It was a November day, but still and bright. In the west, beyond the heaving expanse of grey water, the sun was going in rosy mists to his setting; the outline of a great liner was black against the horizon; midway in the Channel there were some fishing boats, trawlers, who had put up lights betimes at their mastheads. Her face looked very colorless as she sat there, the deep dull black of her dress made her skin look like snow itself, and her ungloved hands, as they rested on her lap, might have been the sculptured hands carved on the marble breast of some recumbent figure in a crypt.
“I have often wished to be alone and free,” she thought. “I have my wish.” And like most wishes in their fulfilment, this wish of hers was not very sweet.
“May I speak to you?” said a man’s voice, which thrilled through the innermost nerves of her being.
Instinctively she rose. Hurstmanceaux was standing as he had stood six months before; he had his face to the sunset; its light shone in his blue eyes; he uncovered his head; he did not touch her hand.
“I have come from Faldon to see you,” he said. “I read of your mother’s death.”
She was silent; she had no idea what to say in answer.
“Did she suffer?”
“No; happily, not much.”
“You buried her at Vale Royal?”
“Yes; your cousin Roxhall gave permission.”