“You have something to tell me.”
My sister, who had been sitting opposite to us, rose suddenly without a word of explanation—rose and left the room.
My mother moved closer to me on the sofa and put her arms round my neck. Those fond arms trembled—the tears flowed fast over the faithful loving face.
“Walter!” she whispered, “my own darling! my heart is heavy for you. Oh, my son! my son! try to remember that I am still left!”
My head sank on her bosom. She had said all in saying those words.
It was the morning of the third day since my return—the morning of the sixteenth of October.
I had remained with them at the cottage—I had tried hard not to embitter the happiness of my return to them as it was embittered to me . I had done all man could to rise after the shock, and accept my life resignedly—to let my great sorrow come in tenderness to my heart, and not in despair. It was useless and hopeless. No tears soothed my aching eyes, no relief came to me from my sister’s sympathy or my mother’s love.
On that third morning I opened my heart to them. At last the words passed my lips which I had longed to speak on the day when my mother told me of her death.
“Let me go away alone for a little while,” I said. “I shall bear it better when I have looked once more at the place where I first saw her—when I have knelt and prayed by the grave where they have laid her to rest.”
I departed on my journey—my journey to the grave of Laura Fairlie.