"I am going to ask mother now," Joyce said; "and I know you are kind-hearted, Sarah, and that you will attend to this poor girl, because I wish it."
Sarah gave a low sound, which was taken for consent; and Joyce, judging rightly that Susan Priday would be better left to the servants, went to find her mother.
As she crossed the hall she met Ralph.
"There are letters from Italy," he said. "Melville had not heard when he wrote."
"Where are the letters?" Joyce asked.
"Mother has them. There is one for you—not from Italy though; it has the Bristol post-mark, and is franked. There was an immense deal to pay for Melville's."
Joyce waited to hear no more, but went to her mother. She was sitting with her son's letter open before her. It began, "Dear father and mother," and these words went like a knife through Joyce's heart.
Mrs. Falconer sat day after day in the same chair by the fire-place. Her large widow's cap—in those days an immense erection of many thick frillings, and with long "weepers" falling over her shoulders—altered her so entirely, scarcely any one would have recognised her.
Joyce glanced through the letter. It was as self-sufficient and trifling as ever. Melville found foreign travel less delightful than he had expected.
The diligence was then the universal mode of transit through France, and the two travellers had taken a whole month to reach Hyères, a journey which can now be got through in three days at the longest calculation. Melville complained of the food and the cramped diligence, and how the smell of garlic made him sick; and how old Crawford was as "stiff as starch," and that he did not think he should stay away long.