I stood like one stunned, I could not speak. The news had struck me dumb.

"Can't you say something?" she cried. "No, of course you can't. And you ought not to be here either. I will order a carriage to take you back,"

she added like one distraught. Her words came almost in gasps.

"And your father and mother?" I asked, without seeming to notice what she had said. "I hope--I hope----"

"Mother is wonderful. You see, she expected nothing else. She always said from the day that Hugh went to the front that he would be killed.

Oh, yes, mother is wonderful, but my father.... Perhaps, after all, he will see you. Shall I tell him you are here?"

"Perhaps it would be better not, after all," was my reply. "I suppose I ought not to have come here; it was foolish; but I was so overwhelmed with the news that I could not help myself."

She looked at me for a few seconds in a way that I had never seen her look before, and then left the room suddenly. Presently I heard heavy footsteps coming towards me, and then Josiah Lethbridge entered the room. He looked years older than on the previous night, but the same stern strength of the man manifested itself. He held himself erect, and hid any emotions he might have felt.

"Excuse me for coming, Mr. Lethbridge, but although I had known Hugh for such a short time, I loved him as if he were my own brother."

"It is very kind of you to come," he said almost coldly; and then, "But you ought not to be here."

At that moment Mrs. Lethbridge entered, and I could not help being struck by her appearance. There was a new dignity in her every look and movement. A kind of holy pride shone from her eyes, although it was easy to see that they were not strangers to tears. The suggestion of inconsequence which had struck me when I had first seen her was entirely gone.

"I am pleased to see you," she said, holding out her hand. "You were Hugh's friend."

"I came to tell you how--how grieved I am."

"You must not speak like that," she said quietly. "My boy died in a holy cause. 'He saved others, but himself he _would_ not save.'"

"Yes," I said, "that is true. One cannot think of him as dead in the ordinary way. When one gives his life willingly for what he believes to be the highest and the holiest, death has lost its sting."

"Oh, he is not dead!" she said. "I could not think of him as dead. The spirit which led him to do what he did can never die. Have you seen what they have said about him? Here, read his Colonel's letter, will you?"

And she pa.s.sed me a missive which I could see had been stained by many tears.

It was the letter of a plain, blunt soldier who was not gifted with great literary powers, and yet because it was so simple, so straightforward, it was more eloquent than if it had been written by a master of words. It described how Hugh, in the face of almost certain death, had undertaken work which might mean incalculable advantage to the British Army--that he had led his men forward in the face of withering fire, and that he had done what he set out to do. At first it was thought that he had been taken prisoner, as no signs of him were to be seen, but presently his body was discovered, almost mutilated out of recognition, yet plainly to be identified by infallible signs.

"He died a hero," concluded the plain, blunt soldier, "died for his country and his G.o.d. Had he lived, I should have recommended him for a captaincy right away, but he has received his promotion in a better world."

"That is it, don't you see?" said Mrs. Lethbridge, "he has received his promotion."

I could not keep back the tears which started to my eyes. I longed, no one knows how I longed, for the a.s.surance which filled the mother's heart. Nevertheless, I could not help being gladdened by her faith.

"He will not come to me, but I shall go to him," she went on. "Do you know, Mr. Erskine, a few days ago I began to hope that he would return, and I pictured him coming back to St. Issey well and strong. I saw the people doing my boy honor; but that was pure fancy on my part, and it does not matter now. Yes, I shall go to him."

I could not help glancing at Josiah Lethbridge as she spoke. I wondered what he, who had driven his son from home, felt at that moment; but his face told me nothing; he might not have heard his wife's words. It was hard and stony and emotionless. But he did not rebuke his wife as he would have rebuked her the day before. He who had forbidden his family to mention Hugh's name sat silent, his face grave, ashen, his eyes fixed on the floor. What he felt or thought I could not tell, but I could not help believing that he shared his wife's pride. How could it be otherwise? After all, Hugh was his son.

"Bella told me that you looked terribly ill," went on Mrs. Lethbridge.

"Certainly you do look pale, but better than she led me to believe. May I order you some refreshments?"

"No, I am better now," I replied, and glancing towards the mirror, I saw that my face had resumed its normal color.

Scarcely had she spoken than I heard the sound of wheels on the drive outside, and a minute later Squire Treherne was shown into the room.

"I could not help coming," said the bluff old man. "The last time I was here I told you--but never mind what I told you--that is over now. I just glanced at the paper this morning, and then, before I knew what I was doing, I was on my way here. We must hope for the best! He is only reported as missing."

But Josiah Lethbridge did not speak a word. Instead, he looked out of the window as though interested in the trees which were just bursting into life.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Lethbridge," went on the Squire, "I did not notice you; it was very rude of me."

Mrs. Lethbridge did not speak a word. She simply handed him the letter of Hugh's Colonel.

"G.o.d bless my soul! I did not know this," he stammered. "No--no, I did not know this, but--but----"

"I never felt so proud in all my life," said the mother. "I always knew that my boy was a good boy; now I know that he was a hero. He laid down his life willingly."

Still Josiah Lethbridge did not speak. His eyes were still fixed on the trees in the park.

"I know what you are feeling," said the Squire, after a few seconds of almost painful silence. "I know, I know. I lost my only son in the Boer War, and I--I have never been the same man since. Can--can I do anything for you?" he added.

"I was just going to suggest," I said, "that I should go over to John Treleaven's farm and see Hugh's wife. She will, of course, have heard the news."

"Thank you, Mr. Erskine," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "but that is my work. It is my duty to go and comfort my son's wife."

Again I noticed the new tone in her voice. The last time I was at the house she would not have dared to suggest such a thing. She would have feared her husband's anger, but now she stated her intentions naturally.

She did not even look towards Josiah Lethbridge as she spoke, but I, who glanced at him at that moment, saw that his face never moved a muscle.

"If you would do something for me," said Mrs. Lethbridge, "take care of Mr. Erskine. My daughter told me just now that he was very ill and ought not to have come here."

"G.o.d bless my soul! you do look seedy," said the Squire. "What is the matter?"

"I only had a slight attack of my old trouble, and I look a great deal worse than I am."

"All the same, I am going to take you back with me," said the Squire.

"No, no, I shall take no denial. That hut of yours on the cliff, with only a man-servant to look after you, is certainly no place for a man who feels seedy. You--you are sure I can do nothing for you, Mrs.

Lethbridge? I do feel for you, G.o.d knows that. All the same, I do envy you. I wish I had another son to give. Yes, ten sons; I should be prouder than words can say to send every one of them. Somehow this terrible business makes one think differently of life, makes one feel that we have had wrong ideas of everything. Somehow we have confused existing with living."

Surely that was a morning of happenings, for scarcely had the Squire spoken than a servant entered the room bearing a letter. It came from the Vicar.

Josiah Lethbridge took the letter without a word and read it through with the same unmoved countenance. After he had done so he pa.s.sed it to his wife.

"This is kind of Mr. Trelaske," she said. "He must be burdened by his own sorrow, yet he sends this letter to us. Of course he does not know all the truth."

I rose to go. I felt that I should be intruding if I stayed longer. I held out my hand to Mr. Lethbridge, who took it almost mechanically.

"It is very kind of you to call," he said. "And--and take care of yourself; you are not strong, you know."

When I reached the hall I found Isabella Lethbridge standing there.

"That letter from the Colonel is simply splendid," I said. "Of course your loss must be terrible, but you must be proud of your brother."

She made no reply, neither could I understand the look on her face. It was not so much sorrow I saw, as wonder and amazement.

"Funny family!" said the Squire to me, as we drove away. "Did you notice that the man never spoke a word?"