“In about three-quarters of an hour,” said Mrs. Dalyell, calmly: and she added, “It’s a beautiful evening, and it’s a pity to keep you in the house. We should take the good of the fine weather as long as it lasts. Never mind me: you will find the girls upon the terrace somewhere. But take a cup of tea before you go out.”
“I will take a cup of tea,” said the visitor, “thankfully. But why not come out upon the terrace yourself? It is the most lovely afternoon, and the wind, as much as there is, is from the west. It’s a sin to stay in the house when you have such a place to see the sunset from. Now if you were in Melville Street, for instance——”
“Why Melville Street?” said Mrs. Dalyell with a laugh—but she did not wait for an answer. “If I had to live in Edinburgh I would never go there. I would prefer the south side—or old George’s Square where the houses are so good. I sometimes think we will have to come in for the winter now that Susie’s of an age for parties, for there is little gaiety for a young thing here.”
“That’s true,” said Mr. Wedderburn, and he gave her a look in which there was an inquiry and a moment’s doubt. Did she perhaps know something? Had Bob D’yell confided some hint of approaching calamity or necessary retrenchment to the wife of his bosom? What so natural, what so wise? Mrs. Dalyell’s head was a little bent over the table where she stood pouring out a cup of tea for the visitor; but she raised it, meeting that inquiring look with the perfect frankness of her usual demeanour and the calm of a woman round whom there had never been any mysteries. She was struck, however, by his look. “Is there anything the matter?” she said. “You are looking very serious.” Then, for heaven knows what womanish reason, it occurred to her that Mr. Wedderburn was himself in trouble, and wanting something of her husband. “You know,” she said with a little emphasis, “that whatever might be the matter, if there’s anything that Robert could do, Mr. Wedderburn, you are as sure of him as of a brother.” “God bless her innocence!” the lawyer said to himself.
“Not a bit,” he said. “There’s nothing the matter: but thank you all the same for saying that. Bob D’yell’s been to me as a brother, since we were boys together—and will be I hope till the end.”
Mrs. Dalyell put out her soft hand to him over the tea-table with a smile. There was water in his eyes, though, fortunately, as he stood with his back to the light, it could not be seen—but there was none in hers. Her eyes were as serene as the evening skies; and her soft hand, which perhaps was a little too soft, with no bones in it to speak of, the hand of a woman never used to do much for herself, met his strong grasp, in which there was more than many an oath of fidelity, with a moderate and simple kindness which showed at once how natural and genuine was the friendship to which she thus pledged her husband, and how devoid of all tragical elements so far as her comprehension went. She was a little surprised by Mr. Wedderburn’s grip, which rather hurt that soft hand, but led the way to the terrace, after he had taken his tea, with all her usual serenity. She took a shawl from the stand in the hall and wrapped herself in it as she went out. In Scotland even in July it is wise to take a shawl when you go out to see the sunset; how much more in September! Indeed, after she had taken two or three turns upon the terrace, she went in again, saying that it was all very well for “you young things” (with a smile at Mr. Wedderburn), but that she knew what rheumatism was. Susie and Alice were very good company on the terrace, and they had a thousand things to say to their old friend, so that, though he had looked occasionally at his watch, he had not taken very decided note of the passage of time, until an hour after, when Mrs. Dalyell came back again, with a shawl this time over her head. The sun had quite gone down, the shadows were lengthening, and twilight stealing on. “Do you mean to say,” Mrs. Dalyell said as she came down the steps to the terrace, “that your father’s not here? I made sure he must be here with you: the train’s been in this half-hour, and there’s not another till nine—and no telegram. I don’t know what it can mean.”
It could not be said, perhaps, that she was anxious, but she was uneasy, not knowing what to think. Mr. Wedderburn, for his part, started, as if the fault had somehow been his. “Bless me!” he said, “I had forgotten all about it. I might have gone down and met the train.”
“That would have done little good,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “for if he had come by it he would have been here before now: the thing that astonishes me is there’s no telegram. Sometimes Robert, like other people, is detained. Every business man must be detained now and then: but he always sends a telegram. I never knew him to fail.”
“That is the worst,” said Mr. Wedderburn, “of being too exact in your ways. If you ever depart from them by any accident everybody thinks something must have happened.”
“I don’t think something must have happened,” said Mrs. Dalyell, “but I don’t understand it. It’s so unlike him. He would rather take any trouble than keep me anxious; and I told him particularly we should be alone to-night, with no man except servants in the house. It’s not like Robert. It must have been something quite unforeseen.”