June had come, warm and beautiful. Harry and his bride had returned, and the important but exhausting ceremony of receiving bridal visits was nearly over. Graeme, at least, had found them rather exhausting, when she had taken her turn of sitting with the bride; and so, on one occasion, leaving Rose and some other gay young people to pass the evening at Harry’s house, she set out on her way home, with the feeling of relief that all was over in which she was expected to assist, uppermost in her mind. It would all have to be gone over again in Rosie’s case, she knew, but she put that out of her mind for the present, and turned her thoughts to the pleasant things that were sure to happen before that time—Norman’s coming, and Will’s. They might come any day now. She had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that Will’s last letter had not named the day and the steamer by which he was to sail, but it could not be long now at the longest, and her heart gave a sudden throb as she thought that possibly he might not write as to the day, but might mean to take them by surprise. She quickened her footsteps unconsciously as the thought came into her mind; he might have arrived already. But in a minute she laughed at her foolishness and impatience, and then she sighed.
“There will be no more letters after Will comes home, at least there will be none for me,” she said to herself, but added, impatiently, “What would I have? Surely that will be a small matter when I have him safe and well at home again.”
But she was a little startled at the pain which the thought had given her; and then she denied to herself that the pain had been there. She laughed at the idea, and was a little scornful over it, and then she took herself to task for the scorn as she had done for the pain. And then, frightened at herself and her discomfort; she turned her thoughts, with an efforts to a pleasanter theme—the coming of Norman and Hilda and their boys.
“I hope they will be in time. It would be quite too bad if they were to lose the wedding by only a day or two. And yet we could hardly blame Charlie were he to refuse to wait after Will comes. Oh, if he were only safe here! I should like a few quiet days with Will before the house is full. My boy!—who is really more mine than any of the others—all that I have, for my very own, now that Rosie is going from me. How happy we shall be when all the bustle and confusion are over! And as to my going home with Norman and Hilda—that must be decided later, as Will shall make his plans. My boy!—how can I ever wait for his coming?”
It was growing dark as she drew near the house. Although the lights were not yet in the drawing-room, she knew by the sound of voices coming through the open window that Arthur and Fanny were not alone.
“I hope I am not cross to-night, but I really don’t feel as though I could make myself agreeable to visitors for another hour or two. I wish Sarah may let me quietly in; and I will go up-stairs at once. I wonder who they are!”
Sarah’s face was illuminated.
“You have come at last, Miss Elliott,” said she.
“Yes; was I expected sooner? Who is here? Is it you, Charlie? You are expected elsewhere.”
It was not Charlie, however. A voice not unlike his spoke in answer, and said,—