"Poor thing!" he mentally ejaculated; "she has passed through deep waters, so no wonder she has lost some of the bloom I was so foolish as to admire."
He did not say this, of course. Indeed, his eyes rested only for a moment on the younger woman.
"I heard of your great sorrow," said he, softly, turning to the widow, "only a few days ago, and I think you will believe that I feel deeply distressed on your account, Mrs. Wilson, and on your daughter's also. I could not rest till I had seen you," he added, "so I came down by the Tally-ho as soon as I could get away from Oxford."
It was very good of Mr. Tincroft to think of them at all, Mrs. Mark sobbed. Sarah did not speak.
"And I am afraid, too," continued John, "that you have other sorrows besides that of your great loss."
The flood-gates were opened now. Other sorrows! Indeed! And then came out the old string and bead-roll of grievances, with many new beads added, about the unnatural conduct of Matthew Wilson to his poor brother while living, and of his cruelty to herself and Sarah since his death. Then there was Walter too, and his base desertion of poor Sarah, who would now have to go out to service, while she herself, her widowed self—but there, it didn't matter what became of an old woman like her. A workhouse was good enough, too good, in fact; and anyhow it wouldn't be for long. And then, overcome by her emotions, the unhappy bereaved broke out into loud wailings and hysterical tears, in the full flow of which she retired to her room above to "lay down for a bit" as she sobbed.
All this time the daughter had taken no part in the conversation, to which, indeed, she had seemed to pay but little heed. No doubt she was accustomed to these or similar complainings and outbursts of futile grief. She had her own sorrows to bear, but she endured them, if not more resignedly, certainly less noisily; but that she felt them John was sure, when he glanced at her worn countenance, and the occasional nervous twitching of her upper lip.
"You have not spoken—you do not speak—of your own troubles, Miss Wilson," said he presently, after an awkward silence, when the mother had left the room.
"Why should I, Mr. Tincroft? What would be the use?" Sarah asked, impatiently.
"Perhaps not much, miss; except that sometimes the heart is relieved by the—the outspeaking of the mouth. It isn't the deepest-felt trials that are the loudest in general, I think. But if you will not speak of yours, may I put a few questions?" John timidly asked.