“Shall we put the matter to one more test?” said Charlie. “Shall I write to Grant asking when he sails and if he will take me for the year at one hundred pounds, telling him that if he can, and if I can be ready by his date, I will entertain the idea.”
“You can be ready by any date if Dr. Ivery thinks you are strong enough,” said Lucy, “and we could afford more than one hundred. If this is the path of Providence, Charlie, ought we to be turned aside by these things?”
“Such a letter will not bind me either way,” returned her husband, “it is purely tentative; and yet if the date and the terms prove suitable, the leading will seem the clearer. I will write at once, and until we get Grant’s answer, we will not say a word on the matter to anybody.”
The epistle was soon written, and Lucy herself hurried on her bonnet and ran with it to the post, lest Pollie should not be quick enough to catch the night mail for the north.
“I feel sure you are to go,” said Lucy. And as two or three days passed by without an answer, she hung upon her husband’s presence as those do who count the running down sands of a dear joy. She could soothe herself only by doing something for Charlie, though it was only pathetic little preparations for the possible departure. Of course there was no use thinking of “outfit” until that departure was definitely decided. But there were “thin places” to be darned in the fine, carefully-kept underclothing, and all the three guineas she had got for her sketch, went to procure little supplementary comforts and conveniences which would be certainly useful whether Charlie went away or remained at home.
It was indeed a waiting time, and waiting times invariably try nerves and spirits, even though so strong a self-control be set upon these, that they may not tamper with temper or will. Lucy Challoner never dared to be idle for a moment. She felt that she must hold herself with a strong hand. When it seemed to her that Pollie was rather self-absorbed, less interested in her work, and indeed almost negligent, Lucy set it all down to her own imagination, fevered by restrained excitement.
In the course of that waiting time, Florence Brand put in an appearance at the little verandahed house. She came in the afternoon, and Charlie was asleep. For this Lucy was secretly thankful, being always unable to realise that Florence did not irritate Charlie—who was a woman and not his own sister—as she often did herself—a woman and a sister! Pollie was so slow to admit the visitor, or the visitor was so impatient, that the door-bell was rung twice, the second time with such vigour that Lucy feared her husband would be startled from his slumbers, and flew to open the door herself.
“What! You have to do this yourself, now, do you?” cried Mrs. Brand before she had crossed the threshold. “How’s Charlie? Getting all right, I suppose, or we should have heard. I had a fine time at the seaside, it would have done me worlds of good to have stayed there another week. But I saw so many high-class autumn sales being advertised, and I’ve so many things to buy, that I thought I’d best come straight back. If you’re busy, I sha’n’t interrupt you. I can only stay five minutes. I did not mean to call when I left home, but since I’ve been out, I’ve heard something that I’m determined you shall hear at once. Prepare for a shock!”
Lucy’s face grew so white that it startled even Mrs. Brand.
“Dear me, child,” she said, “it is not really anything; nineteen people out of twenty would not mind a bit, though they might be angry. But I know it will startle your confiding trustfulness. Your treasure Pollie is on the eve of giving you notice because she is going to be married!”