Her window looked out on to the front; and she moved her writing-table to it to catch as much as possible of the radiant air and light of the spring day. She proposed to begin to sketch out what she would say to Laurie, and suggest, if he wished it, to come up and see him in a week or two. She would apologize for her fussiness, and say that the reason why she was writing was that she did not want his mother to be made anxious.
“My dear Laurie …”
She bit her pen gently, and looked out of the window to catch inspiration for the particular frame of words with which she should begin. And as she looked an old gentleman suddenly appeared beyond the iron gate, shook it gently, glanced up in vain for a name on the stone posts, and stood irresolute. It was an old trap, that of the front gate; there was no bell, and it was necessary for visitors to come straight in to the front door.
Then, so swiftly that she could not formulate it, an anxiety leapt at her, and she laid her pen down, staring. Who was this?
She went quickly to the bell and rang it; standing there waiting, with beating heart and face suddenly gone white. …
“Susan,” she said, “there is an old gentleman at the gate. Go out and see who it is. … Stop: if it is anyone for me … if—if he gives the name of Mr. Cathcart, ask him to be so kind as to go round the turn to the village and wait for me. … Susan, don’t say anything to Mrs. Baxter; it may just possibly be bad news.”
From behind the curtain she watched the maid go down the path, saw a few words pass between her and the stranger, and then the maid come back. She waited breathless.