The only fly in the colonel’s ointment was that he felt compelled as soon as Mrs. Tremaine arrived to resume his suit of homespun, which he regarded very much as Nessus did his celebrated shirt.
At prayers that night the name of one son was omitted, and Neville’s name was no longer mentioned after Angela ceased to fill Mrs. Tremaine’s place.
Everything had gone on in an orderly manner, and Mrs. Tremaine was particularly gratified that Angela had taken as good care of Isabey as could be desired.
“I feel,” she said to Angela, “that in caring for Captain Isabey we perform a patriotic as well as a pious duty. Some day during this dreadful war it may be returned to my sons.”
“I hope so, if the occasion should come,” answered Angela. “But if I should hear that Neville were wounded he would not be dependent upon strangers. I should go to him whether he sent for me or not, or even if he sent me word not to come, still I should go.”
Mrs. Tremaine turned away pale and silent, as she always was at the rare mention of her eldest-born.
In a day or two letters arrived from Isabey, one to Colonel Tremaine and another to Angela. Lyddon brought them on a bright spring noontime from the post office, where there was an intermittent delivery of letters.
She read the letter and then handed it to Mrs. Tremaine. It was graceful and cordial and full of gratitude. After being passed around it was returned to Angela. Half an hour afterwards Lyddon saw her walk across the lawn and down to where the river ran wine-colored in the old Homeric phrase.
Angela’s right hand was closed, and as she reached the shore, lapped by the bright water, she opened her hand and dropped a hundred tiny bits of paper into the clear green-and-gold water, and stood watching them as they were tossed in the crystalline spray.
“It is Isabey’s letter,” said Lyddon to himself.