September went by.  One of the Sundays was made memorable by a visit to Ashtead.  Will had requested Franks to relate in that quarter the story of Mr. Jollyman, and immediately after hearing it, Ralph Pomfret wrote a warm-hearted letter which made the recipient in Fulham chuckle with contentment.  At Ashtead he enjoyed himself in the old way, gladdened by the pleasure with which his friends talked of Rosamund’s marriage.  Mrs. Pomfret took an opportunity of speaking to him apart, a bright smile on her good face.

“Of course we know who did much, if not everything, to bring it about.  Rosamund came and told me how beautifully you had pleaded Norbert’s cause, and Norbert confided to my husband that, but for you, he would most likely have married a girl he really didn’t care about at all.  I doubt whether a mere man ever did such a thing so discreetly and successfully before!”

In October, Will began to waver in his resolve not to go down into Suffolk before Christmas.  There came a letter from his mother which deeply moved him; she spoke of old things as well as new, and declared that in her husband and in her children no woman had ever known truer happiness.  This was at the middle of the week; Will all but made up his mind to take an early train on the following Sunday.  On Friday he wrote to Jane, telling her to expect him, and, as he walked home from the shop that evening he felt glad that he had overcome the feelings which threatened to make this first visit something of a trial to his self-respect.

“There’s a telegram a-waiting for you, sir,” said Mrs. Wick, as he entered.

The telegram contained four words: 

“Mother ill.  Please come.”

CHAPTER 41

Happen what might in the world beyond her doors, Mrs. Cross led the wonted life of domestic discomfort and querulousness.  An interval there had been this summer, a brief, uncertain interval, when something like good-temper seemed to struggle with her familiar mood; it was the month or two during which Norbert Franks resumed his friendly visitings.  Fallen out of Mrs. Cross’s good graces since his failure to become her tenant a couple of years ago, the artist had but to present himself again to be forgiven, and when it grew evident that he came to the house on Bertha’s account, he rose into higher favour than ever.  But this promising state of things abruptly ended.  One morning, Bertha, with a twinkle in her eyes, announced the fact of Franks’ marriage.  Her mother was stricken with indignant amaze.

“And you laugh about it?”

“It’s so amusing,” answered Bertha.

Mrs. Cross examined her daughter.

“I don’t understand you,” she exclaimed, in a tone of irritation.  “I do not understand you, Bertha!  All I can say is, behaviour more disgraceful I never—­”

The poor lady’s feelings were too much for her.  She retreated to her bedroom, and there passed the greater part of the day.  But in the evening curiosity overcame her sullenness.  Having obtained as much information about the artist’s marriage as Bertha could give her, she relieved herself in an acrimonious criticism of him and Miss Elvan.