“Dear me, what a change in the weather! It is coming on to rain—quite a pelt. I hope your husband is not out-of-doors.”
There was no answer to this. The other lady seemed struggling to control her emotion; and, failing to do so, she left the room. Mrs. St. John stood looking towards the door, tapping a small table with the long pointed fingers of one mittened hand.
“Poor dear Amelia! She is sadly weak still—the same good creature as always, but with such a want of mental stamina. I must do my best to brace her up while she is here. This perpetual fretting has gone on long enough. It is just a habit of mind now—hardly genuine. Quite out of the question that she should hold any communication with the Cairns family; and if there is a child of Hubert’s still living, the less Amelia knows of her the better. Dear me, what a drench! I hope nobody is out in it.”
Her face showed satisfaction as a comely, courtly old gentleman, with flowing white locks; entered the room.
“Mr. Brooke! I am delighted to see you indoors. What tremendous rain.”
“Coming down in bucketsful!” said Mr. Brooke. “Very sudden change; but the glass showed a tendency to fall this morning. Can you tell me where Amelia is?”
“She will be back, I think, directly. We happened to touch upon the old subject, and she was overcome.”
“As usual,” said Mr. Brooke, his features taking a grim set.
“Yes; but I hope it will not last. Dear Amelia is evidently in rather a low state just now; and associations in this neighborhood are trying.”
“Amelia has never been here before.”