“No, no. Never mind; I can’t stay. But tell me where it is, Mrs. Holt—where have they buried him?”
“No, no. Now sit you down,” enforcing her request with her hand. “Mr. Wynne was thinking of burying him with his own people in Kent; but it was too far away, so he is laid in Monks Norton, with a lovely stone over him. I’ve been there,” and then she proceeded to give the unhappy mother a minute description of the funeral, the coffin with silver plates, and a full account of the last resting-place, keeping all the while an angry and incredulous eye on her visitor’s coloured dress.
“You are not in black, I see,” looking at her own new black merino with some complacency.
“No, Mrs. Holt; I—I never thought of it, if you will believe me. My head was full of other things and my heart too sore; but I will wear mourning outwardly, as I wear it in my soul, and—heart—to the end of my days.”
“Well, I do wonder as you never thought of a bit of black,” sniffed the other, incredulously. “’Tis mostly the first thing!”
“Sometimes, I suppose,” responded her visitor wearily. “And now, Mrs. Holt, I must go; I know that you think badly of me, and I deserve it.”
“Well, ma’am, I can’t say but I do!” Her tone was of an intensity that conveyed a far greater degree of disapproval than mere words could convey. “But my opinion ain’t of no value to the likes of you.”
“You were very good to him. You took my place; I will not thank you. You do not want my thanks. You did all for his own sake and for pure love. Oh, Mrs. Holt, if I could only live the last two years over again!”
“There’s nothing like beginning a new leaf, ma’am. You have Mr. Wynne still.”
“Mr. Wynne will never forgive me—never. He said so. He said——” Then her voice failed. “Good-bye, Mrs. Holt.”