“What news of my husband, Mr Burney?” For a moment Robert Burney’s voice stuck in his throat; then he spoke out clearly, looking at the fragile, ashen-faced woman with actually the glint of a smile on his face, for as a brave man he had a kind of joy in saying what he did.
“He died a splendid death, Mrs Marriott, saving Dick Saurin’s life.”
Elizabeth Marriott showed that she was made of the material of which heroes’ wives should be made. She smiled too—a proud, bright, almost a gay smile. Then she turned to me and said softly so that no one heard but I:
“That is my gift to you, Deirdre Saurin.” I kissed her, and my tears streamed down my face, falling upon hers; but suddenly they were dried in my eyes, and I could weep no more. Some fateful words, spoken almost brokenly by Robert Burney, had fallen upon my ears: “Tony Kinsella is missing.” It was as though some one had thrust a sword into my heart and I could feel the life-blood ebbing away from me, leaving me cold—cold as some frozen thing in the Arctic Sea. Though the sun shone so gaily upon us there I shivered with bitter cold.
It was a desolate home-coming. As soon as the sun went down a mass of slate-coloured clouds that had been crouching in the south-west like some stealthy winged monster waiting to pounce, spread itself out swiftly and enshrouded us in grey, misty rain.
The men hurriedly inspanned and urged us into the shelter of the waggons, then started to walk ahead in silent, gloomy groups. No woman walked, except Mrs Burney; we could see her far behind, clinging to her husband’s arm, gazing into his face, caring nothing for rain—why should she? Mrs Rookwood, proud to have been asked to do so, minded the Burney baby and tried to hide the gladness of her eyes from those who had little enough cause to rejoice. Her news had been good; George Rookwood had done well and was returning on some special errand in a day or two.
The children were bunched together in a little scarlet cluster at the end of the waggon, watching silent and wide-eyed two of their number who were weeping huddled against their mother. She sat between them with a white, thoughtful face on which there was no sign of tears, though her news had been bad enough to wipe all hope and joy from her life.
“Hush, children,” she kept gently repeating. “We don’t know for certain... Mr Burney said there might be... that some thought there was still hope... we can’t be sure... but if it is—if he should be—he would like us to take it bravely—not to—not to make a fuss... but I don’t think it can be true... surely it can’t be true.” Her afflicted eyes searched our faces for some gleam of hope. But we had none to give. We were fighting each our own devils of despair.
The mental exaltation that had sustained Mrs Marriott had given place to physical exhaustion and she lay against my shoulder with a strange heaviness, still as a stone, her eyes closed. Annabel Cleeve fainted quietly, twice, before we reached home, and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe and Mrs Valetta did what they could for her. But the latter’s pale, haunted face was not one in which to seek comfort. Once her glance crossed mine like a rapier flash, but I was sick and cold with pain, and had neither pity nor disdain in my heart for her. My mind was busy with its own misery. I was striving to “rear the changeling Hope in the black cave of Despair.” My thoughts set me in torment, and I could remember nothing but the words of Robert Burney: