friend,
“Harry Calvert.”
It was a name to bring up many memories, and Miss Grainger sat gazing at the lines before her in a state of wonderment blended with terror. Once only, had she read of him since his departure; it was, when agitated and distressed to know what had become of him, she ventured on a step of, for her, daring boldness, and to whose temerity she would not make her nieces the witnesses. She wrote a letter to Miss Sophia Calvert, begging to have some tidings of her cousin, and some clue to his whereabouts. The answer came by return of post; it ran thus: