René did not reply. He remained seated in the armchair, after the light was out, staring at the still leaping fire.
XIV
Three days after Mrs. Burbage went away, Anne received a telegram, summoning her at once to London. The hours spent in travelling, and reaching the nursing-home, passed like an uneasy nightmare, with a background of dread to be realized, and by the time she arrived at the house in Wimpole Street, her friend was unconscious.
She died a few minutes after Anne was admitted to her bedside.
Of the time that followed, Anne had no clear idea. She felt dazed and uncomprehending, and when by the end of the week, she found herself back again in the silent house at Dymfield, it was to wonder vaguely how she had arrived, and in what a solicitor’s letter which awaited her, could possibly concern her.
The writer, who signed himself William Chaplin, expressed his intention of calling upon her next day, on business.
Anne received him the following afternoon, standing before the fire in the library, very slim and tall in her black dress.
Instinctively she had taken refuge in this room, as the one place unconnected with Mrs. Burbage; the room that held no memories of her.
The grey-haired man who entered, shook hands with her rather impressively, and sat down, with the remark that she was no doubt acquainted with the contents of Mrs. Burbage’s will.
“No,” returned Anne, “except that I understood that everything was to go to Mr. Crosby, her nephew.”