It was the silence in the house, all that afternoon and evening, which
frightened them. They were left to themselves, there was no sign of
Lydia; there was no sound in the house but the sounds they made
themselves. Now and then one of them would get up and go restlessly over
to the window: but though they debated whether they should hail a
passer-by in the street they feared too greatly the consequences of the
scandal. Whatever happened, this thing must remain a secret for ever; on
that point they were agreed and decided. This consideration kept them
from the violence they might otherwise have attempted. No one must
know ... poor Lydia ... her shame was their shame ... madness in the
family.... So they kept silent; meekness was the only prudence. Weary,
they realized that they were old, and looked at one another with a kind
of pity. They spoke very little. Their lives stretched out behind them,
enviable in their secure monotony. Never had they envisaged the
grotesque as a possible element. The only grotesque that had had a place
in their minds, was death; and that, by virtue of much precedent, was
sanctioned into conformity.
“She’s got the better of us,” said Emily once.
“No, no, no,” said Bertie with sudden energy; he could not admit it.
“No, no,” he said again, getting up and walking about. “_No_,” he said,
striking with his fist into the palm of the other hand.
They waited till the evil hours should have passed and the normal be
reasserted.