“Kiss me,” she said. “I... am going. Stephen first—my firstborn! And now, Joyce... and now kiss each other—across the bed! I want to hear it... I want... to tell... your... father.”
With a last effort she raised her hands, seeking their heads. At first Joyce hesitated, then she leant forward, and the old woman's chilled fingers pressed their lips together. That was the end.
Half an hour afterwards Joyce and this man stood facing each other in the little dining-room. He began his explanation at once.
“Stephen,” he said, “was shot—out there—as a traitor. I could not tell her that! I did not mean to do this, but what else could I do?”
He paused, moved towards the door with that same strange hesitation which she had noticed on his arrival. At the door he turned, to justify himself.
“I still think,” he said gravely, “that it was the best thing to do.”
Joyce made no answer. The tears stood in her eyes. There was something very pathetic in the distress of this strong man, facing, as it were, an emergency of which he felt the delicacy to be beyond his cleverness to handle.
“Last night,” he went on, “I made all the necessary arrangements for your future just as Stephen would have made them—as a brother might have done. I... he and I were brother officers in a very wild army. Your brother—was not a good man. None of us were.” His hand was on the door. “He asked me to come and tell you,” he added. “I shall go back now....”
They stood thus: he watching her face with his honest soft blue eyes, she failing to meet his glance.
“May I come back again?” he asked suddenly.