“Nesta is dead,” said Claire simply.
“Dead?” Jean began to laugh a trifle hysterically.
“Oh, yes, she’s been ‘dead’ before. But——”
“She is really dead this time,” said Claire. “That is why Lady Anne has written—to tell us.”
“I can’t believe it!” muttered Jean. “I can’t believe it.”
“You must believe it,” insisted Claire quietly. “It is all quite true. She was buried last week in the little churchyard at Coombe Eavie, and Lady Anne writes that Nick and Blaise will be here almost as soon as her letter. They’re on their way now—now, Jean! Do you understand?” Her eyes filling with tears, Claire watched the gradual realisation of the amazing truth dawn in Jean’s face. That face so tragically worn, so fined and spiritualised by suffering, glowed with a new light; a glory of unimaginable hope lit itself in the tired golden eyes, and on the half-parted lips there seemed to quiver those kisses which still waited to be claimed.
Jean passed her hand across her eyes like one who has seen some bright light of surpassing radiance.
“Tell me, Claire,” she said at last, tremulously. “Tell me...” She broke off, unable to manage her voice.
“I’ll read you what Lady Anne says,” replied Claire quickly. “After writing that Nesta is dead and Nick and Blaise are coming here, she goes on: ‘Poor Nesta! One cannot help feeling sorry for her—killed so suddenly and so tragically. And yet such a death seems quite in the picture with her lawless, wayward nature! She was shot, Claire, shot in the Boundary Woods by a Frenchman who had apparently followed her to England for the express purpose. It appears he met her at Château Varigny, in the days when she was posing as Madame de Varigny’s niece, and fell violently in love with her. Of course Nesta could not marry him, and equally of course the Frenchman—he was the Vicomte de Chassaigne—did not know that she had a husband already. So, naturally, he hoped eventually to win her, and Nesta, (who, as you know, would flirt with the butcher’s boy if there were no one else handy) encouraged him and allowed him to make love to her to his heart’s content. Then, after her return to Staple, he learned of her marriage, and, furious at having been so utterly deceived, he followed. He must have watched her very carefully for some days, as he apparently knew her favourite walks, and waylaid her one afternoon in the woods. What passed between them we shall never know, for Chassaigne killed her and then immediately turned the revolver on himself. Blaise and Nick heard the shots and rushed down to the Boundary Woods where the shots had sounded—you’ll know where I mean, the woods that lie along the border between Willow Ferry and Staple. There they found them. Nesta was dead, and de Chassaigne dying. He had just strength enough to confide in Blaise all that I have written. I am writing to you, because I think it might come as too great a shock to Jean as you say she is still so far from strong. You must tell her——”
Jean interrupted the reading with a shout of laughter.