'O God!' she was whispering, 'give her strength!'
It seemed hours that she sat there without daring to raise her eyes. She heard Brenda break open the envelope and unfold the paper, which crackled loudly. Then there came no sound at all except at times a suppressed rustle as a page was turned.
At last the girl moved, turning and coming towards her companion.
'There...' she said gently, 'you may as well read it.'
She laid the closely written sheets upon the table, for Mrs. Wylie did not hold out her hand, and turned again towards the window, where she stood looking out upon the gleaming snow.
After a space, Mrs. Wylie took up the letter and read it dreamily, without comprehending its full meaning—without realizing that the hand which had directed the clear, firm pen would never write another word. It ran as follows:
'DEAR BRENDA,
'It may be that the long confinement in this grim slaughter-house has upset my nerve, or it may, perhaps, be that I am not so hard or so plucky as I was. Be that as it may, I am going to break through a resolution to which I have held ever since I took to the war-path. It was my intention to wait until the end of this campaign before telling you that I have always loved you—that I have always looked up to you as my ideal of a brave, true woman. I never doubted, darling, that my love for you was and is a strong, firm reality, as all the factors in my life have been. I never doubted its truth, its honesty, and its permanency—but these very qualities held it back. If I had loved you less, I could have asked you to be the wife of a war-correspondent (and one whose reputation was such that he could not afford to be found in the background). This, Brenda, has been my secret ever since I left college—ever since I followed the irresistible inclination which led me on to the battlefield. It is unnecessary to dwell now upon the effort that I have had to make a thousand times to conceal my feelings. I used to think (and tried to persuade myself that I hoped) that you would marry someone infinitely worthier of you—someone who was richer, and wiser, and cleverer, and someone whose profession was less hazardous; but in the last year or two I have conceived the wild notion that there was a reason in your persistent blindness to the merits of men calculated in every way to make you happy. Gradually I came round to the belief that you understood, in some subtle feminine way, the policy I was pursuing, and in this belief Mrs. Wylie persistently encouraged me in that cheery, inimitable way of hers. If I have made a gross mistake, you and Mrs. Wylie must let me know as mercifully as you can. I leave my case in your little hands, darling. But I feel confident that I am right. Rashness of conclusion, hastiness of action, has never been ascribed to me, and it is only after long consideration—after placing the circumstances persistently before myself in their very worst light—that I have taken to myself the comforting thought that I can make your life a happy one (as lives go) if you will trust it to me. We are not strangers, Brenda, but have known each other since we could first stand, and we have always been good friends. As I have grown from youth to manhood, my love for you has grown also in strength and sureness. I have never doubted it for a moment, though I may have hesitated as to its wisdom. Perhaps I may have caught from you a habit of setting both sides of a question upon a footing inconveniently similar, and the result has been an honest conviction that you could do better than marry me. Now that conviction has given way to another—namely, that I simply cannot do without you—cannot get on at all, except it be at your own express wish that I should. Circumstances have now changed. I have been fortunate in making a name, and in escaping many risks to which others have fallen victims. I can command my own price, and make my own conditions. Altogether, I am now in a position such as an honourable man could ask his wife to share. As soon as this campaign (my last) is over, I shall hurry home to you. After all, my resolution has not collapsed entirely, for this letter cannot leave here until an end of some sort come upon us. We are like rats in a trap, but the pluck of these fellows is something wonderful. I shall have much to tell you when I get back, for I am the sole historian of events inside Plevna. In the meantime, darling, I dare to call myself
'Your lover,
'THEODORE TRIST.
'Plevna, 7th September, 1877.'