They might have been friends. But there was a deeper
reason for grief at his death than any sense of personal loss. The
Bishop was secretly convinced that he had died by his own hand.
Lord Newhaven had come to see him, the night he left Westhope, on his
way to the station. He had only stayed a few minutes, and had asked him
to do him a trifling service. The older man had agreed, had seen a
momentary hesitation as Lord Newhaven turned to leave the room, and had
forgotten the incident immediately in the press of continuous business.
But with the news of his death the remembrance of that momentary
interview returned, and with it the instant conviction that that
accidental death had been carefully planned.
* * * * *
And now Hester's visit at the Palace had come to an end, and the
Bishop's carriage was taking her back to Warpington.
The ten days at Southminster had brought a little color back to her thin
cheeks, a little calmness to her glance. She had experienced the
rest--better than sleep--of being understood, of being able to say what
she thought without fear of giving offence. The Bishop's hospitality had
been extended to her mind, instead of stopping short at the menu.
Her hands were full of chrysanthemums which the Bishop had picked for
her himself; her small head full of his parting words and counsel.
Pages:
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370