He could not have told afterwards what it was that checked him from following the returning procession, but he stayed to watch that one figure, as, regardless of those around, it drooped for a moment, and then sank slowly upon its knees, and cover its face with its hands, and remain there as if weeping bitterly.
There was a group of rough quarrymen close at hand, all waiting to go up and have a last look at “the master,” before discussing among themselves, once more, their project to cut and erect a granite pillar over Gartram’s tomb.
They were so near Chris that he could hear the words, as one of the party said,—
“Poor Ike Woodham’s widow. Ay, lads, she’s lost the pride of her life once more. He was downright good to her when Woodham went.”
Chris took a step or two forward, for the solitary figure attracted him, and then another and another, quietly, as he heard a low, piteous wail, and saw the woman rise tottering to her feet, swaying to and fro.
“Forgive me! oh, forgive me!” she sobbed; and then she threw up her hands to clutch at vacancy.
Another moment, and she would have fallen heavily into the great granite vault, but Chris was in time: he flung an arm round her, and snatched her back insensible. She had swooned away, and had to be carried into the church till a vehicle had been procured; and Glyddyr had the satisfaction of seeing Chris enter the rough carriage and support the suffering woman till they reached the Fort.
“Thank you, Mr Chris,” she said hurriedly; “I’m better now,” and as he left her immediately, she hurried up to her room, opened her box, and poured out a portion of the contents of a phial into a glass.
Half an hour later, Claude was roused from her sad musings by one of the servants, who announced that Mrs Woodham was “took bad.”
It was something to divert Claude’s thoughts, and she hurried up to the bedroom to lay her hand upon the woman’s burning brow.