“She is not any happier than she was when her loss was a week old; but she keeps up in a wonderful way. I believe she is sustained by some wild notion that the murderer will be found—that she will live to see her husband’s death avenged. I doubt if at present she has any other interest in life.”
“But let us hope she will be cheered by the society of her husband’s people. I hear that the Morningsides and the Grenvilles are to be at the Priory in November.”
“Indeed! I have heard nothing about it.”
“I was at Swanage yesterday afternoon, and took tea with Lady Jane. She was full of praises of Lady Carmichael’s goodness, and her desire that all things at the Priory might be just as they had been in Sir Godfrey’s lifetime. His brothers-in-law used to be invited for the shooting in November, and they were to be invited this year, on condition that Lady Jane would help to entertain them, and Lady Jane has consented gladly. So there will be a large family party at the Priory on this side of Christmas,” concluded the Vicar.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Lord Cheriton. “Anything is better for her than solitude; any occupation, if it be only revising a bill of fare, or listening to feminine twaddle, is better for her than idleness.”
“Yes, there will be a houseful,” pursued the Vicar; “Mrs. Grenville takes her nursery with her wherever she goes.”
“And Mrs. Morningside is delighted to leave hers behind her.”
“Yes, she is one of those mothers who are always telling people what paragons of nurses Providence has provided for their darlings, or how admirably their children are being brought up by a model governess,” said the Vicar, who was severe upon other people’s neglect of duty. “By-the-by, talking of mothers, I believe I saw Mrs. Porter’s daughter the other day while I was in town.”
“You believe you saw her?”
“Yes, I am not certain. A face flashed past me in the street one night, and when the face was gone it came upon me that it was Mercy Porter’s eyes that looked at me for an instant in the gaslight. I was in a busy thoroughfare on the Surrey side of Westminster Bridge. I had been to hear Vansittart preach a mission sermon at a church near Walworth, and I was walking back to the West End. It was late on a Saturday night, and the road was full of costermongers’ barrows, and the pavement was crowded with working people doing their marketing. I tried to overtake the girl whose face had startled me, but it was no use. She had melted into the crowd. I went back the whole length of the street, hoping I might find her in front of one of the costers’ stalls; but she must have turned into one of the numerous side streets, and it was hopeless to hunt for her there. Yet I should have been very glad to get hold of her.”