A white rosebud, dropped on the back seat, marked the place where the
coffin had rested. Mrs. Nevill Tyson picked it up and crushed it in her
hand.
"Yes. I know you've had your little tiffs lately. Somebody said,
'It's blessings on the falling out that all the more endears.' Who was
it? I don't know how it goes on; I've such a head for poetry. They
kissed--kissed--kissed. Whoever was it now? Oh! It was poor dear Mrs.
Browning. They kissed again--with tears. Ah! Are you cold, love?"
"No--no."
"I thought you shivered."
From Drayton parish church Thorneytoft is a long drive, and from
beginning to end of it Mrs. Wilcox had never ceased talking. At last they
reached home. The blinds were drawn up again in the front of the house;
it was staring with all its windows.
Mrs. Nevill Tyson lingered till she saw her mother half-way upstairs,
then she turned into the library. The room was only used by Tyson; she
would be certain to be alone there.
The silence sank into her brain like an anesthetic after torture. She had
closed the door before she realized that she was not alone.
Somebody was sitting writing at the table in the window. His head was
bent low over his hands, so that she could not see it well; but at the
first sight of his back and shoulders she thought it was Tyson.
It was Stanistreet.
He turned and started when he saw her.
"Forgive me," said he, "I--I'm leaving to-morrow, and I was just writing
a note to you. I was going--I did not expect to see you--they told me-"
His manner was nervous and confused and he broke off suddenly. She sat
down in the chair he had just left, and took off her gloves and her hat.
She leaned her elbow on the table and her head upon her hand. "Don't
go," she said. "I only came in here to get away--to think. I was afraid
of being talked to. But I'd rather you didn't go." She looked away from
him. "Have you heard from Nevill?"
"No."
"Do you think he's ill?"
"He wasn't ill when I saw him on Sunday."
"Then I wonder why he keeps away. You don't know, do you?"
"I do not. And I don't want to talk about him."
"No more do I!" she said fiercely. "I told him--and he doesn't care. He
doesn't care!"
Her lips shook; her breast heaved; she hid her face in her hands.
"Oh, Louis, Louis, he's dead! And I said I didn't want to see him ever
again!"
His hand was on the arm of her chair. "I'm so sorry," he said below his
breath, guarding his tongue.
She had clutched his hand and dragged herself to her feet. She was
clinging to him almost, crying her heart out.