'Poor Malcolm—he is the king of good fellows,' said Roland to his friends who were gathered in the entrance-hall, just as Hester Maule, pale as a lily, after vainly practising a little the art of smiling and looking happy in her mirror, appeared at the foot of the staircase, and heard what had occurred.
'Yes—Skene has just gone, poor fellow. Should you not have liked to have bade him farewell?'
'Yes—of course,' said Hester, with colourless lips; but thought, 'it is better not—better not now.'
'His last message was to you,' whispered Maude.
'Well—it will be my turn next, and yours too, Elliot,' said Roland as he lit a cigarette.
'It but reminds me of Wolfe's song,' added Elliot cheerily, as he sang in a tragic-comic way—
'Let mirth and wine abound.
The trumpets sound,
And the colours flying are, my boys!
'Tis he, you, or I,
Whose business is to die;
Then why should we be melancholy, boys,
Whose business is to die?'
Come along—here are the dogs.'
'Skene's departure seems to have upset you girls,' said Roland, 'and now, Hester, my dear cousin,' he added in a blundering way, 'you look as pale as if Melancholy had marked you for her own.'
'Don't jest, Roland,' said Maude; 'Malcolm Skene looks like one who has a history behind him, and a strange destiny before him. Only think, Roland,' she added in a whisper, as she drew her brother aside; 'he proposed to Hester in the conservatory last night!'