CHAPTER XV.
ON the next morning but one, news was received from Mr. Pendril. The place of Michael Vanstone's residence on the Continent had been discovered. He was living at Zurich; and a letter had been dispatched to him, at that place, on the day when the information was obtained. In the course of the coming week an answer might be expected, and the purport of it should be communicated forthwith to the ladies at Combe-Raven.
Short as it was, the interval of delay passed wearily. Ten days elapsed
before the expected answer was received; and when it came at last, it
proved to be, strictly speaking, no answer at all. Mr. Pendril had been
merely referred to an agent in London who was in possession of Michael
Vanstone's instructions. Certain difficulties had been discovered in
connection with those instructions, which had produced the necessity of
once more writing to Zurich. And there "the negotiations" rested again
for the present.
A second paragraph in Mr. Pendril's letter contained another piece of
intelligence entirely new. Mr. Michael Vanstone's son (and only child), Mr. Noel Vanstone, had recently arrived in London, and was then staying in lodgings occupied by his cousin, Mr. George Bartram. Professional considerations had induced Mr. Pendril to pay a visit to the lodgings. He had been very kindly received by Mr. Bartram; but had been informed by that gentleman that his cousin was not then in a condition to receive visitors. Mr. Noel Vanstone had been suffering, for some years past, from a wearing and obstinate malady; he had come to England expressly to obtain the best medical advice, and he still felt the fatigue of the journey so severely as to be confined to his bed. Under these circumstances, Mr. Pendril had no alternative but to take his leave. An interview with Mr. Noel Vanstone might have cleared up some of the difficulties in connection with his father's instructions. As events had turned out, there was no help for it but to wait for a few days more.
The days passed, the empty days of solitude and suspense. At last, a
third letter from the lawyer announced the long delayed conclusion of
the correspondence. The final answer had been received from Zurich, and Mr. Pendril would personally communicate it at Combe-Raven on the afternoon of the next day.
That next day was Wednesday, the twelfth of August. The weather had
changed in the night; and the sun rose watery through mist and cloud. By noon the sky was overcast at all points; the temperature was sensibly colder; and the rain poured down, straight and soft and steady, on the thirsty earth. Toward three o'clock, Miss Garth and Norah entered the morning-room, to await Mr. Pendril's arrival. They were joined shortly afterward by Magdalen. In half an hour more the familiar fall of the iron latch in the socket reached their ears from the fence beyond the shrubbery. Mr. Pendril and Mr. Clare advanced into view along the garden-path, walking arm-in-arm through the rain, sheltered by the same umbrella. The lawyer bowed as they passed the windows; Mr. Clare walked straight on, deep in his own thoughts—noticing nothing.
After a delay which seemed interminable; after a weary scraping of
wet feet on the hall mat; after a mysterious, muttered interchange of
question and answer outside the door, the two came in—Mr. Clare leading
the way. The old man walked straight up to the table, without any
preliminary greeting, and looked across it at the three women, with a
stern pity for them in his ragged, wrinkled face.
"Bad news," he said. "I am an enemy to all unnecessary suspense. Plainness is kindness in such a case as this. I mean to be kind—and I tell you plainly—bad news."