“Much good it did him,” she said with a heavy sigh.
William never told June the story of the old man lying dead before the Hoodoo, nor had he disclosed his own indirect share in that tragic end. He did not do so now, for this was not the time to enter into such an unhappy matter. Yet without coming to details, June seemed with that power of clairvoyance she had lately acquired, to divine the whole pitiful business. “Miserable old miser,” she said in a voice the birds could not hear. “He must have died like a dog.”
William’s tragic eyes could only be interpreted by his own heart.
A look so forlorn led June to notice the new lines in his face and his smouldering depth of eye. “I believe you were the only living thing he ever cared for, and yet it used to make my blood boil the way he——” The anguish in his eyes brought her up short.
In went the sun, as quickly as it had come out. La Signora Aprile e volubile, in England at any rate, whatever her mood in more genial climes. June shivered slightly as if a chill breath in the gentle wind had touched her. She glanced at the new wrist watch, whose acceptance William had craved two days before she left the Hospital. Nearly one o’clock already and it would never do to shew disrespect to Mrs. Chrystal’s famous chicken-broth.
They got up together, yet as they did so they felt that the best of the spring day was fled. Now that the sun had gone in, the Hoodoo yonder was monarch once more of all he looked upon.
What a thing life was! Yet by now both were wise enough not to think too much about it. God knew it could be ugly, but dwelling upon its complexities only made them seem worse.
Besides there was no time for deep thoughts. It was six minutes to one. Luncheon at the House, where William, as became a man of acknowledged genius, was an honoured guest, was sharp at the hour. The honoured guest would only just have time to wash his hands and brush his hair. And so he was not able to accompany June along the rectangular path which led from the main avenue direct to Mrs. Chrystal’s.
Moreover she didn’t want him to. She understood his hurry. Also he understood hers. Besides each craved a moment, after all, to consider life and just where they stood in it.
“I have to rest this afternoon,” said June. “And I suppose you have to get on with the cleaning of the Mathew Thingamy. But if it’s as fine to-morrow morning as it has been to-day, let us meet under this tree about eleven. And then you can put in the last touches while I read “Pride and Prejudice” by Jane Austen that Miss Babraham’s lent me. Seems a bit old-fashioned, but it’s classic of course. I dare say it’ll improve as it gets better.”