When Thomson had gone Lady Graves sat herself down near the open door of the hall, whence she could see the glowing masses of the rose-beds and the light shifting on the foliage of the oaks in the park beyond, to read the morning psalms in accordance with her daily custom. Soon, however, the book dropped from her hand and she fell to musing on the past, and how strangely, after all its troubles, the family that she loved, and with which her life was interwoven, had been guided back into the calm waters of prosperity. Less than a year ago there had been nothing before them but ruin and extinction, and now! It was not for herself that she rejoiced; her hopes and loves and fears were for the most part buried in the churchyard yonder, whither ere long she must follow them; but rather for her dead husband’s sake, and for the sake of the home of his forefathers, that now would be saved to their descendants.
Truly, with old Thomson, she felt moved to render thanks upon her knees when she remembered that, but for the happy thought of her visit to Joan Haste, things might have been otherwise indeed. She had since heard that this poor girl had married a farmer, that same man whom she had seen in the train when she went to London; for Henry had told her as much and spoken very bitterly of her conduct. The story seemed a little curious, and she could not altogether understand it, but she supposed that her son was right, and that on consideration the young woman, being a person of sense, had chosen to make a wise marriage with a man of means and worth, rather than a romantic one with a poor gentleman. Whatever was the exact explanation, without doubt the issue was most fortunate for all of them, and Joan Haste deserved their gratitude. Thinking thus, Lady Graves fell into a pleasant little doze, from which she was awakened by the sound of wheels. She rose and went to the front door to find Henry, looking very well and bronzed, helping his wife out of the carriage.
“Why, mother, is that you?” he said, with a pleasant laugh. “This is first-rate: I didn’t expect from your letter that you would be down before to-morrow,” and he kissed her. “Look, here is my invalid; I have been twenty years and more at sea, but till last night I did not imagine that a human being could be so sick. I don’t know how she survived it.”
“Do stop talking about my being sick, Henry, and get out of the way, that I may say how do you do to your mother.”
“Well, Emma,” said Lady Graves, “I must say that, notwithstanding your bad crossing, you look very well and happy.”
“Thank you, Lady Graves,” she answered, colouring slightly; “I am both well and happy.”
“Welcome home, dear!” said Henry; and putting his arm round his wife, he gave her a kiss, which she returned. “By the way,” he added, “I wonder if there is any news of your father.”
“Thomson says he has heard that he is not very grand,” answered Lady Graves. “But I think there is a postcard for you in his writing; here it is.”
Henry read the card, which was written in a somewhat shaky hand. It said:
“Welcome to both of you. Perhaps Henry can come and give me a look to-morrow; or, if that is not convenient, will you both drive over on the following morning?