“Do not say so. Mary may yet be in time. Is there no letter, or something to explain where she is or what she has done?” demanded the disappointed bridegroom.
“No; we can find nothing.”
“Then she will be forthcoming presently.”
But she was not; the searchers returned and looked at each other in dismay.
The hours wore on. Mr. Greenholme thought the police should be communicated with, but Mr. Wythburn was not willing.
“I cannot have detectives trying to track my daughter,” he said. “Mary is not a child unable to take care of herself. We shall have a telegram presently, or a letter from her in the morning.”
Alfred Greenholme said very little. But when Mrs. Wythburn came tremblingly towards him, and kissed him, he said, “Do not be more anxious than you can help. We both know Mary. Nothing dreadful can have happened. We must wait. And let us keep our own counsel as much as we can, and not set the whole town gossiping.”
But many friends of the family called during the day, and of course the news spread rapidly. The vicar came, and his presence proved a great comfort, for he said what commended itself to all. “Be sure that Mary is in God’s keeping. No harm has come to her. For some reason or other Mary has absented herself rather than be married. It is a very strange thing; but we must not be too swift to blame her. She has really lived a very independent life, you know, and she has simply acted for herself now. Do you not think that is the explanation, Miss Miller?” And Margaret had little doubt that it was.
The Greenholmes remained all day, for the trouble was one to be shared between them. Alfred behaved very well; but he seemed to suffer more annoyance than grief, and that is decidedly the more easy to bear.
And late in the afternoon a telegram came for Mr. Greenholme. It contained only these words: “Do not be anxious. All is well. Mary.”