Hester came in with the breakfast. She pointed to a letter among other things on the tray. It was addressed to Anne, in Geoffrey’s handwriting, and it contained these words:
“My father died yesterday. Write your orders for your mourning. The boy will take them. You are not to trouble yourself to go to London. Somebody is to come here to you from the shop.”
Anne dropped the paper on her lap without looking up. At the same moment Hester Dethridge’s slate was passed stealthily between her eyes and the note—with these words traced on it. “His mother is coming to-day. His brother has been telegraphed from Scotland. He was drunk last night. He’s drinking again. I know what that means. Look out, missus—look out.”
Anne signed to her to leave the room. She went out, pulling the door to, but not closing it behind her.
There was another ring at the gate bell. Once more Anne went to the window. Only the lad, this time; arriving to take his orders for the day. He had barely entered the garden when he was followed by the postman with letters. In a minute more Geoffrey’s voice was heard in the passage, and Geoffrey’s heavy step ascended the wooden stairs. Anne hurried across the room to draw the bolts. Geoffrey met her before she could close the door.
“A letter for you,” he said, keeping scrupulously out of the room. “I don’t wish to force your inclinations—I only request you to tell me who it’s from.”
His manner was as carefully subdued as ever. But the unacknowledged distrust in him (when he looked at her) betrayed itself in his eye.
She glanced at the handwriting on the address.
“From Blanche,” she answered.
He softly put his foot between the door and the post—and waited until she had opened and read Blanche’s letter.