“I will tell him in my next letter,” said Emmie.
The old man turned his thin nose and dim eyes, and looked at her in startled wonder.
“Do you mean,” he said, “that you are still writing to him?”
“Of course I am,” she said, with a gasp. “I write every week now, instead of once a fortnight. Naturally there will be a great many letters—counting those that Mr. Twining had taken with him on the Heather Bell. And Tony won’t get the rest till he arrives at Hobart. But he’ll like having them, no matter how many they are”; and she tried to smile. “He can read them—or glance through them—on the voyage home.” Then her voice broke. “Oh, dear Mr. Dyke, you have hurt me so dreadfully. Why did you seem surprised? Why did you look at me like that—as if you thought it was useless to go on writing to him?”
“My dearest Emmie, nothing of the sort.” The old fellow made a gallant effort to speak firmly and cheerfully. “You are absolutely right. I don’t know what I was thinking about. My mind had wandered—it does now, occasionally. Yes, tell him that Sturgess has been to London and learnt a fresh tale. Tell him all the news. Abertors! Don’t forget to say that Abertors has been let furnished.”
No one believed really, except her. Only she who did not dare to doubt, contrived to go on believing. The others merely pretended. In the village the kindly friendly little shop people assumed a pitying expression that betrayed them at once.
“Mr. Dyke du sim poorly. Very old he is, for sure,” said Mrs. Prince, the post-mistress, to Miss Verinder, who was buying stamps. “A great age it is—and now what with his grief to—”
Miss Verinder, so firm as to seem stern and haughty, said that Mr. Dyke was feeling anxiety but no grief. Why should he grieve when there was nothing to grieve about?
“Oh, have yu a’ had good tidings, miss?” asked the post-mistress eagerly.