Walden took the missive in reluctant silence. The same thick notepaper, odorous with crushed violets--the same bold, dashing handwriting he had seen before, but the matter expressed in it was worded somehow in a totally different tone to that of the previous letter from the same hand.
"DEAR MRS. SPRUCE," it ran: "I enclose the keys of my boxes which I am sending in advance, as I never travel with luggage. Kindly unpack all the contents and arrange them in the wardrobes and presses of my mother's rooms. If I remember rightly, these rooms have never been used, hut I intend to take them for myself now, so please have everything prepared. I have received your letter in which you say there is some difficulty in getting good servants at so short a notice. I quite understand this, and am sure you. will arrange for the best. Should everything not be quite satisfactory, we can make alterations when I come. I expect to arrive home in time for afternoon tea. MARYLLIA VANCOURT."
Walden folded up the letter and gave it back to its owner.
"Well, so far, you have nothing to complain of, Mrs. Spruce," he said, with a little smile; "The lady is evidently prepared to excuse any deficiencies arising from the hurry of your preparations."
"Yes, sir, that may be," answered Mrs. Spruce; "but if so be you saw what I've seen you mightn't take it so easily. Now, sir, if you'll follow me, you'll be able to judge of the quandary we was in till we got our senses back."
Beginning to be vaguely amused and declining to speculate as to the 'quandary' which according to the good woman had resulted in a species of lunacy, Walden followed as he was told, and slowly ascended the broad staircase, one of the finest specimens of Tudor work in all England, with its richly turned balustrades and grotesquely carved headpieces, but as he reached the upper landing, he halted abruptly, seeing through an open door mysterious glimmerings of satins and laces, to which he was entirely unaccustomed.
"What room is that?" he enquired.
"That's what we used to call 'the bride's room,' sir," replied Mrs. Spruce, smoothing down her black skirts with an air of fussy importance, and heaving a sigh; "Miss Maryllia's mother was to have had it. Don't be afraid to step inside, Passon; everythink's been turned out and aired, and there's not a speck of damp or dismals anywhere, and you'll see for yourself what a time we're 'avin' though we're gettin' jes' a bit straight now, and I've 'ad Nancy Pyrle as is 'andy with her pencil to mark things down as they come to 'and. Step inside, Passon Walden,--do step inside!"