“He used to talk of you,” said Launa.
“Help me!” said the other. “It is all over.”
For some days Launa stayed with her. Lily was more than miserable; she was crushed, and could not bear to be alone.
There was so much inaction, none of those details which have to be fulfilled when anyone dies at home, no work was to be done except the purchasing of black, no beautiful flowers to arrange, no farewell look, painful, yet a comfort, for in the last sleep the wayfarer appears at peace. There was nothing, only a dumb hideous sorrow and remorse, endless torment, weary reflection on a dreadful past, which she would have blotted out if she could, and the tears of repentance wash away nothing.
Some days had passed since the dreadful tidings.
Mrs. Herbert went exhausted to bed, and Launa left her to go home.
Hugh Wainbridge had come to fetch her, and stayed until after tea. Launa was resting when Sylvia came in.
She wandered about the room touching everything until Launa said:
“Sit down, Sylvia, unless you desire to be slain.”