She sat down and wrote a telegram, brutally brief, as telegrams must be.

"Died yesterday. Funeral Friday, two o'clock. Can you come?"

Two hours later the answer came in one word--"Impossible." She flushed violently and set her face like a flint.

But she showed no feeling. None when they screwed the baby into a box lined with white satin; none when they lowered him into his grave and piled flowers and earth upon him; none when, as they drove home from the funeral, Mrs. Wilc.o.x's pent-up emotions broke loose in a torrent of words.

Having gone through so much, it occurred to Mrs. Wilc.o.x that the time had now come to look a little on the bright side of things. "Well," she began with a faint perfunctory sigh, "I am thankful we've had a fine day. The sunshine makes one hope. You'll remember, Molly, it was just the same at your poor father's funeral. We had a sudden gleam of sunlight between the showers. There were showers, for my new c.r.a.pe was ruined. And in December we might have had snow or pouring rain--so bad for the clergyman--and gentlemen, if they take their hats off. Some don't; and very sensible too. They catch such awful colds at funerals, standing about in their wet feet, and no one likes to be the first to put up an umbrella. I didn't see Captain Stanistreet in the church--did you?--nor yet at the grave.

Rather strange of him. I think under the circ.u.mstances he might have come--Nevill's oldest friend. Did you know Miss Batchelor was in church!

She was. Not in the chancel--away at the back. You couldn't see her. I think it showed very nice feeling in her to come, and to send those lovely roses too--from her own greenhouse. I must say everybody has been most kind, and there wasn't a hitch in the arrangements. I often think you have only to be in real trouble to know who your true friends are.

I'm sure the sympathy--and the flowers--you wouldn't have known he was lying in his little coffin--and Swinny--that woman has feeling. I saw her--sobbing as if her heart would break. We misjudged her, Molly, we did indeed. Really, her devotion at the last--"

At this point Molly turned her back on her mother and looked out of the window. They were going up the village street now, and a hard tearless face was presented to a highly emotional group of spectators.

All Drayton Parva was alive to the fact that Mrs. Nevill Tyson was an unnatural mother. "I'm sure the villagers did everything they could to show their respect. There was Pinker's father, and Ashby, at the gate--with their hats off. And for Baby--poor little darling, if he only knew! Well, it shows what they think of you and Nevill. You've got mud on your skirt, dear--off the wheel getting into the carriage. Pinker should have been more careful. How wise you were to get that good serge. It's everlasting. At any rate it'll last you as long as you want it. Ah-h!

My poor child"--she laid her hand on Mrs. Nevill Tyson's averted shoulder--"you'll _not_ fret, will you, now? No--you're too brave, I know. The more I think of it the more I feel that it's all for the best.

Think--if he'd lived to be older you'd have cared more, and it would have been harder then--when he was running about and playing. You can't have the same feeling for a little baby. And he was so delicate, too, you really couldn't have wished it. He had your father's const.i.tution. And if you'd tried to teach him anything, he'd just have got water on the brain.

Ah-h-h-h! Depend upon it, it'll bring you and Nevill closer together."

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. Wilc.o.x 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.

"I know," she said at last, "I know you care."

He trembled violently. In another minute he would have drawn her to him; he would have said the stupid, unutterable word. The thing had pa.s.sed beyond his control. It had not happened by his will. She was Tyson's wife. Yes; and this was the third time he had been thrust into Tyson's place. Why was he always to be with or near this woman in these moments, in the throes of her mortal agony, in the divine pa.s.sion of her motherhood, and now--?

Did she know? Did she know? She stopped crying suddenly, like a startled child. She looked down at the hand she held and frowned at it, as if it puzzled her.

The door opened. She loosed her hold and went from him, brushing past the astonished Pinker in her flight.

CHAPTER XI

THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS

Tyson returned by the end of the following week. He found his wife in the big hall. She was standing by the fireplace, with one foot on the curbstone of the hearth, the other lifted a little to the blaze. Her arms lay along the chimney-piece, her head drooped over them. Her back was towards him as he came in, and she did not turn at the sound of his footsteps. He went up to her, put his arm round her waist and led her gently into the library. She had started violently at his touch, but she made no resistance. He meant to kiss and comfort her.

"Darling," he said, "I was awfully cut up. Tell me about the poor little beggar."

He held her closer. His breath was like flame against her cheek. When he spoke he coughed--a short hard cough.

She pushed against his arm and broke from him. Then she turned. "Don't speak of him! Don't speak of him!"

"I won't, dear, if you'd rather not. Only don't think I didn't care."

"Don't tell me you cared!" She held her arms outstretched, the hands clenched. Her small body was tense with pa.s.sion. "Don't tell me. It's a lie. You never cared. You hated him from the first. You kept me from him lest I should love him better than you. You would have taken me away and left him here. You were cruel. And you knew it. You stayed away because you knew it. You were afraid, and no wonder. I know why you did it. You thought I didn't love you. Was that the way to make me love you?"

"Molly," he said faintly, "I didn't know. I never thought you'd take it to heart that way. Come--" He held out his hand.

She too had said "Come." She remembered the answer: "Impossible."

"No," she said. "I won't. I can't. I don't want to have anything to do with you. What were you doing all those days when he was dying?"

He slunk from her, conscience-stricken. "My dear Molly," he said, "I'm awfully sorry, but you're a d.a.m.ned little fool. You'd better hold your tongue before you say something you'll be sorry for."