"He hears so quickly," she explained; "I don't want him to know yet."
So they kept on down the drive.
"Dr. Rogers was here this morning…. He brought two other doctors with him…. There is no longer any doubt—it is paralysis of the lower limbs. He will never walk, they think."
They kept on down the drive, Falkner looking before him. He knew that the woman was not crying, would never betray her pain that watery way; but he could not bear to see the misery of those eyes.
"My father the Bishop has written me … spiritual consolation for Ned's illness. Should I feel thankful for the chastening to my rebellious spirit administered to me through my poor boy? Should I thank God for the lash of the whip on my stubborn back?"
Falkner smiled.
"My father the Bishop is a good man, a kind man in his way, yet he never considered my mother—he lived his own life with his own God…. It would surprise him if he knew what I thought about God,—his God, at least."…
Falkner looked at her at last, and they stopped. Afterwards he knew that he already loved Margaret Pole. He, too, had divined that the woman, stricken through her child, was essentially alone in the world, and in her hungry eyes lay the story of the same dreary road over which he had passed. And these two, defeated ones in the riotous world of circumstance, silently, instinctively held out hands across the void and looked at each other with closed lips.
Among the trees the golden haze deepened, and the birds sang. Down below in the village sounded the deep throbs of an engine: the evening train had come from the city. It was the only disturbing note in the peace, the silence. The old house had caught the full western sun, and its dull red bricks glowed. On the veranda the small boy was still caressing the puppy.
"Mother!" a thin voice sounded. Margaret started.