And all
at once she saw Aunt Petherick--the blackest mourner there, with crape
veils trailing to the ground, a red face down which the tears streamed
in rivers; sobbing so that the sobs sounded like the most violent
hiccoughs; really almost as much noise as the soldiers' gun.
Will had seen her too. Mavis noticed his stony glance at Auntie, when
the crowd began to move again.
While he was slowly making his way toward the stables, she got hold of
Mrs. Petherick and had a little chat with her. Auntie had now entirely
recovered from her recent hysterical storm; the redness of her face
was passing off, and its expression was one of anxiety, rather than of
grief.
"My dear girl," she said, "I don't yet know what this will mean to me.
You know, he promised the house for my life--but he wouldn't give me a
lease. I've nothing to show--not so much as a letter. I may be turned
out neck and crop."
"Oh, Auntie, I should think his wishes would be respected."
"How'm I to prove his wishes?" said Mrs. Petherick, quite testily.
"It'll be wish my foot, for all the lawyers'll care."
"Oh, Auntie!"
"You know, he faithfully promised to provide for me. And now the talk
is he never made a will at all. You can't believe the talk.
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