“Unadvisedly with his Lips.”
When old John Cooper arrived at Ingleby Mill on the next morning, an orange-coloured envelope lay on the top of the heap of letters awaiting him.
He opened it deliberately, and read—
“From Godfrey Waynflete. Mrs Waynflete died suddenly last night.”
The old man sat staring at the brief words, as their sense gradually bore itself in upon him, first their meaning, and then their grievousness, the blank space in life left by the fall of that vigorous tree. He was still sitting, dazed and stunned, when there was a hasty step, and Cuthbert Staunton, with another telegram in his hand, came in.
“Ah, you have heard?” he said. “I am going to Waynflete. Have you any particulars? No? Mine is only the same news, and also that Mr Guy is ill, and wants me.”
“Oh Lord, sir,” said old Cooper, with a sob, “it’s as if the mill was dead and gone too!”
Ill news spreads quick. The old man’s son and the younger Howarth, middle-aged men themselves, were soon in the room, listening with impassive faces but with heavy hearts to the evil tidings.
“It’s very bad news,” said Howarth, huskily—“very bad indeed.”
“I must catch the early train,” said Cuthbert, “and I will take care that you have further news as soon as possible.”