Rymer rushed into
the house, calling in an agitated voice his wife's name. Miss Shepperson
was the only person at home, for Mrs. Rymer had gone out with the children,
the servant accompanying her to wheel baby's perambulator; she ran up from
the kitchen, aproned, with sleeves rolled to the elbow, and met the excited
man as he descended from a vain search in the bedrooms.
'Has it happened?' she cried--for it seemed to her that there could be only
one explanation of Mr. Rymer's behaviour.
'Yes! He died this morning--this morning!'
They clasped hands; then, as an afterthought, their eyes fell, and they
stood limply embarrassed.
'It seems shocking to take the news in this way,' murmured Mr. Rymer; 'but
the relief; oh, the relief! And then, I scarcely knew him; we haven't seen
each other for years. I can't help it! I feel as if I had thrown off a load
of tons! Where is Adelaide? Which way have they gone?'
He rushed out again, to meet his wife. For several minutes Miss Shepperson
stood motionless, in a happy daze, until she suddenly remembered that chops
were at the kitchen fire, and sped downstairs.
Throughout that day, and, indeed, for several days to come, Mrs. Rymer
behaved very properly indeed; her pleasant, refined face wore a becoming
gravity, and when she spoke of the deceased she called him _poor_ Mr.
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