He chopped the words off abruptly, as if he resented the necessity of uttering them. His eyes, which had been fixed upon the face of Mary Louise, suddenly wavered and sought the floor.
His manner said more than his words. Mary Louise grew white and pressed her hands to her heart, regarding the lawyer with eyes questioning and full of fear. Irene turned a sympathetic gaze upon her friend and Aunt Hannah came closer to the girl and slipped an arm around her waist, as if to help her to endure this unknown trial. And Mary Louise, feeling she could not bear the suspense, asked falteringly:
“Has—Gran’pa Jim—been—”
“No,” said Mr. Conant. “No, my dear, no.”
“Then—has anything happened to—to—mother?”
“Well, well,” muttered the lawyer, with a sort or growl, “Mrs. Burrows has not been in good health for some months, it seems. She—eh—was under a—eh—under a nervous strain; a severe nervous strain, you know, and—”
“Is she dead?” asked the girl in a low, hard voice.
“The end, it seems, came unexpectedly, several days ago. She did not suffer, your grandfather writes, but—”
Again he left his sentence unfinished, for Mary Louise had buried her face in Aunt Hannah’s bosom and was sobbing in a miserable, heart-breaking way that made Peter jerk a handkerchief from, his pocket and blow his nose lustily. Then he turned and marched from the room, while his wife led the hapless girl to a sofa and cuddled her in her lap as if she had been a little child.
“She’s best with the women,” muttered Peter to himself. “It’s a sorrowful thing—a dreadful thing, in a way—but it can’t be helped and—she’s best with the women.”
He had wandered into the dining room, where Sarah Judd was laying the table for dinner. She must have overheard the conversation in the living room, for she came beside the lawyer and asked:
“When did Mrs. Burrows die?”
“On Monday.”
“Where?”
“That’s none of your business, my girl.”
“Has the funeral been held?”
He regarded her curiously. The idea of a servant asking such questions! But there was a look in Sarah’s blue eyes that meant more than curiosity; somehow, it drew from him an answer.
“Mrs. Burrows was cremated on Wednesday. It seems she preferred it to burial.” Having said this, he turned to stare from the window again.
Sarah Judd stood silent a moment. Then she said with a sigh of relief:
“It’s a queer world, isn’t it, Mr. Conant? And this death isn’t altogether a calamity.”
“Eh? Why not?” whirling round to face her.
“Because,” said Sarah, “it will enable Mr. Hathaway to face the world again—a free man.”
Peter Conant was so startled that he stood motionless, forgetting his locket but not forgetting to stare. Sarah, with her hands full of forks and spoons, began placing the silver in orderly array upon the table. She paid no heed to the lawyer, who gradually recovered his poise and watched her with newly awakened interest. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, and then decided not to. He was bewildered, perplexed, suspicious. In thought he began to review the manner of Sarah’s coming to them, and her subsequent actions. She seemed a capable servant. Mrs. Conant had never complained of her. Yet—what did she know of Hathaway?