"It is too late," he groaned. "I have been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Pride, if nothing else, would always prevent her from forgiving me. She—liked me once, I think—but now——" He cleared his throat and forced a wry smile. "She looks upon me as her treasurer and friend. It was my own choice. I have no right to grumble." Then he burst out suddenly, "But it's damnable, Pinsent, damnable!"
Lady Helen's medicine was working like a charm. I thought it best to let well enough alone. So I made a rude effort and changed the conversation. We soon reached our journey's end.
The inquest was a nightmare dreamed by day. The courtroom was filled with poor Weldon's relatives. His father, the old baron, ostentatiously turned his back on me. He seemed to think me in some way responsible for his son's fate. Weldon's sisters, too, whom I knew slightly, vouchsafed me no sign of recognition. His younger brother—now the heir—was the only member of the family who extended the slightest token of civility. He was so manifestly delighted at the unlooked-for promotion of his prospects that I read in his warm hand-grip a secret pæan of joy. He had been intended for that limbo of younger sons and blue-blooded incompetents, the bar. Happily, the inquest was soon over. I was only in the box five minutes, and a quarter-hour later the verdict was recorded: "Accidental death."
Hubbard and I returned at once to London. There arrived, I plunged into work upon my book and for a space of two days I managed to forget that the world contained anything but steles and obelisks and mural hieroglyphic inscriptions which, though always half obliterate with time, had somehow or other to be made sense of and translated into English prose.
Chapter XXI Hubbard's Philosophy of Life
Weldon's funeral was held on the afternoon of the third day following his death. His body was interred in the vault of his family at their seat at Sartley, in Norfolk. I was not invited to attend, but I felt I had to go. Miss Ottley was there with her father and Dr. Belleville. She was clad in deep mourning, and her face was thickly veiled. One of Weldon's sisters sobbed throughout the ceremony, yet I do not think she felt her brother's loss half as deeply as I did. I heard her whisper to her neighbour once—between sobs—(I knelt immediately behind her)—"Have you ever seen such callousness—not a tear, not a sigh?" She was referring to Miss Ottley. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the cliffs beside the sea. I did not wish to return by the same train as the Ottleys, but destiny ruled otherwise, although I waited for the last. It seemed that Sir Robert had overtaxed his strength and had been obliged to rest. I had hardly taken my seat when he was helped into the same compartment by Belleville and the porter. They made him comfortable with cushions, without observing me; but Miss Ottley started as she entered, and raised her veil. "You!" she muttered, then paused as if in doubt, eyeing Belleville. A second later she let fall her veil again and sat beside me. Without asking anyone's permission, Belleville turned down the light, leaving the compartment in comparative obscurity. The porter muttered thanks for the tip and, departing, locked the door.
Plainly my presence had passed unnoticed. But an exclamation from Belleville soon showed he had discovered me. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "this carriage has been specially reserved." Then he recognised me. "Oh!" he cried. "You—but——"