"How often," she cried, "I have wondered whether I should ever see you
again during this earthly pilgrimage. Sugar?" she asked. "You
remember our dear old house and the delightful garden! Of course my
darling mother's illness had begun before you came to Crowborough.
Poor father was never really the same after her death."
She paused, holding a cup and saucer in her hand, but turning her eyes
towards the window. Carrissima saw that they were moist when Bridget
began again.
"We gave up the house because he couldn't rest long in any one place,
and yet he could never write at his best moving about. You know,
Carrissima, it was really a tragedy. He took such pains--writing and
re-writing, especially after he and I were left alone; but he knew he
wasn't reaching his own standard. He never said a word, but of course
I saw he was worrying himself to death. I have copies of all his
novels; they are over on that shelf," she said, turning towards a pair
of hanging shelves at the farther end of the room. "And there are
portfolios full of press cuttings. I used to cut them out and paste
them in for him.
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