They did their best to make Edwin feel at home. They never mentioned his mother, but it was so obvious that their maidenly commonplaces were only designed to divert his mind from the tragic shadow which he carried with him, that Edwin felt inclined to scandalise them by talking of it. . . . Their deliberate awkward kindness, the cautious glances which they exchanged, the little sniff of emotion which Mrs. Barrow concealed in her empty teacup, when the pitiful contemplation of Edwin’s youth and innocence overcame her, would have been amusing if there had been room for anything amusing on the darkened earth.
When they had finished the buttered scones and medlar jelly which Mrs. Barrow made from fruit that fell on the dark leaf-mould of her garden, Mrs. Barrow herself moved with short steps to a mahogany bureau, and calling Edwin to her side, showed him one of those secret drawers whose secret everybody knows, smelling of cedar wood and aged russia leather. From this drawer she produced a purse made of beadwork, and from the purse her fragile fingers extracted a Georgian five-shilling piece, which, with a sigh, she then presented to Edwin. “If I were you,” she said, “I don’t think I should spend it. Old coins like that are valuable. Mr. Barrow had a great interest in anything old and historical.”
Edwin was so surprised by this generosity that he almost forgot to thank her; but Miss Beecock, in a shrill, soft voice, reminded him of his duty, saying: “Now, isn’t that kind of Mrs. Barrow, Edwin?” Edwin hastily agreed that it was, and the old ladies smiled at one another, as though they were saying, “Isn’t that clever of us, to give him a toy that will take his mind off his mother?” In the silence that followed, a canary which had been pecking at a lump of sugar stuck in the bars of his cage, attracted by the bright hues of the ribbon on Mrs. Barrow’s cap, broke into a shrill twitter.
“Sweet . . . swee . . . t,” said Mrs. Barrow with pursed lips.
“Sweet . . . sweet,” echoed Miss Beecock, with a little laugh.
“I think I will take my crochet on to the lawn,” said Mrs. Barrow.
“If you have your shawl, and the grass is not too damp,” Miss Beecock reminded her.
“There was a heavy dew last week,” said Mrs. Barrow. “Which day was it? I think it must have been Tuesday. Yes . . . it was Tuesday. That was the day on which I spoke to Mr. Waldron about thinning the grapes. And now, Edwin, would you like to fetch a book from the drawing-room? You may prefer to bring it out on to the lawn. You know the way. The key is on the outside of the door.”
Edwin said, “Yes.” He left them and climbed the creaking oak stairs, to the first story landing, a wide passage of polished wood lit by a shining fanlight that overlooked the street. He knew the room well enough. It had been one of the delights of his childhood. It was long, and irregular in shape, and crammed with curious things that he had once found entertaining.
He unlocked the door and released immediately a concentrated odour of the same character as that which had issued from the secret drawer in Mrs. Barrow’s bureau. Damp and cedar wood and mouldy russia leather. All the chairs in the room were covered with white draw-sheets as though they were dead and awaiting burial. The venetian blinds were down, and when Edwin raised them, the heavy rep curtains at the side of the three tall windows admitted no more than an ecclesiastical twilight.