During five days, no news of the outer world reached Wyvenwich, until at last a signalman, whose occupation was gone by reason of the snowed-up railway, made his way on foot from the junction on the mainline, carrying the mailbag on his shoulders.
This man brought the five-days-old news of the fall of Plevna.
It was almost midday before the postbag was delivered at Wyl’s Hall, and the two ladies were sitting in the broad-windowed library when the servant brought it to them. There was a heap of unfinished needlework upon the table, for it will be easily understood that such a woman as the widow would be able to find good work to do in a hard winter.
“Ah!” exclaimed the good lady, throwing her work aside—“letters at last!”
The servant smiled sympathetically, and left the room. The key of the bag was soon taken from its hiding-place in an ornament on the mantelpiece, and Mrs. Wylie shook out the letters upon the table.
“It is delightful,” she exclaimed, “to be in communication with the outer …”
Suddenly she stopped, and laid the old leather bag aside slowly.
There were two thin brown envelopes among the white ones; also a larger one bearing a foreign stamp, and carrying evident marks of a long journey. This was addressed to Brenda, as were the two telegrams.
“… Outer world,” said Mrs. Wylie, in a peculiar breathless way, finishing her interrupted remark with determination. “There are … two telegrams … for you, Brenda.”
The girl took the envelopes without comment, and opened one, dropping it subsequently upon the floor while unfolding the pink paper. She read the message without a change of countenance, while Mrs. Wylie made a brave pretence of being interested in her own letters. In the same manner Brenda opened the second telegram.
After she had read it, there was a horrible silence in the room, while the elder woman stood nervously reading the address of a letter to herself over and over again.
Then Brenda spoke in a clear voice, which bore no resemblance to her usual tones at all.
“Theo Trist is dead,” she said. “He was killed on the twelfth of September at Plevna!”
The widow held out her hand, and took the two telegrams. They were from the great London editor—one telling of a rumour, the second confirming it. Brenda had read the confirmation first.
At last Mrs. Wylie raised her eyes to her companion’s face, and following the direction of the girl’s gaze, she remembered the large, ill-used envelope bearing a foreign stamp.
“That letter,” she whispered, trembling with downright fear.
“Yes,” answered Brenda, with the same sickening composure. “It is from him.”
Then she took it and turned away to the window.
Without exactly knowing what she was doing, Mrs. Wylie sat down again in the chair she had vacated on the advent of the postbag. Her lips moved as she stared stupidly at the work tossed aside on the table.
“O God!” she was whispering, “give her strength!”
It seemed hours that she sat there without daring to raise her eyes. She heard Brenda break open the envelope and unfold the paper, which crackled loudly. Then there came no sound at all except at times a suppressed rustle as a page was turned.
At last the girl moved, turning and coming towards her companion.
“There …” she said gently, “you may as well read it.”
She laid the closely written sheets upon the table, for Mrs. Wylie did not hold out her hand, and turned again towards the window, where she stood looking out upon the gleaming snow.
After a space, Mrs. Wylie took up the letter and read it dreamily, without comprehending its full meaning—without realizing that the hand which had directed the clear, firm pen would never write another word. It ran as follows:
Dear Brenda,
It may be that the long confinement in this grim slaughterhouse has upset my nerve, or it may, perhaps, be that I am not so hard or so plucky as I was. Be that as it may, I am going to break through a resolution to which I have held ever since I took to the warpath. It was my intention to wait until the end of this campaign before telling you that I have always loved you—that I have always looked up to you as my ideal of a brave, true woman. I never doubted, darling, that my love for you was and is a strong, firm reality, as all the factors in my life have been. I never doubted its truth, its honesty, and its permanency—but these very qualities held it back. If I had loved you less, I could have asked you to be the wife of a war-correspondent (and one whose reputation was such that he could not afford to be found in the background). This, Brenda, has been my secret ever since I left college—ever since I followed the irresistible inclination which led me on to the battlefield. It is unnecessary to dwell now upon the effort that I have had to make a thousand times to conceal my feelings. I used to think (and tried to persuade myself that I hoped) that you would marry someone infinitely worthier of you—someone who was richer, and wiser, and cleverer, and someone whose profession was less hazardous; but in the last year or two I have conceived the wild notion that there was a reason in your persistent blindness to the merits of men calculated in every way to make you happy. Gradually I came round to the belief that you understood, in some subtle feminine way, the policy I was pursuing, and in this belief Mrs. Wylie persistently encouraged me in that cheery, inimitable way of hers. If I have made a gross mistake, you and Mrs. Wylie must let me know as mercifully as you can. I leave my case in your little hands, darling. But I feel confident that I am right. Rashness of conclusion, hastiness of action, has never been ascribed to me, and it is only after long consideration—after placing the
