Page 44 of Threads that Remain

The news went through the house like a fire through a haystack. Every member of the family came into the drawing-room, with well wishes and excitement.

Mrs. Dashwood said, in a voice that trembled, “I told her. I told her that I should not think the worst of her. I said it in the night; I said, if a person were waiting —” and she put her handkerchief to her eyes.

Mr. Tregarth of Penhallow was fetched, from Miss Loveday’s. He came in, his hat in hand, and heard the news, his weathered face working, until he burst out, in a voice that shook the china on the chimney-piece:

“Well, I say! You are actually going to marry my boy, Miss Dashwood? I thought I should be dead first. Oh, I beg your pardon. I beg every lady’s pardon. I forgot myself.” He wiped his forehead. “Miss — my dear — I shall tell you that he is the best boy in Cornwall, and that his mother would have —” He broke off. “There. There. You have come to a house that will be very glad of you.”

Eventually the noise died down a little. It was Elinor who first observed that Marianne had gone upstairs, and closing the drawing-room doors behind her, she found her sister in the library, where a very small dark figure in a clean collar sat upon the window seat with his hands clasped between his knees, looking at the clock. Marianne sat beside him with an arm around his shoulders.

Henry said, in a small steady voice: “Mamma. Is it nearly time?”

“Nearly, my darling.”

“I think,” said Henry, “I would like it to be over.”

Elinor and Marianne exchanged worried looks.

At five minutes to three, in the drowsy afternoon quiet of Brook Street, a plain dark carriage, without a crest, drew up at the door of number twenty-four.

Chapter XXVII.

The Colonel received him in the hall.

It had been the Colonel’s own arrangement. He had said, in the small hours of the previous night, to his wife, in the dark, that if it had to be done, it had better be done at the front door, like a proper visit, and not at the back, like a burglary; and it was upon this principle that he stood, upon the marble, at one minute to three, with his hands clasped behind him, and his face perfectly composed, while the footman opened the door. He had seen the plain dark carriage from the landing window. He had seen the door of it open, and a small figure in grey silk lean forward and say something, very briefly, to the tall man who was getting out; and the tall man had nodded, and stood for a moment upon the pavement, looking up at the house, like a person about to step into cold water. Then he came up the steps.

“Willoughby.”

“Brandon.”

They did not shake hands. It was not a moment for it, and they both knew it. The Colonel inclined his head; Mr. Willoughby, who was dressed in careful plainness, in a dark coat, and was as white as his cravat, returned the bow. He had a hat in his hand. He did not seem to know what to do with it, and the footman, with the tact of a family servant, took it out of his fingers, and went away.

“Mrs. Willoughby is in the carriage,” said Willoughby. “She would not come in. She says she is quite content to wait; she has brought a book.”

“I shall send her some tea.”

“You are very good.” He hesitated. “I ought to say — before we go in — I have thought about it, and I shall say it plainly, and once. I have no right to be in this house. I know what you did. I know what you have done, for that girl, and for the child; I know what it must have cost you, and Mrs. Brandon, to take him. I do not ask you to forgive me. I do not think it would be decent of me to ask it.” He stopped. “I only wished you to know that I know.”

The Colonel looked at him for a long moment, from under his level brows.

“I did not do it for you,” said he, quietly.

“I know.”

“I did it because he was a child, and there was nobody else. I should have done it if he had been the son of a chimney-sweep.” He paused. “But I will say this, Willoughby, because it is true. I did not think that you had it in you to write that letter. I was wrong. I shall be glad to be wrong again.” And he turned and led the way up the stairs to the door of the library, at which he stopped, and put a hand upon the panel; and it seemed to Willoughby, who was watching him, that even so steady a man had, at that instant, drawn one long, careful breath.

“He is nervous,” said the Colonel. “Do not mind it. He has been sitting in the window for an hour. He will pretend not to be. I should be glad if you would let him.”

He opened the door.

He was standing in the middle of the Turkey carpet.

He had got up from the window-seat, when he heard the step in the hall; and he stood now, quite straight, looking at the man in the doorway. He was thin, and brown, and his hair was on end, despite the most vigorous efforts of the nursery-maid; and his face was so white that the freckles stood out across his nose like a sprinkle of pepper. But his eyes, which were his father’s, were perfectly steady.

Willoughby stood upon the threshold and could not for the life of him have said whether he was breathing.

“How do you do, sir,” said Henry.

He said it in the most exact and well-brought-up manner. He bowed from the neck, as he had been taught; and Willoughby, who had faced a good many things in his life without a tremor, felt something go over inside him, in the middle of his chest, like a cartwheel over a stone.