"And give it to Mr. Ulford yourself. Go in a hansom. When you have given
Mr. Ulford the note come straight back in the hansom and let me know.
After that you can go to bed. Do you understand?"
"Yes, my lady."
The man went out.
Lady Holme stood up to give him the note. She remained standing after he
had gone. An extraordinary sensation of relief had come to her. Action
had lessened her pain, had removed much of the pressure of emotion upon
her heart. For a moment she felt almost happy.
She sat down again and took up a book. It was a book of poems written by
a very young girl whom she knew. There was a great deal about sorrow in
the poems, and sorrow was always alluded to as a person; now flitting
through a forest in the autumn among the dying leaves, now bending over a
bed, now walking by the sea at sunset watching departing ships, now
standing near the altar at a wedding. The poems were not good. On the
other hand, they were not very bad.
They had some grace, some delicacy here and there, now and then a touch
of real, if by no means exquisite, sentiment. At this moment Lady Holme
found them soothing. There was a certain music in them and very little
reality. They seemed to represent life as a pensive phantasmagoria of
bird songs, fading flowers, dying lights, soft winds and rains and
sighing echoes.
She read on and on. Sometimes a hard thought intruded itself upon her
mind--the thought of Leo Ulford with the latch-key of her husband's house
in his hand.
Pages:
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217