A MUDDY WALK ON A WET MORNING
All that day of the hunt was passed very quietly at
Castle Richmond. Herbert did not once leave the
house, having begged Mr. Somers to make his excuse
at a Relief Committee which it would have been his
business to attend. A great portion of the day
he spent with his father, who lay all but motionless,
in a state that was apparently half comatose.
During all those long hours very little was said between
them about this tragedy of their family. Why should
more be said now; now that the worst had befallen
them—all that worst, to hide which Sir
Thomas had endured such superhuman agony? And
then four or five times during the day he went to
his mother, but with her he did not stay long.
To her he could hardly speak upon any subject, for
to her as yet the story had not been told.
And she, when he thus came to her from time to time,
with a soft word or two, or a softer kiss, would ask
him no question. She knew that he had learned
the whole, and knew also from the solemn cloud on
his brow that that whole must be very dreadful.
Indeed we may surmise that her woman’s heart
had by this time guessed somewhat of the truth.
But she would inquire of no one. Jones, she was
sure, knew it all, but she did not ask a single question
of her servant. It would be told to her when
it was fitting. Why should she move in the matter?
Whenever Herbert entered her room she tried to receive
him with something of a smile. It was clear enough
that she was always glad of his coming, and that she
made some little show of welcoming him. A book
was always put away, very softly and by the slightest
motion; but Herbert well knew what that book was,
and whence his mother sought that strength which enabled
her to live through such an ordeal as this.
And his sisters were to be seen, moving slowly about
the house like the very ghosts of their former selves.
Their voices were hardly heard; no ring of customary
laughter ever came from the room in which they sat,
when they passed their brother in the house they hardly
dared to whisper to him. As to sitting down at
table now with Mr. Prendergast, that effort was wholly
abandoned; they kept themselves even from the sound
of his footsteps.
Aunt Letty perhaps spoke more than the others, but
what could she speak to the purpose? “Herbert,”
she once said, as she caught him close by the door
of the library and almost pulled him into the room—“Herbert,
I charge you to tell me what all this is!”
“I can tell you nothing, dear aunt, nothing;—nothing
as yet.”
“But, Herbert, tell me this; is it about my
sister?” For very many years past Aunt Letty
had always called Lady Fitzgerald her sister.
“I can tell you nothing;—nothing
to-day.”
“Then, to-morrow.”
“I do not know—we must let Mr. Prendergast
manage this matter as he will. I have taken nothing
on myself, Aunt Letty—nothing.”
