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"Of course I did, because he has been abroad," the girl said, laughing nervously. "But he's in London now. Well, good-bye, Mrs. Chigwin; good-bye, Mrs. Bundlecombe; you'll go in and comfort granny a bit when I'm gone, won't you? She's been fretting this morning about my going away." "Bless you, love," said Mrs. Chigwin. "I'll go in every day if you think it will do her any good.
I was making the same observation at home this morning." "With regard to your mother?" "Oh, no. My mother died when I was little more than a boy. But I have an aunt living with me, who must be nearly seventy years old, and she was telling me to-day that she could scarcely see to read." "Oh," said Lettice, with a rush of blood to her face, "is Mrs. Bundlecombe your aunt?"
There was a letter from her before Christmas, to say that she was married and traveling abroad." Mrs. Bundlecombe shook her head dubiously from side to side, and continued the motion for some time. She was thinking how much money it would have taken to buy that sealskin cloak; but, however far her doubts may have carried her, she did not give utterance to them in words.
Chigwin got up and fetched a glass of water, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and audibly expressing her fear that Milly's exertions had been "too much for her." But Mrs. Bundlecombe sat erect, with a look of something like disapproval upon her comely old face.
Alan came over one day early in February to see his aunt, and make sure that she was as comfortable as she professed to be. It was a characteristic proceeding on his part. Mrs. Bundlecombe, as the reader may have observed, was not very poetic in her taste, and not so refined in manners as most of the women with whom Alan now associated.
"I do hope that Mr. Beadon, or whatever her husband's name is, will come back before very long. She must be fretting for him, and fretting's so bad for her." "You think there is a husband to come, do you?" asked Mrs. Bundlecombe, mysteriously. "Why not, Bessy? She says she's married, and she wears a wedding-ring; and her clothes is beautiful." "I'd like to see her marriage lines," said Mrs.
The old lady seemed to take this phrase as a kind of comprehensive and dignified apology for the past, which ought to be met in a conciliatory manner. "Well, well, Mrs. Bundlecombe, bygones is bygones, and there's no more to be said about it. Not but what principle is principle, be it twopence or twenty pounds." "Allowance must be made, Mrs. Harrington, for the feelings of the moment."
"And we've nothing to go upon, Bessy, and I'm sure the idea would never have entered my head but for you." "Why did she burst out crying when you talked of her husband and children coming down here?" asked Mrs. Bundlecombe, acutely. "It may be that she isn't to blame; but there's something wrong somewhere. She's hurried and flurried and worried." And this was true.
Bundlecombe, whom she had sometimes seen over the counter in her shop at Thorley. So she received her with gentle cordiality. Mrs. Bundlecombe showed symptoms of embarrassment at the quiet friendliness of Lettice's manners.
Lettice's arms were round her neck, and the young mother, feeling herself in the presence of a comforter at last, let loose her pent-up misery and sobbed aloud. "Where is he? your husband?" said Lettice, remembering that she had heard of Milly's marriage from Mrs. Bundlecombe some time ago, and conjecturing that something had gone wrong, but not yet guessing the whole truth.
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