The Shuttle & The Making of a Marchioness. Frances Hodgson Burnett
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In her relief at the decent composure of the first floor front in Mortimer Street the days did not seem at first to pass slowly. But as the date she had counted on drew near she could not restrain a natural restlessness. She looked at the clock and walked up and down the room a good deal. She was also very glad when night came and she could go to bed. Then she was glad when the morning arrived, because she was a day nearer to the end.
On a certain evening Dr. Warren said to his wife, “She is not so well to-day. When I called I found her looking pale and anxious. When I commented on the fact and asked how she was, she said that she had had a disappointment. She had been expecting an important letter by a mail arriving yesterday, and it had not come. She was evidently in low spirits.”
“Perhaps she has kept up her spirits before because she believed the letter would come,” Mrs. Warren speculated.
“She has certainly believed it would come.”
“Do you think it will, Harold?”
“She thinks it will yet. She was pathetically anxious not to be impatient. She said she knew there were so many reasons for delay when people were in foreign countries and very much occupied.”
“There are many reasons, I daresay,” said Mrs. Warren with a touch of bitterness,” but they are not usually the ones given to waiting, desperate women.”
Dr. Warren stood upon the hearthrug and gazed into the fire, knitting his brows.
“She wanted to tell or ask me something this afternoon,” he said, “but she was afraid. She looked like a good child in great trouble. I think she will speak before long.”
She looked more and more like a good child in trouble as time passed. Mail after mail came in, and she received no letter. She did not understand, and her fresh colour died away. She spent her time now in inventing reasons for the non-arrival of her letter. None of them comprised explanations which could be disparaging in any sense to Walderhurst. Chiefly she clung to the fact that he had not been well. Anything could be considered a reason for neglecting letter writing if a man was not well. If his illness had become serious she would, of course, have heard from his doctor. She would not allow herself to contemplate that. But if he was languid and feverish, he might so easily put off writing from day to day. This was all the more plausible as a reason, since he had not been a profuse correspondent. He had only written when he had found he had leisure, with decent irregularity, so to speak.
At last, however, on a day when she had felt the strain of waiting greater than she had courage for, and had counted every moment of the hour which must elapse before Jane could return from her mission of inquiry, as she rested on the sofa she heard the girl mount the stairs with a step whose hastened lightness wakened in her an excited hopefulness.
She sat up with brightened face and eager eyes. How foolish she had been to fret. Now—now everything would be different. Ah! how thankful she was to God for being so good to her!
“I think you must have a letter, Jane,” she said the moment the door opened. “I felt it when I heard your footstep.”
Jane was touching in her glow of relief and affection.
“Yes, my lady, I have, indeed. And they said at the bank that it had come by a steamer that was delayed by bad weather.”
Emily took the letter. Her hand shook, but it was with pleasure. She forgot Jane, and actually kissed the envelope before she opened it. It looked like a beautiful, long letter. It was quite thick.
But when she had opened it, she saw that the letter itself was not very long. Several extra sheets of notes or instructions, it did not matter what, seemed to be enclosed. Her hand shook so that she let them fall on the floor. She looked so agitated that Jane was afraid to do more than retire discreetly and stand outside the door.
In a few minutes she congratulated herself on the wisdom of not having gone downstairs. She heard a troubled exclamation of wonder, and then a call for herself.
“Jane, please, Jane!”
Lady Walderhurst was still sitting upon the sofa, but she looked pale and unsteady. The letter was in her hand, which rested weakly in her lap. It seemed as if she was so bewildered that she felt helpless.
She spoke in a tired voice.
“Jane,” she said, “I think you will have to get me a glass of wine. I don’t think I am going to faint, but I do feel so—so upset.”
Jane was at her side kneeling by her.
“Please, my lady, lie down,” she begged. “Please do.”
But she did not lie down. She sat trembling and looking at the girl in a pathetic, puzzled fashion.
“I don’t think,” she quavered, “that his lordship can have received my letter. He can’t have received it. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say one word—”
She had been too healthy a woman to be subject to attacks of nerves. She had never fainted before in her life, and as she spoke she did not at all understand why Jane seemed to move up and down, and darkness came on suddenly in the middle of the morning.
Jane managed by main strength to keep her from falling from the sofa, and thanked Providence for the power vouchsafed to her. She reached the bell and rang it violently, and hearing it, Mrs. Cupp came upstairs with heavy swiftness.
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