II

During the days immediately following George Eveleth’s death the two women who loved him found themselves separated by the very quality of their grief.  While Diane’s heart was clamorous with remorse, the mother’s was poignantly calm.  It was generally remarked, in the Franco-American circles where the tragedy was talked of, that Mrs. Eveleth displayed unexpected strength of character.  It was a matter of common knowledge that she shrank from none of the terrible details it was necessary to supervise, and that she was capable of giving her attention to her son’s practical affairs.

It was not till a fortnight had passed that the two women came face to face alone.  The few occasions on which they had met hitherto had been those of solemn public mourning, when the great questions between them necessarily remained untouched.  The desire to keep apart was common to both, for neither was sufficiently mistress of herself to be ready for a meeting.

The first move came from Diane.  During her long, speechless days of self-upbraiding certain thoughts had been slowly forming themselves into resolutions; but it was on impulse rather than reflection that, at last, she summoned up strength to knock at Mrs. Eveleth’s door.

She entered timidly, expecting to find some manifestation of grief similar to her own.  She was surprised, therefore, to see her mother-in-law sitting at her desk, with a number of businesslike papers before her.  She held a pencil between her fingers, and was evidently in the act of adding up long rows of figures.

“Oh, come in,” she said, briefly, as Diane appeared.  “Excuse me a minute.  Sit down.”

Diane seated herself by an open window looking out on the garden.  It was a hot morning toward the end of June, and from the neighboring streets came the dull rumble of Paris.  Beyond the garden, through an opening, she could see a procession of carriages—­probably a wedding on its way to Sainte-Clotilde.  It was her first realizing glimpse of the outside world since that gray morning when she had driven home alone, and the very fact that it could be pursuing its round indifferent to her calamity impelled her to turn her gaze away.

It was then that she had time to note the changes wrought in Mrs. Eveleth; and it was like finding winter where she expected no more than the first genial touch of autumn.  The softnesses of lingering youth had disappeared, stricken out by the hard, straight lines of gravity.  Never having known her mother-in-law as other than a woman of fashion, Diane was awed by this dignified, sorrowing matron, who carried the sword of motherhood in her heart.

It was a long time before Mrs. Eveleth laid her pencil down and raised her head.  For a few minutes neither had the power of words, but it was Diane who spoke at last.

“I can understand,” she faltered, “that you don’t want to see me; but I’ve come to tell you that I’m going away.”