Volume I Part 24 (2/2)
When, shortly after, Elinor's voice was heard singing her grandfather's favourite air of Robin Adair in lower tones than usual, Harry again started from the table, where he had laid pen and paper preparatory to writing, and striking his hand against his forehead, he exclaimed:
{”Robin Adair” = Irish folksong, though often identified with Scotland, with words ca. 1750 by Lady Caroline Keppel; it is the only specific tune Elinor is ever heard to sing}
”Ungrateful wretch, that I am!”
The next morning Elinor was up early, and taking the garden basket, she went out to gather all the late flowers she could find, to fill a jar for the drawing-room--singing gaily, as she went from bush to bush, and gathering here a sprig of honeysuckle, there violets or a late rose, blooming out of season, and a few other straggling blossoms. After loitering about the garden for half an hour, she returned to the house. She was surprised to see the coachman, at that early hour, driving up the avenue in the little wagon used for errands about the country.
”Where have you been, Williams?” she asked, as he drove past her towards the stable.
”To carry Mr. Hazlehurst over to Upper Lewiston, in time for the six o'clock boat, Miss.”
Elinor could scarcely believe what she had heard. At the same moment, Mr. Wyllys stepped out on the piazza.
”What is this, Elinor?” he asked. ”They tell me Harry is off; did you see him this morning?”
Elinor was obliged to say she had not.
”What can it mean! did he get any letters by last night's mail?”
”Not that I know of,” said Elinor, much surprised, and a little alarmed.
They found Miss Agnes in the drawing-room; she, it seemed, already knew of Hazlehurst's departure. She said little on the subject, but looked anxious and absent. Elinor scarcely knew what to think; she was afraid to trust herself to make any inquiries, preferring to wait until alone with her aunt after breakfast. The meal pa.s.sed over in silence. Mr. Wyllys looked uneasy; Elinor was at a loss to know what to think; neither of the ladies paid much attention to the morning meal that day.
Miss Agnes rose from table, and went to her own room; Elinor, neglecting her usual task as housekeeper, hastened to follow her aunt, her mind filled with indistinct fears and anxieties. Miss Agnes was walking about her room, looking pained and distressed.
Several letters were lying on a table near her; two were unopened; one she had been reading.
”Letters!--my dear Aunt, from whom? Tell me, I conjure you, what you know! Has anything happened to Louisa--to Jane? Did Harry leave no message for me?” cried Elinor, hurrying towards her aunt, whose face she watched for an answer to each question, as she asked it. Miss Wyllys made an effort to compose herself, and held out her hand to Elinor.
”My dearest Aunt!--pray tell me what distresses you--Ha! Harry's handwriting!” she exclaimed, as her eye fell on the open letter by Miss Wyllys--”I know that letter is from Harry; do not conceal anything; is it for me?”
”This letter is to me, my child,” replied her aunt, taking up the one she had been reading; wis.h.i.+ng to give Elinor all the preparation in her power, for a blow which she knew must fall heavily, since it was so entirely unexpected.
”But there are two other letters,” cried Elinor, ”one of them is for me, I am sure. Let me see it at once, Aunt; you cannot deny that it is for me--and if it contain bad news, you know that I can command myself when necessary.”
Miss Agnes's hand trembled as she took the letters.
”My child! My beloved Elinor!” she said.
”Dearest Aunt, you torture me! Tell me, I beseech you, what we have to fear!”
”You shall know all,” Miss Agnes replied, seating herself; and endeavouring to be calm. ”You will be much distressed, my child; but I know that you will be now, what you always have been, reasonable, and true to yourself--to your grandfather--to me,”
added Miss Wyllys, in a voice almost inarticulate.
A thousand indistinct ideas pa.s.sed through Elinor's mind with the rapidity of lightning, while her aunt was speaking; illness of some absent friend suggested itself--yet who could it be? Not Harry, surely, for he had gone over to Upper Lewiston that morning--yet her fears instinctively centred upon Hazlehurst.
”It is something relating to Harry, I am sure,” she said. ”Is he ill?--is he in trouble?” she asked in a faint voice, while a prayer for resignation sprang from her heart, with the words.
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