We all waited, without speaking. Poor Major Whyte indeed seemed exhausted by his cough. There was a feeling in the air, I think, as if something strange were going to happen.
And in a very few moments there came the sound of footsteps up the stairs, and then crossing the two big drawing-rooms. And then—the door opened. Freeland murmured something, and I saw coming through the doorway the familiar figure of Captain Whyte, and close behind him the sweet fair face of dear Mary.
Major Whyte started up. He wrung his cousin’s hand without speaking. But I—what do you think I did? I seized Mary and dragged her forward. Fancy me, naughty me, being the one to introduce Mary to her own aunt!
“Here she is,” I cried; “now you can see us together. This is Mary, your own niece, Mrs Fetherston; you can see if what I said wasn’t true.”
Mary did look sweet, though she was shabbily dressed and very frightened. In that grand house the old tweed jacket looked even shabbier than at Elmwood. She clung to me, till I almost pushed her into the old lady’s arms.
“Kiss her, Mary. She’s your own aunt. Oh, do” I whispered; “you don’t know what good it might do. Oh, do kiss her.”
Perhaps the last three words were spoken more loudly in my excitement; perhaps the old lady’s ears were as sharp as her eyes! However it was, she heard, and she smiled.
“Yes, do,” she repeated, and she half held out her arms to Mary. “You are not my special child, I suppose,” she said. “Yvonne is my godchild; but, oh, you are very like what Frank was. Frank,” she added tremulously, “my boy, Frank—are you not going to speak to me, too?”
He came to her at once; I turned away, and somehow or other I found myself with Major Whyte in the outer room.
“Do you—do you really think it is going to be all right?” I could not help saying to him.