“I think there must be something in the air which makes toil less arduous,” she said. “The people I’ve met have a cheerful, optimistic look.” She hesitated, and added in a confidential tone: “I like to imagine that my brother wore the same expression, though he was always carelessly gay. He seems to have made a capable rancher. It was a great relief to us when we were told of it.”
Prescott grew hot and embarrassed, but he thought he could understand how Cyril Jernyngham had entered on a course of recklessness. It was a reaction against the overwhelming propriety of his father and sister.
“I don’t think you need grieve for your brother yet,” he said gravely. “Although nobody here seems to agree with me, I find it impossible to believe that he is dead.”
Gertrude gave him a grateful look.
“I’m glad to hear you say so—there is at least a doubt, and that is comforting; though I’m afraid my father can’t be made to realize it.”
“Can’t you persuade him not to take too much for granted?”
“I wish I could.” Gertrude’s tone was sad. “He has been brooding over the dreadful news ever since it reached us. It has possessed him absolutely; he can think of nothing else, and there will be no relief for him until he finds the guilty person, or it is proved beyond all doubt that the police are mistaken.” She paused before she went on. “If they’re right, I think I should feel as merciless as he does. Cyril was my only brother; I was very fond of him.”
Her voice trembled a little, though her eyes were hard, and Prescott felt sorry for her. She was not of emotional nature; he could imagine her shrinking from any display of tenderness. Nevertheless, it was obvious that she was a prey to fear and grief.
“So was I,” he said. “I wonder if I may point out that he struck me as being different from you and your father?”
“I think I know what you mean. Cyril was like my mother—she died a long while ago, but I remember her as gentle, sympathetic, and perhaps more variable than I am. Cyril was swayed by feeling rather than by judgment.”