“It is dreadful, Rupert!” she exclaimed, at length, in a half-whisper. “It is like some awful dream! What can it all mean? I don’t dare to ask myself the question.”
I shook my head, for I was in precisely the same condition. I did not dare to weigh the meaning of the things that I had seen and heard.
Suddenly, the stony fixity of her face relaxed and with a little, smothered cry she flung her arm around my neck and buried her face on my shoulder.
“Forgive me, Rupert, dearest, kindest friend,” she sobbed. “Suffer a poor lonely woman for a few moments. I have only you, dear, faithful one; only your strength and steadfastness to lean upon. Before the others I must needs be calm and brave, must cloak my own fears to support their flagging courage. But it is hard, Rupert; for they see what we see and dare not put it into words. And the mystery, Rupert, the horrible shadow that is over us all! In God’s name, what can it all mean?”
“That is what I ask myself, Barbara, and dare not answer my own question.”
She uttered a low moan and clung closer to me, sobbing quietly. I was deeply moved, for I realized the splendid courage that enabled her to go about this house of horror, calm and unafraid; to bear the burden of her companions’ weakness as well as her own grief and humiliation. But I could find nothing to say to her. I could only offer her a silent sympathy, holding her head on my shoulder and softly stroking her hair while I wondered dimly what the end of it all would be.
Presently she stood up, and, taking out her handkerchief, wiped her eyes resolutely and finally.
“Thank you, dear Rupert,” she said, “for being so patient with me. I felt that I had come to the end of my endurance and had to rest my burden on you. It was a great relief. But I didn’t bring you up here for that. I wanted to consult you about what has to be done. I can’t look to poor Tony in his present state.”
“What is it that has to be done?” I asked.
“There is the funeral. That has still to take place.”