Benham stood in the doorway and watched a clumsy broken-hearted flight down the village street.
He had been partly told and partly left to infer, and anyhow he was beginning to understand about Mr. Rathbone-Sanders. That he could dismiss. But—why was the curate in tears?
12
He found Amanda standing alone in the room from which this young man had fled. She had a handful of daffodils in her hand, and others were scattered over the table. She had been arranging the big bowl of flowers in the centre. He left the door open behind him and stopped short with the table between them. She looked up at him—intelligently and calmly. Her pose had a divine dignity.
“I want to tell them now,” said Benham without a word of greeting.
“Yes,” she said, “tell them now.”
They heard steps in the passage outside. “Betty!” cried Amanda.
Her mother's voice answered, “Do you want Betty?”
“We want you all,” answered Amanda. “We have something to tell you....”
“Carrie!” they heard Mrs. Morris call her sister after an interval, and her voice sounded faint and flat and unusual. There was the soft hissing of some whispered words outside and a muffled exclamation. Then Mrs. Wilder and Mrs. Morris and Betty came into the room. Mrs. Wilder came first, and Mrs. Morris with an alarmed face as if sheltering behind her. “We want to tell you something,” said Amanda.