Lettice went and roused Mrs. Chigwin, who came and kissed her friend. Then, with a last effort, Aunt Bessy raised her head, and whispered,
"'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace!'"
The watchers scarcely heard the words; but when she sank back upon her pillow, and smiled as though she had found the peace which passes understandings they knew that she had gone.
Lettice stayed on at Birchmead until she had seen Alan's aunt carried to the churchyard, and laid under the shadow of the great yew trees.
Aunt Bessy's death changed her plans. It was no longer necessary for Alan to undertake so long a journey, and in his weak condition it might be better that he should not attempt it. But what was to be done? She had promised Aunt Bessy to "take care of him." Haw could she do it? How do it, at least, without outraging the feelings of her brother and her friends? She loved Sydney, although she had long ago ceased to be greatly in sympathy with him, and she had looked forward to the day when she could make friends with his wife and—by and by—interest herself in their children. She knew that Sydney would be against her in this. Ought she to consider him? Should his opinion weigh with her or not?
She was still pondering this question on the day after the funeral, when something happened which went far towards removing her hesitation. She was sitting in Mrs. Chigwin's garden, which was warm and dry in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Chigwin was indoors, vigorously "straightening" the house. Milly was sewing a frock for her child, and the child itself was tumbling about on a soft rug at her feet.
During the past few days, little had been said respecting Milly's future. Mrs. Bundlecombe's death had thrown her history into the background, and she had not seemed eager to obtrude it on any of her friends. Lettice's assurance that she might safely stay where she was at present seemed to satisfy her. She had lost her briskness—her occasional pertness—of manner; she was quiet and subdued, attaching herself with dog-like fidelity to Lettice's steps, and showing that no satisfaction was so great as that of being allowed to wait on her. But her submissiveness had something in it which pained Lettice, while it touched the deepest fibres of pity in her heart.
She was vaguely wondering what it was that pained her—why there should be that touch of something almost like subserviency in Milly's manner, as if to make up for some past injury—when her eyes were arrested by a locket, which, tied by a black ribbon round Milly's neck, had escaped from the bosom of her dress, and now hung exposed to view.
It contained a portrait of Sydney's face, evidently cut from a photograph by the girl herself.
A flood of light entered Lettice's mind; but she took her discovery with outward calmness. No thought of accusing or upbraiding Milly ever occurred to her. Why should it? she would have said. It was not Milly who had been to blame, if the girl's own story were true. It was Sydney who had been guilty of the blackest treachery, the basest of all crimes. She thought for a moment of his wife, with pity; she looked with a new interest and tenderness at the innocent child. She had no certainty—that was true; but she had very little doubt as to the facts of the case. And, at any rate, she allowed her suspicion to decide her own course of action. Why need she care any longer what Sydney desired for her? His standard was not hers. She was not bound to think of his verdict—now. He had put himself out of court. She was not sure that she should even love him again, for the whole of her pure and generous nature rose-up in passionate repudiation of the man who could basely purchase his own pleasure at the expense of a woman's soul, and she knew that he had thenceforth lost all power over her. No opinion of his on any matter of moral bearing could ever sway her again. The supreme scorn of his conduct which she felt impelled her to choose her own line of action, to make—or mar—for herself her own career.