Michael realized with a start the loneliness of his mother, and in his mood of self-reproachfulness attacked himself for having neglected her ever since the interests of Oxford had arisen to occupy his own life so satisfyingly. He told Mrs. Ross of the letter, and she agreed with him in thinking he ought to go back to London at once. Michael had only time for a very short talk with old Mrs. Carthew before the chaise would arrive.
“There has been a fate upon this visit,” said the old lady. “And I’m sorry for it. I’d promised myself a great many talks with you. Besides, you’ll miss Alan now, and he’ll be disappointed, and as for Nancy, she’ll be miserable.”
“But I must go,” Michael said.
“Of course you must go,” said Mrs. Carthew, thumping with her stick on the gravel path. “You must always think first of your mother.”
“You told me that before on this very path a long time ago,” said Michael thoughtfully. “I didn’t understand so well why at the time. Now, of course,” he added shyly, “I understand everything. I used to wonder what the mystery could be. I used to imagine all sorts of the most extraordinary things. Prisons and lunatic asylums among others.”
Mrs. Carthew chuckled to herself.
“It’s surprising you didn’t imagine a great deal more than you did. How’s Oxford?”
“Ripping,” said Michael. “And so was your advice about Oxford. I’ve never forgotten. It was absolutely right.”
“I always am absolutely right,” said Mrs. Carthew.
The wheels of the chaise were audible; and Michael must go at once.