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Updated: June 19, 2025
The sight of Majendie revived in her memories of the happy past. "Mr. Majendie, why have I not met you here before?" Some instinct told her that if she wished him to approve of her, she must approach him with respect. He had grown terribly unapproachable with time. He smiled in spite of himself. "We did meet, more than three years ago." "I remember."
She had played off one of Lawson's little weaknesses against the other; had set, for instance, his fantastic love of eating against his sordid little tendency to drink. Lawson was now a model of sobriety. And as she kept Lawson straight without his knowing it, she helped Majendie, too, without his knowing it, to hold his miserable head up. She ignored, resolutely, his attitude of dejection.
Beyond that she felt nothing, no amazement, no sorrow, no anger, nor any sort of pang. If she had been aware of the trembling of her body, she would have attributed it to the agitation of a disagreeable encounter. She shivered. She thought there was a draught somewhere; but she did not rouse herself to shut the window. At eight o'clock a telegram from Majendie was brought to her.
"You would have said, then, that he must have received a severe shock?" "Certainly certainly I would." Hannay responded quite cheerfully in his immense relief. It was what they were all trying for, to make poor Mrs. Majendie believe that her husband's illness was to be attributed solely to the shock of the child's death. "Do you think that shock could have had anything to do with his illness?"
Nothing," said Lady Cayley, "can make up for the loss of a good man's love. Except," she added, "a good woman's." "Quite so," he assented coldly, with horror at his perception of her drift. His coldness riled her. "Who," said she with emphasis, "is the lady who keeps making those awful eyes at us over Pussy's top-knot?" "That lady," said Majendie, "as it happens, is my wife."
Majendie uttered the little tender moan with which he was used to greet a pathetic spectacle. "He sounds," said Anne to herself, "as if he were sorry." He looked it, too; he seemed the very spirit of contrition, as he sat in the cab, with Anne's boots on his knees, guarding them with a caressing hand.
It scattered the whole mass into drifting strands and flying wings and soft falling feathers, and, under them, little tender curls of flaxen down. With another stroke of the brush and a shake of her head, Anne's hair rose in one whorl and fell again, and broke into a shower of woven spray; pure gold in every thread. Majendie held out a shy hand and caught the receding curl of it.
He told me so." "When?" "At Scarby." Majendie scowled as he cursed Hannay in his heart. "He was a brute," he said, "to tell you that." "He wasn't. He was kind. He knew." "What did he know?" "That I would rather think that I was bad than that you were." "And would you?" "Yes I would now. Mr. Hannay spared me all he could. He didn't tell me that if you had died at Scarby it would have been my fault.
She prayed God to be merciful and spare her that. And on the morning of the fifth day Majendie woke from his terrible sleep. He could see light. Towards evening his breathing softened and grew soundless. And on the dawn of the sixth day he called her name, "Nancy." Then she knew that for a little time he would be given back to her.
Her heart was set on having those little sums to send him every week; for that was the only way she could hope to approach him of her own movement. She loved the curt little notes in which Majendie acknowledged the receipt of each postal order. She tied them together with white ribbon, and treasured them in a little box under lock and key.
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