"Thank you. I am a little tired, and am not able to express my sense of your goodness to me during this interview. But I am, I assure you, grateful. I am not thinking of marriage. You will, I hope, be able to get everything into order soon. I must go now. Good-bye."
He saw her into the cab waiting for her at the door, and then walked back to his private office.
"A remarkable woman," he mused, "a remarkable and very fine woman. But I suppose she's mad. There's a screw loose in the heads of the Davenport family, and 'Evil communications corrupt good manners.' Perhaps she took the taint from him. There was no screw loose in his business head. He was as sharp as razors, and as close as wax. I think she's mad, or perhaps she's only a rogue. I suspect his money was not over clean, but that's no affair of mine. She married Davenport, every one said, for his money. She lived with him all these years for his money, every one said--although, for the life of me, I can't see what good it did him or her; and now he's gone, and the money is all hers, and she talks of doing away with it. Oh, she must be mad, for I don't see where the roguery could come in, unless--unless---- Ah, that may be it. By Jove, I'm sure that's it! Byron says, 'Believe a woman or an epitaph?' But he didn't mean it. Byron hardly ever meant what he said, and never what he wrote. It's a pity he never turned his attention to law. He never, as far as my reading has gone, did anything with law except to break all of it he could lay his hands on--civil and divine--especially divine, for that's cheap, and he was poor. She's a very fine woman, though. But what is this I was saying? Oh, yes. The only explanation of her conduct is that Blake, the blackguard Blake, has asked her, or is going to ask her, to marry him, and that she wants to test him by saying she is about to give away all her money to charitable institutions. That's the root of the mystery. And then, when she marries him, she'll throw all the money into his lap, and he'll spend it for her, and gamble it away and beat her. Anyway, he can't make quite a pauper of her, for even she herself can't destroy her marriage settlement, and the trustees won't stand any nonsense. Always 'believe a woman and an epitaph.' I wonder what kind of an epitaph will she put up to Davenport? Something about his name always reminding her of him--that she couldn't stand it, and so had to change it."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
[THE WIDOW'S THEORY OF THE CASE.]
When Mrs. Davenport got back to the hotel, she inquired if any telegram had come for her, and was told not. She seemed displeased, disappointed. She asked questions, and discovered that it would be next to impossible that her telegram could reach London before the departure of the morning mail. This put things right, for she felt certain that if Blake got her message he would have replied. He was on his way, and would be in Dublin that evening. In Dublin, yes; but how should he know where to seek her? She spoke to the manager, to whom she explained her difficulty.
If the lady telegraphed to the mail-boat at Holyhead, the gentleman would be sure to get the message.
She thanked the manager, and adopted his suggestion. The day was unpleasant under foot and overhead. There were no friends upon whom she wished to call. The ten years of secluded life at Kilcash House had severed all connection with old acquaintances, and she had made no new ones.
She remained by herself in the sitting-room. She did not even try to read. She sat in the window, and kept her eyes turned towards the busy street. It could not be said she watched the crowds and vehicles, or was even conscious of their existence. She kept her eyes in their direction--that was all.
Luncheon was brought in. She sat at the table for a quarter of an hour, ate something, and then went back to the old place at the window. It was dark before dinner appeared, but she did not ring for lights. When dinner was over, it was close to the time for the arrival of the mail. She put on her bonnet, and went to Westland Row terminus. The weather was still unpleasant, but she did not care, did not heed it. She had not long to wait in that dismal, squalid cavern at the foot of the stone steps leading down from the platform. The train rumbled in, and the passengers began to descend and pass between the double row of people. Suddenly she stepped forward and touched a man on the arm. He turned quickly, and looked at her, exclaiming: