The mother did not speak again. Her hand sank; her eyes were riveted upon Brian's face with a mute reproach. And Brian, although he knew well enough in his sober senses that the phenomenon they had just seen was merely caused by the breaking of some small blood-vessel in the brain, such as often occurs after death, was so far dominated by the impression of the moment that he walked out of the room, not daring to justify himself in his mother's eyes, not daring to raise his head. After him crept Hugo whose teeth chattered as though he were suffering from an ague; but Brian took no more notice of his cousin. He went straight to his own room and locked himself in, to bear his lonely sorrow as best he might.
No formal inquiry was made into the cause of Richard Luttrell's death. Archie Grant's testimony completely exonerated Brian, even of carelessness, and the general opinion was that no positive blame could be attached to anybody for the sad occurrence, and that Mr. Brian Luttrell had the full sympathy and respect of all who knew him and had known his lamented brother, Richard Luttrell of Netherglen.
So the matter ended. But idle tongues still wagged, and wise heads were shaken over the circumstances attending Richard Luttrell's death.
It was partly Mrs. Luttrell's fault. In the first hours of her bereavement she had spoken wildly and bitterly of the share which Brian had had in causing Richard's death. She had spoken to Doctor Muir, to Angela, to Mrs. Shairp—a few words only to each, but enough to show in what direction her thoughts were tending. With the first two her words were sacred, but Mrs. Shairp, though kindly enough, was not so trustworthy. Before the good woman realised what she was doing, the whole household, nay, the whole country-side, had learned that Mrs. Luttrell believed her second son to have fired that fatal shot with the intention of killing, or at least of maiming, his brother Richard.
The Grants, who had spent the day of the accident at Netherglen, were, of course, eagerly questioned by inquisitive acquaintances. The girls were ready enough to chatter. They confided to their intimate friends in mysterious whispers that the brothers had certainly not been on good terms; they had glowered at one another, and caught each other up and been positively rude to each other; and they would not go out together; and poor Mr. Luttrell looked so worried, so unlike himself! Then the brothers were interrogated, but proved less easy to "draw." Archie flew into a rage at the notion of sinister intentions on Brian's part. Donald looked "dour," and flatly refused to discuss the subject.
But his refusal was thought vastly suspicious by the many wiseacres who knew the business of everybody better than their own. And the rumour waxed and spread.
During the days before the funeral Brian scarcely saw anyone. He lived shut up in his own room, as his mother did in hers, and had interviews only with his lawyer and men who came on business. It was a sad and melancholy house in those days. Angela was invisible: whether it was she or Mrs. Luttrell who was ill nobody could exactly say. Hugo wandered about the lonely rooms, or shut himself up after the fashion of the other members of the family, and looked like a ghost. After the first two days, Angela's only near relation, her brother Rupert, was present in the house; but his society seemed not to be very acceptable to Hugo, and, finding that he was of no use, even to his sister, Mr. Vivian went back to England, and the house seemed quieter than it had been before.
The funeral took place at last. When it was over, Brian came home, said farewell to the guests, had a long interview with Mr. Colquhoun, the solicitor, and then seated himself in the study with the air of a man who was resolved to take up the burden of his duties in a befitting spirit. His air was melancholy, but calm; he seemed aged by ten years since his brother's death. He dined with Hugo, Mr. Colquhoun and Dr. Muir, and exerted himself to talk of current topics with courtesy and interest. But his weary face, his saddened eyes, and the long pauses that occurred between his intervals of speech, produced a depressing effect upon his guests. Hugo was no more cheerful than his cousin. He watched Brian furtively from time to time, yet seemed afraid to meet his eye. His silence and depression were so marked that the doctor afterwards remarked it to Mr. Colquhoun. "I did not think that Mr. Hugo would take his cousin's death so much to heart," he said.
"Do you think he does?" asked Mr. Colquhoun, drily. "I don't believe he's got a heart, the young scamp. I found him myself in the wood, examining the bark of the tree near which the accident took place, you know, on the morning after Richard's death, as cool as a cucumber. 'I was trying to make out how it happened,' he said to me, when I came up. 'Brian must have shot very straight.' I told him to go home and mind his own business."
"Do you think what they say about Brian's intentions had any foundation?" asked the doctor.