The great day of Nora’s intended arrival came at last. It ended
differently from what had been expected. All the day was bustle. Try, as
the best-disposed and most methodical people may, to have everything
ready, and not to stave things off to the last, still, when the last day
comes, a number of mysterious things spring up--though never thought of
before, they seem imperatively to demand attention, distract the minds
of the sanest, and put elasticity into the joints of the laziest.
All the day, therefore, was bustle, and running hither and thither. In
some hearts there was agitation also, which they allayed by fomenting
the flame of bustle. Both Henry and James Field were inwardly agitated.
Henry, he knew not why; James Field, very consciously, because he felt
much would depend on the first impression made on Nora. When he saw
Henry bent on beautifying the place, and in the midst of the bustle of
the day potting some geraniums to put on the rough grass, he sneered;
then, determined to get the best of him, set to work more calmly to
smooth and ornament also.
At five o’clock all was ready; but at five o’clock a telegraph messenger
arrived, bringing a message that Nora’s journey was put off till the
following day.
There was a moment of universal depression and disappointment; and then
consolation came, in the thought of several more things that might be
done to improve. In the hearts of Henry and James Field, at least, this
consolation arose.
About seven o’clock, when all business was over, Henry entered the house
to take a survey--to see what new suggestions would present themselves
for improvements to his criticizing eye. The house was quiet, and, after
all the bustle, apparently deserted. Mrs. Ratcliffe and her niece were
at tea in the still-room. Now that the excitement was over, and the
disappointment over as well, they felt thoroughly tired, and were
sitting over their tea and enjoying it, previous to an early retirement
to bed. There was nothing to catch his attention in the quiet passages,
and he passed on to the boudoir and thence to the drawing-room. It was a
fine but not a bright evening, and the hour made it almost twilight. The
windows of the rooms were open, but the blinds had been pulled down.
Nevertheless, there was light enough for Henry, as he stood at the
drawing-room door, to admire. He was very proud of this room. It was in
some senses his child, his creation, for he had watched over its birth
and infancy, and had worn the workmen to death by his determination to
have it ready in time. Ready it was, but finished it was not. The paper
was only a plain under paper of white; there was only matting on the
floor, and no curtains but airy muslin ones. For regular furnishing the
room was not ready. Very light, however, and airy and pretty it looked,
and Henry could see nothing to be altered for the better. One window
opened with steps into the garden. The middle window was the one
regarding which there had been a mistake, which had now been set right.
It jutted out, and in the little nook which it formed, a writing-table
and chair had been placed, with all appliances for comfort. As Henry
looked out, he remembered Mrs. Elliott’s request to know the day of
Nora’s arrival.
He sat down in the tempting spot, pulling up the blind for better light,
and wrote his few words. When he had done, he looked about for an
envelope, but though every kind of luxury had been thought of, this
little necessary was wanting. He folded up his paper, therefore, in the
form of a letter, lit the little taper and sealed it. Remembering then
that he must hurry to catch the post, he drew down the blind, blew out
the candle, looked back carefully to see that all was safe, and hurried
off to the village, a short quarter of a mile off, where he lodged. It
was the last he ever saw of the pretty drawing-room.