“Well, Cecil, my mother offers to leave the home of her life and retire into Church-house.”
Cecil felt as if the screw she had been long working had come off in her hands. She frowned, she gazed, collecting her senses, while Raymond added, “It is to my intense grief and mortification, but I suppose you are gratified.”
“Uh, it would never do!” she exclaimed, to his surprise and pleasure.
“Quite right,” he returned. “Just what I felt. Nothing can make me so glad as to see that you think the idea as socking as I do.”
“Our going to Swanslea would be much better—far more natural, and no one could object. We could refurnish, and make it perfect; whereas nothing can be done to this place, so inconveniently built and buried in trees. I should feel much freer in a place of my own.”
“So that is what you meant when I thought you were thinking of my mother?”
“I am obliged to take thought for myself when you take heed to no one but her,” said Cecil; and as the carriage was at that moment announced, she left him. Which was the most sick at heart it would be hard to say, the wife with the sense that she was postponed in everything to the mother, the husband at the alienation that had never before been so fully expressed. Cecil’s errand was a council about the bazaar; and driving round by Sirenwood, Lady Tyrrell became her companion in the carriage. The quick eyes soon perceived that something had taken place, and confidence was soon drawn forth.
“The ice is broken; and by whom do you think?”
“By la belle mère? Skilful strategy to know when the position is not tenable.”
“She wants to retreat to Church-house.”