"From this you will gather that the widow and I are on very good terms with each other; and such, indeed, is the case. On first coming here I arranged with the elder Mrs. Melray that the hour from twelve till one each day, weather permitting, should be devoted to taking Freddy out for a run in the fresh air. There is a big old-fashioned garden at the back of Loudwater House to which we sometimes limit our constitutional; but more frequently we make our way into the meadows which skirt one shore of the river and extend for miles, where the air is the purest imaginable. Well, on the third morning, as I was getting ready to go out, young Mrs. Melray came to me. 'I should so much like to go out now and then with you and Freddy, Miss Sudlow, if you will kindly allow me to accompany you,' she said. 'Since my husband's death my life has necessarily been a very quiet one. I have hardly anyone to talk to and I go nowhere. It would be a charity to let me join you.'
"What could I say except that I should be very glad of her company, and since then she has made a point of joining me in my walk every other day, or thereabouts. Usually she has not much to say on these occasions, and, as you know, I do not shine as a conversationalist, so that it sometimes happens that we pace along for a quarter of an hour, side by side, without a word passing between us; but she seems quite content that it should be so. Now and again, however, she expands a little and begins to talk of her own accord. In this way I have heard a good deal about her early home life at Solchester, together with sundry particulars concerning her school-days; but no syllable bearing, directly or indirectly, on the existence of any possible lover in the days before her late husband asked her to be his wife. Her mention of Mr. Melray is of the rarest; but when she does speak of him, it is more as if she were referring to some near and dear elderly relative than to a husband whom she has lost. I see no reason for doubting that she cherishes a very warm regard for his memory. To the tragic circumstances of his death she never alludes even in the remotest degree. One can well imagine that for her the subject is too dreadful a one to bear talking about. It is impossible to help feeling sorry for her when one calls to mind the nature of the calamity which has overshadowed her young life.
"Loudwater House has few visitors. Occasionally someone calls upon the dowager Mrs. Melray, and since my arrival. two of young Mrs. Melray's former associates at Solchester have been to visit her. The people we see most of are staid, practical-minded Mr. Cray, who has been head-clerk to the firm for the last quarter of a century, and Mr. Richard Dyson, a kinsman of the Messrs. Melray, who has been in the employ of the firm since he was quite a youth. These two Mr. Melray frequently brings upstairs with him to dinner. Knowing so little of the business as he does, and liking it still less, he is almost wholly dependent on them for its conduct and efficient working. You will remember Mr. Dyson as a particularly good-looking young man, with a cool dégagé manner, stylishly dressed, and with the air of one who knows how to appraise his personal advantages at their full value. He is a great favourite with the elder Mrs. Melray--a result probably due in part to his own pleasant qualities, and in part to the fact that he is the only son of a niece whom in bygone years the dowager regarded almost in the light of a daughter. As his kinsman's assistant in business, he has proved to be everything that could be wished--so Mrs. Melray herself gives me to understand--and there is little doubt that, had Mr. James Melray lived, he would, in the course of a few years, have been made a partner in the firm.
"But if Richard Dyson is a favourite with his own relatives, the same cannot be said of him with regard to his kinsman's widow. That there is a marked coolness between the two cannot escape the notice of anyone who has eyes to see. They address each other no oftener than is absolutely necessary, and on those evenings when Mr. Dyson dines with us Mrs. Melray retires to her room an hour or more before her usual time. But whatever this state of things may be the outcome of in no wise concerns me. In our frequent walks together Mr. Dyson's name is never mentioned between the widow and myself.
"And now, my dear Phil, I think I have told you all there is to tell that would be likely in any way to interest you. After having been used for a long time to Miss Mawby's restless peregrinations, life at Loudwater House is, in comparison, pleasant and home-like. Dull I have not yet found it; indeed, on that point I have no fear whatever. It seems hard to believe that so short a time ago a tragedy so dire was enacted under the roof of this old mansion, where already the wheels of life move as noiselessly and methodically as if actuated by clockwork, and where one might easily imagine, but for the black dresses of the ladies, that nothing out of the common ever had happened or ever could happen. Has the drama, then, come to an end? Is there nothing more to follow? or has the curtain yet to rise on another act? Chi vivra verra. Not a word more; but, instead, a kiss--nay, a score. (Oh, fie! fie!)
"Fan."
[CHAPTER XII.]
MRS. MELRAY THE YOUNGER IN A NEW LIGHT.
One morning, about a fortnight subsequently to the date of the letter embodied in our last chapter, Winslade was surprised to receive by post a somewhat bulky package addressed to him in Fanny's familiar hand. He opened it wonderingly, and his wonder was in nowise lessened by what he found therein. First of all there was a long letter from Fanny, and, secondly, a manuscript in a different writing, tied round with narrow white ribbon.
After requesting that Phil would not open the manuscript till he should have read what she had to say, Fanny went on as follows: