Whoever knocked took this for a command to enter; and, looking very pale and wild-eyed, but perfectly self-possessed, Marjorie entered and fixed her eyes on Sir John.
“Will you kindly order the carriage?”
“Yes—yes, my dear,” he said. “Thank you for what you have done; but you wish to leave us?”
She looked at the old man half-wonderingly before answering.
“A message must be sent to my cousin,” she said in her sweet, musical voice; “the wedding cannot take place to-day.”
“No, no; of course not,” cried the major.
“And I thought it would be kinder to him, poor fellow, for me to be the bearer of these terrible tidings. A letter would be so cold and dreadful. Oh, Sir John,” she cried with a hysterical sob, as she flung herself at his knees, “it is too horrible to speak of. Poor darling Glynne! My poor cousin! It will drive him mad!”
“Hush, my dear; be calm; try and be calm,” whispered Sir John, laying his hand gently upon her head.
“Yes,” she said amidst her sobs, “I am trying so hard, dear Sir John, for everybody’s sake. My poor aunt! It will nearly kill her. I thought it would be so much better if I went myself to break the dreadful news.”
“Yes,” said Sir John, raising her. “Heaven bless you for your forethought. It is a time when we want a gentle woman’s help.”