The return to London was scarcely a cheerful home-coming. Kingcote, still feeble, very seldom spoke; after the first natural questions, when he entered upon convalescence, he was possessed by muteness; no interests reawoke in him; he watched his fraction of the world without curiosity, and, beyond a pressure given to Mary’s hand from time to time, gave no sign that others’ presence had significance for him. His catastrophe he briefly explained exactly as Gabriel had done. Already they had reached home, and he had not as much as asked if letters awaited him.
Mary determined to wait a few days before she gave him the letter which, was in her possession; she feared for the result it might have upon him. Yet, on the other hand, it might be that to withhold it was an unwise thing. The contents of this letter she felt that she knew; what she could not know was how far her brother was prepared for them. But his very silence was significant; he expected nothing from Knightswell.
His health established itself day by day; of that there was, happily, every assurance. Yet he could not interest himself in anything. His mind was much like that of a child when it is weary. He would sit in his chair and watch what went on about him; even to read demanded too much exertion. She read to him for several hours daily, and he listened, or seemed to. At length Mary persuaded herself that to speak with him freely might perchance be the best course. She began to do so one day when she had been reading aloud.
“Bernard, can you remember all that happened on the day when you went to Winstoke?”
“Remember? Certainly; everything, till I lost my senses in walking along the roads.”
“Did you go to Knightswell?”
He replied in the affirmative, without constraint.
“And did you see Isabel?”
“I saw Mrs. Clarendon.”
It was a correction, but with no remarkable emphasis.