even as reaching her only through Jane's sensibilities, had really at last brought her out. She was in fact 'out' in a manner of which this encounter offered to my eyes a unique example: it was the single hour, often as I had been at Brookbridge, of my meeting her elsewhere than in her mother's drawing-room. I surmise that, besides being adjusted to her more marked time of life, the garments she wore abroad, and in particular her little plain bonnet, presented points of resemblance to the close sable sheath and the quaint old headgear that, in the white house behind the elms, I had from far back associated with the eternal image in the stiff chair. Of course I immediately spoke of Jane, showing an interest and asking for news; on which, she answered me with a smile, but not at all as I had expected.
'Those are not really the things you want to know—where she is, whom she's with, how she manages and where she's going next—oh, no!' And the admirable woman gave a laugh that was somehow both light and sad—sad, in particular, with a strange, long weariness. 'What you do want to know is when she's coming back.'
I shook my head very kindly, but out of a wealth of experience that, I flattered myself, was equal to Miss Becky's. 'I do know it. Never.'
Miss Becky, at this, exchanged with me a long, deep look. 'Never.'
We had, in silence, a little luminous talk about it, in the course of which she seemed to tell me the most interesting things. 'And how's your mother?' I then inquired.
She hesitated, but finally spoke with the same serenity. 'My mother's all right. You see, she's not alive.'
'Oh, Becky!' my sister-in-law pleadingly interjected.
But Becky only addressed herself to me. 'Come and see if she is. I think she isn't—but Maria perhaps isn't so clear. Come, at all events, and judge and tell me.'
