"He will probably come by the 4.12 train," said Aunt Emmy, rising. "If
you don't mind, as there are so many preparations to make, I will leave
you to finish your breakfast. I have had mine."
She left the room, and I stared at her empty plate. I was not hungry
either. I was frightened for my dear Aunt Emmy.
And yet, she was so yielding, so selfless, so absolutely uncritical,
that if any woman could marry late she was the woman. She could have
lived with a monster of egotism without finding it out. Had she not
devoted herself to two such monsters most of her life? And perhaps Mr.
Kingston was not a monster. Aunt Emmy arranged the flowers early as she
only could arrange them. I was only allowed to fetch the water and clean
the glasses. A certain pony-cart was sent to Muddington with the cook in
it to buy a tongue, and a Stilton cheese, and a little barrel of
anchovies, and various other condiments which Uncle Tom approved. Uncle
Tom's tastes represented those of his whole sex for Aunt Emmy.
I insisted on her eating some luncheon, but this was barely possible, as
in the midst of it a telegram was brought in from Mr. Kingston to say he
should arrive by the 4.12 train.
After luncheon Aunt Emmy went to her room. I followed her there half an
hour later to give her a note, and found her standing in the middle of
the floor, looking at all her gowns laid out on chairs.
"I am afraid you can only think me very silly, my dear," she said, with
a sort of humble dignity. "I wished to consult you, but I did not like
to; but as you _are_ here, and if you don't mind my asking you--a
relation can often judge best what is advantageous--which gown _do_ you
think suits me best, the grey voile, or the lilac delaine, or the white
serge?"
I decided on the white serge, and long before the dogcart ordered to
meet him could possibly arrive, Aunt Emmy was sitting, paler than I had
ever seen her, beside a wood fire in the parlour in the soft white gown
I loved her best in, pretending to read. She had lit the fire, though
we were not in the habit of having it till later in the day, because she
thought Australians might feel chilly.
"I don't know how it is," she said at last, laying down the book, "but I
seem quite blind. I can't see the print."
I could not see the needle-work I was bending over either. But that was
because senseless tears kept on rising to my eyes, do what I would. Aunt
Emmy's eyes had no tears in them.
"It is very petty of me, I know, but I do hope he has not grown stout,"
she said presently. "But of course it is to be expected, and if it is so
I must try to bear it. It could not make any _real_ difference. Your
Uncle Tom is the same age, and of course he is not--he really is _not_
as thin as he was."
"Was he ever thin?"
"N-no. But Mr. Kingston was, at least, not thin, but very spare and
agile-looking."
At last the sound of wheels reached us. Aunt Emmy clasped the arms of
her chair convulsively.
"I daresay he has not come," she said almost inaudibly.
The wheels stopped. I went into the tiny hall.
A tall, spare, distinguished-looking man, with weather-beaten face and
peculiarly intent, hawklike eyes, was at the gate, and I went out to
greet him. As he took off his cap his crisp hair showed a little grey in
it. He was delightful to look at.
I don't know what I said, but I mumbled something as I shook hands with
him, and pointed to the parlour door. He nodded gravely and went in,
hitting his tall head against the low lintel. Then he closed the door
gently. And I went to my room, and locked myself in.
When I went into the parlour an hour later at tea-time I found them
sitting one on each side of the fire. I wished with all my heart that
they could have been sitting together at this moment after the marriage
of their daughter. Both had cried a little, I could see. He certainly
had. They got up when I came in, and stood together on the hearth, a
splendid-looking couple, dwarfing the white room with its low ceiling.
What they must have been in youth I could well imagine.
I was reintroduced to him, and I am not sure, though they were both
smiling at each other, that they were not relieved by my entrance with
the tea. He handed her her cup and waited on her with the deferential
awkwardness of a man who has not been in women's society for years.
"I am a rough fellow, Emmy," he said once or twice. But he was not
rough. He was charming. He did not fit in at all with my preconceived
ideas of "Colonials." And it was quickly evident to me that his tender
admiration of Aunt Emmy still survived. I was partly reassured. Perhaps,
after all, he had brought happiness with him.
* * * * *
Saint Luke's summer was glorious that year, and it was nowhere more
wonderful than in the forest. One still golden day followed another, the
gossamer-threaded sunshine flooding the glades of yellowing and amber
trees, spilling itself headlong amid the rusting bracken, and losing
itself in the tiny foliage of the whortleberry, which, all its little
oval leaves, ruddy as a robin's breast, was imitating the trees, like a
miniature autumn forest underfoot.
Aunt Emmy and Mr. Kingston walked daily in the marvel of the forest, and
it seemed as if the autumn sun shone kindly on them. Sometimes on her
return there was a bewildered look in her face which I did not
understand, and I wondered whether indeed all was well; but I put the
thought away, for his love for her was beyond the possibility of doubt,
and had not her love for him coloured her whole life?