“It must have been a great blow to you,” I said sympathetically, for I liked the old lady, and realised how deeply she had suffered.
“Yes, but to poor Mary most of all,” she said. “They were so happy together; and she was so devoted to him.”
This was scarcely the truth; but mothers are often deceived as to their daughters’ domestic felicity. A wife is always prone to hide her sorrows from her parents as far as possible. Therefore the old lady had no doubt been the victim of natural deception.
“Yes,” I agreed; “it was a tragic and terrible thing. The mystery is quite unsolved.”
“To me, the police are worse than useless,” she said, in her slow, weak voice; “they don’t seem to have exerted themselves in the least after that utterly useless inquest, with its futile verdict. As far as I can gather, not one single point has been cleared up.”
“No,” I said; “not one.”
“And my poor Mary!” exclaimed old Mrs. Mivart; “she is beside herself with grief. Time seems to increase her melancholy, instead of bringing forgetfulness, as I hoped it would.”
“Where is Mrs. Courtenay?” I asked.
“Here. She’s been back with me for nearly a month. It was to see her, speak with her, and give me an opinion that I asked you to come down.”
“Is she unwell?”