Anne Valery had just arrived. She sat alone in Miss Bowen's dressing-room, playing with the orange-wreath. Her face wore a thoughtful, sickly, sad look, but the moment she heard some one at the door this expression vanished.
“So, my dear, you have a rather unconscionable bridegroom, Mrs. Thornycroft tells me. He has been here already.”
Suddenly all that had happened recurred to Agatha. She forgot her own agitation in the joy of being the first to bring good news.
“Ah, you little know why he came. Uncle Brian—there is a letter from Uncle Brian.”
And in her warm-heartedness of delight she threw her arms round Miss Valery's neck. She was very much surprised that Anne did not speak a single word, and that the cheek against which her young glowing one was pressed felt as cold as marble.
“Are you not glad, Miss Valery?”
“Yes, very glad. Now will you go down-stairs and fetch me the letter?”
And, gently putting the young girl from her, Anne sat down! As Agatha left the room, she fancied she heard a faint sound—a sigh or gasp; but Miss Valery had not moved. She sat as at first—her hands clasped on her lap, the veil of her bonnet falling over her face. And coming back some minutes after, Agatha found her in precisely the same position.
“Thank you, dear.” She held out her hand for the letter, and then retired with it to a far window. It took a good while to read. All the time that the young bride was being dressed by Emma and the maid, Miss Valery stood in that recess, her back turned towards them, apparently reading or pondering over that strange scrawl from the Far West.
At last Mrs. Thornycroft gently hinted that there was hardly time for her to return home and dress for the wedding.