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Updated: June 19, 2025
"My dearest Lily, we have all been made so unhappy " So far Mrs Boyce got, sitting close to Lily and striving to look into her face; but Lily, with a slightly heightened colour, turned sharp round upon one of the Boyce girls, tearing Mrs Boyce's commiseration into the smallest shreds. "Minnie," she said, speaking quite loud, almost with girlish ecstasy, "what do you think Tartar did yesterday?
In his normal health he would never have dared so to speak to her. But of late, during long fits of feverish brooding intensified by her return home he had vowed to himself to speak his mind. "Aren't you ashamed of them?" he repeated, as she was silent. She looked up. "I am not ashamed of anything I did to save Hurd, if that is what you mean, papa." Mr. Boyce's anger grew.
Leven stared. Miss Boyce's speech seemed to him to have no sort of
All I know is, Wharton shall be free to use this house just as he pleases during his canvassing, whatever the Raeburns may say." He bent forward and poked the somewhat sluggish fire with a violence which hindered rather than helped it. Mrs. Boyce's smile had quite vanished.
"She has had no time to answer. Didn't I tell you I only posted the letter to-day?" "Then you've heard nothing more about Leonard Boyce except that he has got the V.C.?" "No. What more is there to hear?" Even Bettys are sly folk. It behooved me to counter with equal slyness. I wondered whether she had known all along of Boyce's mishap, or had been informed of it by his mother.
Had not the incident weighed on him ever since, wounding an admiration and sympathy which seemed to have stolen upon him in the dark, during these few weeks since he had made Miss Boyce's acquaintance, so strong and startling did he all in a moment feel them to be? And then to intrude upon her thus, out of nothing apparently but sheer moth-like incapacity to keep away!
Boyce's abrupt retirement from Wellingsford before the war; his cancellation by default of his engagement; his morbid desire, a year ago, to keep secret his presence in his own house; Gedge's veiled threat to me in the street to use a way "that'll knock all you great people of Wellingsford off your high horses;" his extraordinary interview with Boyce; his generally expressed hatred of Boyce.
And then took place a scene which it is beyond my power to describe. I can only picture it to myself from Boyce's broken, self-accusing talk. He was going away. She would never see him again until he returned to marry another woman. She was making her last frantic bid for happiness. She wept and sobbed and cajoled and upbraided You know what women at the end of their tether can do.
"I suppose so, sir," said Marigold. "That's what his chauffeur says. He got out of the car in order to sit by the side of the canal by the lock gates. He fell in, sir. He's drowned." It is Christmas morning, 1916, the third Christmas of the war. The tragedy of Boyce's death happened six months ago. Since then I have been very ill. The shock, too great for my silly heart, nearly killed me.
"Ruth, when you say your prayers to-night, pray God to comfort the poor, and to punish the cruel!" "Yes, miss," said the girl, timidly, and ready to cry. The lantern she held flashed its light on Miss Boyce's white face and tall form. Till her mistress turned away she did not dare to move; that dark eye, so wide, full, and living, roused in her a kind of terror.
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