“Did you care so much for him, Cary?”
What meant that intense pain in Ephraim’s voice? Did he fancy— And what did it matter to him, if he did? I tried to wipe away my tears and speak.
“Did you care so little?” I said, as well as I could utter. “Think of Annas, and his parents, and— And, Ephraim, we led him to his death—you and I!”
“Nay, not so,” he answered. “You must not look at it in that light, Cary. We did but our duty. It is never well to measure duties by consequences. Yes, of course I think of his parents and sister, poor souls! It will be hard for them to bear. Yet I almost think I would change with them rather than with Angus, when he comes to know. Cary, somebody must write to Miss Keith: and it ought to be either Miss Drummond or you.”
I felt puzzled. Would he not break it best to her himself? If all were settled betwixt them, and it looked as if it were, was he not the proper person to write?
“You have not written to her?” I said.
“Why, no,” he answered. “I scarce like to intrude myself on her. She has not seen much of me, you know. Besides, I think a woman would know far better how to break such news. Men are apt to touch a wound roughly, even when they wish to act as gently as possible. No, Cary—I am unwilling to place such a burden on you, but I think it must be one of you.”
Could he speak of Annas thus, if— I felt bewildered.
“Unless,” he said, thoughtfully, looking out of the window, where the moon was riding like a queen through the somewhat troubled sky, “unless you think—for you, as a girl, can judge better than I—that Raymond would be the best breaker. Perhaps you do not know that Raymond is not at home? My Lady Inverness writ the news to him, and said she had not spoken either to Mrs Raymond or Miss Keith. She plainly shrank from doing it. Perhaps he would help her to bear it best.”
“How should he be the best?” I said. “Mrs Raymond might—”