“Well, you needn’t fret about it beforehand, need you?” and then he rose and went away.
They both had something to tell before Thanksgiving Day, but it was not just what Elizabeth had expected to hear. Clifton did not tell his part before Thanksgiving, however. Indeed, he never told it. He was away a good deal about that time; and was so much occupied when he was at home, that Elizabeth saw less of him, and heard less from him than had ever been the case before during the same length of time, and she could only wait till it should be his pleasure to speak. But Mr Maxwell lost no time in saying to his friend what he had to say.
One fair September morning, about a year after her father’s death, Elizabeth saw the minister coming in at the gate with an open letter in his hand, and though she could give no reason for the thought, she told herself at once to prepare for tidings. Her first impulse was to go away, so as to gain time, for a sharp and sudden pain, which she could not but fear was not all for her brother, smote her heart as she caught sight of Mr Maxwell’s moved and smiling face. But she felt that it was better not to go, so she rose and met him at the door.
“Well,” she said, smiling and preparing to be glad for him, at least.
Her face was moved out of its usual quiet too, as Mr Maxwell could not but see, and he said:
“Have you heard anything? Has your brother anything to tell?”
“Clifton is not at home; I have heard nothing.”
“Ah, well! All in good time, I suppose.”
Mr Maxwell did not sit down, though Elizabeth did, but walked about the room, looking out first at one window and then at the other in a way that startled her.
“Well,” she said after a little, “I am waiting for your news.”