Delsie by Joan Smith

other things. What did Max think of Sir Harold’s paper on Goethe? Hearing only one word in ten, Delsie was struck with the odd fact that Sir Harold had no small talk—he discussed only philosophy and weighty matters of eternal interest, while his wife was just the opposite. She rattled away about the flowers or a gown or a servant, but hadn’t a word to say on her husband’s conversation. What an odd pair, she smiled inwardly—but not so odd as Mr. Grayshott and myself.
    After luncheon, she was again led to deVigne’s carriage, and the short drive down the hill to the Cottage was executed. She sat silent, thinking her own wandering thoughts, while her finger played with the wedding ring. It fit perfectly. As they turned in at the gateway he said, “This is the worst of it. It will soon be over with,” in a bracing way.
    It was over sooner than either of them thought. They were met inside the door by the doctor, who told them Mr. Grayshott had passed quietly away in his sleep half an hour before. It was as though a great weight slipped from her back. She felt light, giddy with relief. Perhaps she had been harboring the dread that he might recover, that she would actually have to live with that shell of a man.
    "I'll take Mrs. Grayshott home, then,” deVigne said. He too sounded relieved.
    “This is my home now,” she pointed out, with a downcast look at the Cottage.
    “There will be no need to spend the night here. It is not fit to live in yet. Lady Jane had your bag taken to her place. You and Roberta will spend the night there, and come here tomorrow or the next day. You won’t want to be alone tonight.”
    She didn’t want particularly to be with a stranger either. “Couldn’t I go back to the village?” she asked.
    “This business is already irregular enough that we shouldn’t add unnecessarily to it,” he pointed out, kindly but firmly. “You are leaving that life behind you. Don’t look back.”
    The advice, she supposed, was good. She had often enough wished she were out of it. Back into the carriage, which already seemed to be second nature to her. There was no feeling of grandeur attaching to it now, but only a welcome haven from the brisk winds of November. They went at once to Lady Jane.
    The Dower House was a stone building like the Hall. It was three stories high, done in a Gothic style, lancet windows, pointed roof, and even miniature flying buttresses, ornamental very likely, as it was not huge enough to actually require that support. There was a fine wrought-iron fence around the place, shoulder high, through which it was necessary to pass by foot as the gates were rusted shut at an angle too narrow to allow the carriage to pass. This seemed to be the only feature of the house that was not in first repair, however. All was neatly trimmed, windows shining, a pleasant change from the cottage. DeVigne left his carriage standing at the gate and took her to the door, indicating that he did not mean to enter. He left her in the hallway with Lady Jane. Sir Harold was in his study, reading some Latin manuscript he had on loan from the Bodleian Library.
    “Come into the saloon,” Lady Jane said kindly, examining her new relative minutely for lingering signs of shock.
    Delsie was sufficiently recovered to appreciate this room. Cozy—there was not that feeling of being in a cathedral she had experienced at the Hall, but perhaps that had been due to her emotional state. It was done in gold tones—velvet settees, the wooden pieces large and substantial, from an older period. A bowl of mums was nicely arranged with ferns on a mahogany table. Delsie’s gaze settled on this.
    “What does one say at such a time?” Lady Jane asked frankly, then laughed. Looking into those dancing blue eyes, Delsie had a smile coaxed out of her. “Not condolences, I shouldn’t think,” the dame rattled on. “It must be a great relief to you he passed on so quickly. Good riddance say I, and may the Lord forgive me