Her spiritual vanity was hungry and miserable. Surely, though she would not be his wife, she had been John's best friend!--his good angel. Her heart clamored for some warmer, gratefuller word--that might justify her to herself. And, instead, she realized for the first time the desert she had herself created, the loneliness she had herself imposed. And with prophetic terror she saw in front of her the daily self-reproach that her self-esteem might not be able to kill.
"Tell Oliver--"
Did it mean "if I die, tell Oliver"? But John never said anything futile or superfluous in his life. Was it not rather the beginning of some last word to Oliver that he could not finish? Oh, if her son had indeed contributed to his death!
She shivered under the thought; hurrying recollections of Mr. Barrington's visit, of the Herald article of that morning, of Oliver's speeches and doings during the preceding month, rushing through her mind. She had already expressed her indignation about the Herald article to Oliver that morning, on the drive which had been so tragically interrupted.
"Dear Lady Lucy!"
She looked up. Sir James Chide stood beside her.
The first thing he did was to draw her to her feet, and then to move her chair into the shade.
"You have lost more than any of us," he said, as she sank back into it, and, holding out his hand, he took hers into his warm compassionate clasp. He had never thought that she behaved well to Ferrier, and he knew that she had behaved vilely to Diana; but his heart melted within him at the sight of a woman--and a gray-haired woman--in grief.
"I hear you found Broadstone's letter?" He glanced at it on her lap. "I too have heard from him. The messenger, as soon as he knew I was here, produced a letter for me that he was to have taken on to Lytchett. It is a nice letter--a very nice letter, as far as that goes. Broadstone wanted me to use my influence--with John--described his difficulties--"
Chide's hand suddenly clinched on his knee.