Despite the excitement of preparation both at the Post Office and the inn, and the beguilement of gossip which brought the most improbable stories into circulation among the village folk, as, for example, that Mrs. Charles had borrowed a silver teapot from the wife of the estate agent to Sir Henry Birken; a story devoid of fact, for Edward John had paid in hard cash at Birmingham for that article, as well as a cream jug to match, making a special journey for the purpose the previous day, and thus carrying out a twenty-five-year-old promise to his patient wife—despite these excellent reasons for speeding the time, the hours wore slowly on, and the postmaster must have covered a mile or two in his wanderings between his shop door and the corner of the street, from which a distant view of the returning vehicle might be had. It was expected back by four o'clock, and when on the stroke of five it had not returned, Mrs. Charles was sitting in gloom, with terrible pictures of railway accidents passing before her mind, gazing in a sort of mental morgue upon her dead boy.
Soon after five o'clock the gig pulled up before the door at a moment when the vigilance of the postmaster had been relaxed, and Henry had stepped into the shop before his father was there to greet him; but it had been Dora's good fortune to see him arrive while giving some finishing touches to his bedroom upstairs, and the clatter of her descent brought the whole group about him in a twinkling.
In the excitement of the moment Henry's expected companion was forgotten, until his father asked suddenly: "And where's your lit'ry friend?"
"Oh, I've missed him somehow. He didn't turn up at St. Pancras this morning, and I've no idea what's become of him."
The news fell among them like a thunderbolt, and all but Henry immediately thought of that silver teapot and other preparations for the distinguished visitor. Edward John secretly regretted his journey to Birmingham; but Mrs. Charles was glad she had the teapot, visitor or no visitor.
Henry was not altogether sorry, if he had spoken his mind, for he had never quite reconciled himself to his friend's proposal. But he did not speak his mind, and he endeavoured to sympathise with his father's regrets at the absence of Adrian Grant, as Mrs. Charles had been straining every nerve to provide a meal worthy of the man.
"P'raps he'll be to-morrow," said Edward John "Poor old Jukes 'll feel a bit left. He'd been building on 'aving 'im."
"I'm sorry for the trouble he has caused you all, and I hope he may yet turn up so that you won't be disappointed."
"Never mind, 'Enry, my lad, it's you we want in the first place, and right glad we are to see you. The vicar was in asking for you this afternoon. You'll know a difference on the old man. Going down the 'ill, he is. But we're all growing older every day, as the song says. You're filling out now, and that's good. I said you were growing all to legs last time. Aye, aye, 'ere you are again."
"You haven't been troubled with your chest, Henry, I hope," said Mrs. Charles, taking advantage of a moment when her husband did not seem to have a question to ask.