“She ought to,” he replied, “as she saved my life.”
Then that subject dropped.
“Do you know,” she asked, “oh! do you know about your mother?”
“Yes, Edith, I drove to the house when I landed from the ship and heard. It was there I got your address,” and thrusting his hand into the side-pocket of the pea-coat, he produced the crumpled envelope. “I suppose that you were with her?” he added.
“No, not at the last.”
“Who was, then?”
“No one except the nurse, I think. She had another stroke and became insensible, you know. I had left a fortnight before, as I could do no good and they wanted my room.”
Now for the first time resentment began to rise in Rupert’s patient heart, stirred up there by the knowledge that his beloved mother had been left to die in utter loneliness.
“Indeed,” he said, and there was a stern ring in his voice, “It might have been kinder had you stayed, which, as my wife, it was your place to do.”
“I thought that I was no longer your wife, Rupert, only your widow. Also, it’s not my fault, but I cannot bear sickness and all those horrors, I never could,” and she looked at his mutilated form and shuddered.