quoted Miss Latimer, “and I’ve often seen that work in many ways which shallow sentimentalists do not recognise.”
“I know that few lunatics who eventually fall into terrible crime have not given forewarnings which, if heeded, might have spared them and their victims,” Mr. Somerset conceded. “But still, under all the circumstances, I feel as if it is our first duty to consider Mrs. Challoner and to save her from the abuse and insult which her interference on this score may probably bring.”
But Lucy determined on her course, and she wrote a brief account of what had happened during Clementina’s stay and had been discovered since her departure.
“At best there will be no answer,” remarked Mr. Somerset.
“That will be very rude,” said Miss Latimer.
“I shall be quite satisfied with that,” returned the gentleman significantly.
They were still awaiting developments when, a morning or two afterwards, the door bell summoned Miss Latimer to receive a bright-faced, pleasant-voiced woman, who inquired for “Mrs. Challoner,” and asked to be announced as “‘Mrs. May from Deal—Jarvist May’s widow.’ Mrs. Challoner will recollect me.”
No announcement was needed. Lucy, who, according to her new nervous habit, had been listening on the stairs, was instantly sobbing in the arms of this woman, who had gone through all the worst which Lucy had to fear. The blessed tears had come!
To “Jarvist May’s widow” Lucy found it easy to confide the fears—nay, the absolute despair—which now filled her concerning Charlie’s fate. To none of the others had she done this. They had tendered their hopes to her, and she, little knowing how faint they felt them, had made as though she could at least entertain these. In that way they had sought to comfort her, and she had accepted their kind intention, even as gentle hearts accept the little useless gifts of childish good-will. But this widowed woman brought consolation up from great depths lying calm beneath whatever wind might rise.
“God has got you, and God has got your husband, wherever he is. How can you be apart, my dear? Why, dear, if God has taken him to Himself, he may be nearer to you now than in the days when he was living here and had to go out to his business, leaving you at home. And if he’s still somewhere on earth, dear, don’t you hope he’s taking care of himself and keeping bright and cheery in the faith that you are doing the same? If he is living and can’t send word to you, that must feel as bad for him as for you to get no word. Don’t you hope that he trusts you are keeping up? And as he is certainly all right—SOMEWHERE—you’ve just got to keep up for his sake. Yes, my dear, cry, cry”—as Lucy looked up with a piteous attempt to smile. “He wouldn’t mind that so long as it does you good and washes the clouds out of your heart. That’s what tears are meant for—to make us smile the sweeter afterwards.”