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Updated: June 4, 2025
Nevill Tyson's face became instantly overclouded. Louis leaned a little nearer and said in a husky, uneven voice, "Surely you don't mind that impertinent woman?" "Not a bit," said Mrs. Nevill Tyson. "She's got a villainous seat." "Then what are you thinking about?" "I'm thinking what horrid hard lines it is that they won't let me hunt.
Stanistreet certainly knew a great deal; but he was the last man in the world to make a pedantic display of his knowledge; and Mr. Wilcox's prejudices remained the only obstacle to Tyson's marriage. It was one iron will against another, and the battle was long. Mr. Wilcox had the advantage of position.
It came over him with a sort of shock that this woman was Tyson's wife, irrevocably, until one or other of them died. And Tyson was not the sort of man to die for anybody's convenience but his own. At last they swayed into the courtyard at Thorneytoft. "Thank heaven we're alive!" he said, as he followed her into the house. Mrs. Nevill Tyson turned on the threshold.
"I was in the City then, sir, serving my time at Tyson's." He dropped his eyes. He had crushed Sir Peter with proof, but he was too polite to be a witness of his discomfiture. "Tyson's Tyson's." Sir Peter's tongue uttered the name mechanically. His mind no longer followed Vance; it was busy with the loveliest woman in Leicestershire. Mr. Vance smiled.
Amongst them they had ended by burying Mrs. Nevill Tyson up to her neck in a fairly substantial pile of pebbles. It only needed one more stone to complete the work. Still, as I said before, Mrs. Nevill Tyson's enemies were not particularly anxious to throw it. This was reserved for another hand. It was impossible for Mrs.
He lay down again quietly, and from time to time his lips moved, whether in imprecation or prayer it was hard to say; but it struck Stanistreet that Tyson's mind had veered again to the orthodoxy of terror. There was silence overhead too. They were putting her under chloroform. Another hour and the window-panes glimmered as if a tissue of liquid air were spread between them and the darkness.
"You must know that your marriage did nothing for you that was not very well done before." "Yes. It seems to me that there was a time when I had an immortal soul. That was before the Framley episode. You remember? An edifying experience." Stanistreet assented. He knew the horrible story, of a mad boy and a bad woman. Perhaps it accounted for the ugliest facts in Tyson's character.
Hence no doubt her laughter and her triumph. But this again was symbolism. He determined to sleep on it. Like all delightful things, Mrs. Nevill Tyson's laughter was short-lived. When Tyson went up to bed that night between twelve and one, he found his wife sitting by her bedroom fire in the half-darkness.
So she would sit and chat, working the while with the quickest, neatest of fingers, till Catherine knew as much about Jenny Tyson's Whinborough lover, and Farmer Tredall's troubles with his son, and the way in which that odious woman Molly Redgold bullied her little consumptive husband, as Agnes knew, which was saying a good deal. About themselves Agnes was frankness itself.
Stanistreet, however, said nothing. He was absorbed in chalking the end of his cue. His silence gave Tyson no chance; it left too much to the imagination. "Have you any objection?" "Well, isn't the lady a little young for a fine old country gentleman like yourself?" Tyson's small blue eyes twinkled, for he prided himself on being able to take a joke at his own expense.
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