"Have they indeed?"
His words cut like a whip, and she got up and went and stood by him. "My son," she said very solemnly. "Oh, my darling, don't allow yourself to wish—to hope—for Godfrey Pavely's death!"
Looking straight into her face, he exclaimed, "I can't help it, mother! I do hope, I do wish, for Godfrey Pavely's death—with all the strength, with all the power that is in me. Why should I be hypocritical—with you? Am I the first man that has committed murder," he waited a moment—"in his heart?"
"If that be really so—then don't let it ever be suspected, Oliver! For God's sake, try and look differently from what you have looked the last few days! If your wish is to be granted, your hope satisfied, then don't let any one suspect that the hope or the wish was ever there!"
She spoke with an intensity of feeling and passion equal to his own.
"You're right, mother," he said in a low voice. "I know you're right! And I promise you that I'll try and follow your advice. No man ever had a wiser and a better mother than I!"
He turned round quickly and left the room.
Mrs. Tropenell did not see her son again till late that night, and then not alone, for Laura spent the evening at Freshley, and after he had taken their guest home to The Chase, he did not come in again for hours.
Old Mr. Privet, Godfrey Pavely's confidential clerk, had been rather taken aback when he had learnt over the telephone, from Mrs. Pavely, that he was to have Mr. Oliver Tropenell as his travelling companion to London. But very soon, being a truly religious man, he came to see how well and wisely everything had been ordered. To begin with, Mr. Tropenell called for him at the Bank, thus saving him a very cold, easterly-wind kind of walk to Pewsbury station, which was some way from the town. And once there, Mr. Tropenell had taken two first-class return tickets—that again being the action of a true gentleman, for he, Mr. Privet, would have been quite content to go by himself third-class. Also, as it turned out, during the long journey to London they had some very pleasant and instructive conversation together.
Quite at first, in answer to a query as to what he thought of this extraordinary business of Mr. Pavely's disappearance, Mr. Oliver Tropenell had been perhaps a little short. He had replied that no one could possibly venture an opinion as to what had happened. But then had followed between them, in spite of the fact that the noise of the train was very trying, a most agreeable chat over old times—over those days when Mr. Godfrey Pavely's father, a fine type of the old country-town banker, was still alive.