The withering contempt of this remark was decisive.
But we are anticipating.
Mrs. Ferrier found the priest at home, and gave him the letter to read. He read it attentively, but came to a different conclusion from hers. He did not tell her so, though, for it was evident that Annette wished them to think that her husband was dead. Her former letters had prepared him to suspect a state of things very near the truth.
After a long conversation, in which F. Chevreuse perceived that his visitor was lingering and hesitating in an unusual manner, Mrs. Ferrier at last called his attention to the concluding sentences of the letter.
He read it a second time, glanced up through his spectacles at his [pg 683] visitor, read it again, and gave the letter back, quite uncomprehending. He was, doubtless, the only person in Crichton who could have been unconscious of her meaning.
“You may think me foolish, father, at my time of life, to be thinking of marrying again,” she said deprecatingly. “But you have no idea how lonely I am. Honora will soon have a house of her own, anybody can see that; Annette won't come back, and Louis won't live here, after what has happened. I have nothing to do but wander from room to room of my great house, and think how awfully lonesome I am, and almost wish that I had a little cabin that I could fill. I don't feel as if I were in a house, but as if I were out somewhere. Many a time I've gone and sat in my chamber-closet, just to feel my elbows hit something.”
She paused, and F. Chevreuse said, “Yes!” as sympathizingly as he could, wondering greatly what was to come.
“John is a decent man, and my equal in everything but money,” she went on.
“Oh! it's John!” F. Chevreuse exclaimed, light breaking in.
Mrs. Ferrier dropped her eyes and smiled.