“Seigneur, pour combien de temps regarderas-tu cela?”
“Go, Mr Underhill,” said Isoult, softly. “If I know her, she will not follow.”
Mr Underhill hurried Thekla away.
It was an hour before they came back. Mrs Rose had gone up-stairs, and Isoult sat alone in the chimney-corner. She heard the latch lifted, and Mr Underhill’s voice bidding Thekla good-night. He was not returning with her. Then her soft step came forward. She paused as soon as she entered the chamber.
“Who is here?” she said, under her breath.
“It is I, Thekla,” answered Isoult. “Thy mother is above, dear heart; I am alone.”
“I am glad of that.”
And she came forward to the hearth, where suddenly she flung herself down on her knees, and buried her face in Isoult’s lap.
“I cannot see her just now!” she said in a choked voice. “I must be over mine own agony ere I can bear hers. O Mrs Avery! he is so white, and worn, and aged! I hardly knew him till he smiled on me!”
And laying down her head again, she broke forth into sobbing—such a very passion of woe, as Isoult had never heard before from the lips of Thekla Rose. Then in a little while—for she did not check her, only smoothed down her hair lovingly—Thekla lifted her head again, and her first gushing of pain seemed over.