The roses were all washed away.
William Allen Richardson clung here and there, in the shelter of the
southern eaves, but he was far past his prime, and had better have
perished with the exposed beauties on the tiny trees. The soaking
foliage had a bluish tinge; the glimpse of wooded upland, across the
valley through the gap in the hedge of Penzance briers, lay colorless
and indistinct as a faded print from an imperfect negative. A footstep
crunched the wet gravel at Langholm's back.
"Thank God you've got back, sir!" cried a Yorkshire voice in devout
accents; and Langholm, turning, met the troubled face and tired eyes of
the woman next door, who kept house for him while living in her own.
"My dear Mrs. Brunton," he exclaimed, "what on earth has happened? You
didn't expect me earlier, did you? I wired you my train first thing this
morning."
"Oh, no, it isn't that, sir. It's--it's the poor young gentleman--"
And her apron went to her eyes.
"What young gentleman, Mrs. Brunton?"
"Him 'at you saw i' London an' sent all this way for change of air! He
wasn't fit to travel half the distance. I've been nursing of him all
night and all day too.
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