”...Have you missed me, Aunt Soph, while I’ve been away?”
“Er—the house has seemed very quiet,” replied Miss Briskett, truthfully. “I am sorry that I am obliged to leave you this afternoon, my dear, but I have promised to attend a committee meeting at four o’clock. You will be glad to rest after your journey, and to unpack and get your things put neatly away.”
“Has Elma come home?”
“She returned yesterday morning. I saw the dog-cart from the Manor waiting outside the gate this morning. Mrs Ramsden told me the other day that Elma’s health was completely restored.”
Cornelia pondered over these scanty items of news as she sat at her solitary tea an hour later. Elma was well; Elma had returned home. A dog-cart from the Manor had been observed waiting outside the gate of The Holt that morning. A dog-cart! Imagination failed to picture the picturesque figure of Madame perched on the high seat of that undignified vehicle. If the cart had not conveyed the mother, it must, in all probability, have conveyed the son. The dog-cart had been waiting! The deduction was obvious to the meanest intellect. Geoffrey Greville had driven down to see Elma the morning after her departure, and had spent a considerable time in her society!
Suddenly Cornelia realised that her anxiety could brook no delay, and that it would be impossible to spend another night without discovering how the Moss Rose had fared during her absence. She despatched Mary to The Holt with a verbal message to the effect that she had returned from town, and, if convenient, would much like to see Miss Ramsden for a few minutes before six o’clock, and while she was still at tea the answer was received; a note this time, written in pencil, and bearing marks of haste and agitation.
“Dearest Cornelia,—Yes, of course! I am thankful you are back. Come right up to my room. It’s perfectly wretched here, but I’m so happy! Elma.”
Cornelia rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and indulged in an expressive whistle. Contradictory as Elma’s epistle might have appeared to an ordinary reader, she understood it readily enough. It was Mrs Ramsden who was wretched, Elma who was happy—“so happy,” despite the atmosphere of disapproval. The crisis had arrived!
In five minutes’ time, Cornelia was in her friend’s room, holding her hands, gazing into her face, kissing her flaming cheeks.
“Elma, is it? It is! I can see it in your face! Oh, you dear thing! When? How? I’m crazy to know. Tell me every single thing.”