“She was unconscious.”
At that answer it seemed as if there could be nothing more of any consequence to him on earth. He asked no further questions, but sat down heavily on a chair—a business-like, green-leather-seated one—which had so often held the form of Felicity as she dictated her circulars, notices, and leaflets.
Bonnybell stood beside him, a slender, silent image of sympathy. How very much sorrier he was than she had expected! What sort of things ought she to say to him? A vague idea of having heard that people sinking into a stunned state from grief ought to be roused crossed her mind. How was he to be roused?
“As long as she was conscious she was always talking of you.”
At that he broke into loud weeping. “If I could have heard her speak just once again—just to tell me that she forgave me!”
“I am sure that she did not think there was anything to forgive.”
“Oh, but there was—plenty.”
He was so evidently going over in acute remorse his past peccadilloes, that Bonnybell fell silent again, divided between a repelled pity—his noisy grief reminded her of Toby, never a pleasing memory—and an uncomfortable wonder whether, in his present frame of mind, she herself might not be a somewhat unwelcome object to him? How curiously tender some men’s consciences were! After all, what had poor old Tom to reproach himself with?—some sly and invariably baffled attempts at caresses, and a few silly letters!
“She said over and over again to me how kind and indulgent you always were to her!”
“Kind, indulgent!” he repeated, from between his hard sobs. “Was that the way she put it? Good God! But it was just like her! There never was such an angel of goodness and gentleness and forbearance! Married five and twenty years—we should have kept our silver wedding this year—and I never had a cross word from her all that time!”