Chapter VIII

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.