All that week he had become more and more
certain of how, without his wife, George would have been exactly like
himself. Words sprang to his lips, and kept on dying there. The doubt
whether she would agree with him, the feeling that she sympathised with
her son, the certainty that something even in himself responded to those
words: "You can tell Bellew I will see him d---d first!"--all this, and
the thought, never out of his mind, 'The name--the estate!' kept him
silent. He turned his head away, and took up his pen again.
Mrs. Pendyce had read the letter now three times, and instinctively had
put it in her bosom. It was not hers, but Horace must know it by heart,
and in his anger he might tear it up. That letter, for which they had
waited so long; told her nothing; she had known all there was to tell.
Her hand had fallen from Mr. Pendyce's shoulder, and she did not put
it back, but ran her fingers through and through each other, while the
sunlight, traversing the narrow windows, caressed her from her hair down
to her knees. Here and there that stream of sunlight formed little pools
in her eyes, giving them a touching, anxious brightness; in a curious
heart-shaped locket of carved steel, worn by her mother and her
grandmother before her, containing now, not locks of their son's hair,
but a curl of George's; in her diamond rings, and a bracelet of amethyst
and pearl which she wore for the love of pretty things.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185