“I don’t exactly know,” he answered slowly, laying his hand upon the white fingers resting on his sleeve, “whether it is good news or bad. Huston is dead!”
She had continued smiling bravely into his eyes until the last words were spoken, then suddenly she turned her face away. He watched the colour fade from her cheek, slowly sinking downward until her throat was like marble. Then she withdrew her hand deliberately from his touch, as if there had been evil in it. After a moment she turned again and looked keenly at him with wondering, horror-struck eyes.
“Then,” she murmured monotonously, “Alice is … a widow.”
It was a strange thing to say, and she had no definite conception of the train of thought prompting the remark. He looked at her in a curious, puzzled way, like a man who is near a truth, but fears to prove his proximity.
“Does she know?” she asked suddenly, rousing herself to the necessity of prompt action.
“No. I have not your aunt’s address in Cheltenham.”
Brenda looked at the clock upon the mantelpiece, a reliable mechanism, which kept remarkable time considering its feminine environments.
“Mrs. Wylie will be here in a moment; we will then consider about the telegram. In the meantime … tell me when it happened, and how?”
“It happened at two o’clock this morning … suddenly.”
Brenda looked up at the last word, although it was spoken quite gently.
“Suddenly … ?”
“Yes. It … he shot himself with a revolver … by accident!”
The man’s gentle inscrutable eyes fell before Brenda’s gaze. He moved uneasily, and turned away, apparently much interested in the ornaments upon the mantelpiece.
“Were you present at the time?”
“No. I was downstairs. He was in his bedroom.”
“Tell me,” said the girl mechanically, “what was he doing with the revolver?”
Trist turned slowly and faced her. There was no hesitation in his glance now; his eyes looked straight into hers with a deliberate calm meaning. Then he shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows?” he murmured, still watching her face.
There flitted across his features the mere ghost of a deprecating smile, which was answered somewhat wanly by her. Women, I have observed, never laugh at danger as men do. They are indifferent to it, or they dread it undisguisedly, but they do not at any time despise it.
When at length Brenda turned away she pressed her lips together as if to moisten them, and there was a convulsive movement in her throat. They understood each other thoroughly.
“There will, of course,” said Trist presently, “be an inquest. It is, however, quite clear that, being left for a moment alone, he rose from his bed in a fit of temporary insanity, and having possessed himself of a revolver (possibly for suicidal purposes), he shot himself by accident.”
Brenda had crossed the room to the window, where she stood with her back towards her companion.
“Yes!” she murmured absently.
She was swaying a little from side to side, and her face was raised in an unnatural way. Trist stood upon the hearthrug, with his elbow resting on the mantelpiece. He was watching her attentively.
“I have,” he said somewhat hastily, as if it were an afterthought, “some influence with the newspapers.”
Of this she took absolutely no notice. It would appear that she had not heard his voice. Then Trist moved restlessly. After a moment’s hesitation he lifted his arm from the mantelpiece with the apparent intention of going towards her. He even made two or three steps in that direction—steps that were inaudible, for his tread was singularly light. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Wylie came into the room.
“Theo!” said the lady, with rather less surprise than might have been expected.
In a moment she had perceived that there was something wrong. The very atmosphere of the room was tense. These two strong young people had either been quarrelling or making love. Of that Mrs. Wylie was certain. Her entrance had perhaps been malapropos; but she could not go back now. Moreover, she was the sort of woman who never errs in retreating. Her method of fighting the world was from a strong position calmly held, or by a steady sure advance.
“Good morning, Theo!” she said, with that deliberate cheeriness which is the deepest diplomacy. “This is an early visit. Have you come to discover the laziness of the land?”
“No,” answered Theo simply.
Then he turned and looked towards Brenda in a way which plainly said that she was expected to come forward into the breach he had effected.
Brenda came. Her face was not so grave as Trist’s, but her lips were colourless.
“Theo has come,” she said, “with bad news. We must telegraph to Alice at once. Alfred Huston had … an accident last night.”
“What?” inquired Mrs. Wylie, turning to Trist.
“He is dead—he shot himself by accident,” replied the war-correspondent.
Mrs. Wylie stood for some moments in her comfortable, placid way, rubbing one smooth hand over the other. She did not appear to be looking anywhere in particular, but in reality no movement of Brenda’s, however slight, escaped her notice.
“And now,” she said, after a weary little sigh, “I suppose she will discover how much she loved him all along …”
Trist made a little movement, but the widow turned her calm gaze towards him, and spoke on, with a certain emphasis:
“Alice has in reality always loved Alfred Huston. This little misunderstanding would never have arisen had there not been love on both sides. I have known it all along. You can trust an old woman on such matters. This is a very, very sad ending to it all.”
“Yes,” assented Theo meekly; “it is very sad.”
Brenda had turned away. She was standing at the window in her favourite attitude there—with her arms outstretched, her fingers resting on the broad windowsill among the ornamental fern-baskets and flowerpots.
Mrs. Wylie walked to the fireplace.
“Let me think,” she said, half to herself, “what must be done.”
She knew that Trist was watching her, waiting for his instructions in his emotionless, almost indifferent, way. (If it were not for a certain
