I went home and waited for the week. I was excited, I even felt
nervous. I was not a particularly pleasant companion for my mother
during these days of waiting. I felt irritable, and the merest trifle
made me speak crossly. The boys (we always called my big grown-up
brothers "the boys") twitted me on my London visit. They said my new
hat had not improved my temper, and, by the way, where was my new hat?
I said, if it came home it would be in a week. I threw great mystery
into my voice when I made this remark, but the boys were essentially
matter-of-fact, and did not pursue the inquiry.
During this week my mother talked a great deal about Cousin Geoffrey.
At first she seemed almost afraid to ask me what had taken place during
the time I spent with him, but soon she got over her reluctance, and
then she was only too desirous to learn even the most remote particulars
that I could give her.
She both laughed and cried over my account of my interview.
"Just like Geoffrey!" she exclaimed, when I quoted his remarks about art
and artists. "Just like Geoffrey," she said again, when I told her
about the mutton-chop cooked by his own hands, and the delicate and rare
wine served in the tall Venetian glasses.
My mother seemed to know his home well; she asked about the position of
certain pieces of furniture, and in particular she spoke about the Paul
Veronese. _She_ knew its value well enough--she was no artist, but she
could appreciate its merits. Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes grew
bright as she spoke of it.
"Ah, Rosamund," she said, "I helped him to unpack it--long ago--long,
long ago."
When I told my mother how Cousin Geoffrey said she was the only relative
who was not kind, she turned her head away.
I knew why she did this--she did not want me to see the tears in her
eyes.
The week passed.
I got up early on the morning which saw its completion, and went
down-stairs myself to answer the postman's ring.
There was no letter for me. I did not cry, nor show disappointment in
any way. On the contrary I was particularly cheerful, only that day I
would not talk at all about Cousin Geoffrey.
In the evening my father returned by an earlier train than usual; my
brothers had not come back with him. He came straight into our little
drawing-room without removing his muddy boots, as his usual custom was.
My mother and I had just lighted the lamp; the curtains were drawn. My
mother was bending over her eternal mending and darning.
When my father entered the room my mother scarcely raised her head. I
did--I was about to remark that he was home in specially good time, when
I noticed something strange in his face. He raised his eyebrows, and
glanced significantly towards the door.
I knew he wanted me to leave the room; he had something to say to my
mother.
I went away. My father and mother remained alone together for about a
quarter of an hour. Then he came out of the drawing-room, called to me
to get supper ready at once, and went up to his own room.
I helped our one maid to put the dishes on the table, and then rushed
into the drawing-room to my mother.
She was sitting gazing into the fire. A stocking she had been darning
lay on her lap. Her face was very pale, and when she turned round at my
step, I saw by her eyes that she had just wiped tears away from them.
"Rosamund," she said, in her gentle, somewhat monotonous voice, "my
child, you will be disappointed--disappointed of your hope. Cousin
Geoffrey is dead."