“Yes; she was shriven and anointed, thank God; she could not receive Viaticum.”
Ralph did not know whether he was glad or sorry at that news. It was a proper proceeding at any rate; as proper as the candles and the shroud and the funeral rites. As regards grief, he did not feel it yet; but he was aware of a profound sensation in his soul, as of a bruise.
There was silence for a moment or two; then the wind bellowed suddenly in the chimney, the tall window gave a crack of sound, and the smoke eddied out into the room. Ralph turned round.
“They are with her still,” said Sir James; “we can go up presently.”
The other shook his head abruptly.
“No,” he said, “I will wait until to-morrow. Which is my room?”
“Your old room,” said his father. “I have had a truckle-bed set there for your man. Will you find your way? I must stay here for Mistress Atherton.”
Ralph nodded sharply, and went out, down the hill.
It was half an hour more before Beatrice appeared; and then Sir James looked up from his chair at the sound of a footstep and saw her coming up the matted floor. Her face was steady and resolute, but there were dark patches under her eyes, for she had not slept for two nights.