It was not until a change of position on the part of Mr. Cornthwaite suddenly revealed to Bram the fact that the lines in his face had deepened, the white patches in his hair grown wider, that the young man recognized that the tragedy had left its outward mark on him also. He had summoned Bram to talk about business. And this he did with as clear a head, as deep an apparent interest as ever. Even the necessary reference to his lost son he made with scarcely a break in his voice.
“I shall only have the works shut on one day, the day of the funeral, Elshaw,” said he. “But in the meantime I shan’t be down there myself. I—I——” At last his voice faltered. “I should like to be at work again myself—to give me something to think about, instead of thinking always on the same unhappy subject. But I couldn’t go down there so soon after—after what I saw there.”
Bram could not answer. The remembrance was too fresh in his own mind.
“So I want you to take my place as far as you can. You can telephone through to me if you want to know anything. You have to fill your own place now, you know Elshaw, and—another’s.”
Bram bowed his head, deeply touched.
“Now you can go. If you want to see—him, one of the servants will take you up. And the ladies, poor things, are sure to be about. They bear up beautifully, beautifully. His wife bears up a little too well for my taste. But—perhaps—we must forgive her!”
He shook Bram by the hand, and the young man went out.
In the death-chamber upstairs he found Mrs. Christian, dry-eyed, on her knees beside the bed. She sprang up on Bram’s entrance, and remained beside him, without speaking a word, while he looked long and earnestly at the placid face, looking handsomer in death than it had ever looked in life, the waxen mask, refined and delicate beyond expression, the long golden moustache, the fair hair, silkier, smoother than Bram had ever seen them.
And presently a mist came before his eyes, and he went hastily out.
He found Mrs. Christian still beside him. She was very pale, but quite calm.