James hesitated and blushed. "Do you suppose Marston would come?" he said at last, in a low voice. Marston, a long-legged sixth former, was James' idol at present; to ask him to do something for one was like calling the very gods down from Olympus.
"I am sure he would," said the headmaster, who understood, perfectly. "I will send for him now and ask him."
So Marston accompanied James on his dreary homeward journey, though his presence was not in the least necessary, and James sat covertly gazing at him in mute adoration all the way. His thoughts were actually less on his father's death during this journey than on the wonderful, incredible fact that anything like a mere family death could throw him into intimate intercourse with Marston for a whole day.
But of course he gave no sign of this, and Marston, like a real god, seemed entirely unconscious of the immensity of the blessing he was conferring. He spent the night at the Wimbournes', behaving himself in his really rather trying position with the greatest ease and seemliness, and even submitted with a becoming grace to the kiss which Aunt Cecilia impulsively placed on his brow when she bade him farewell next morning.
"You're a dear good boy," she said softly, as she did it; "thank you, again and again, for what you've done."
James, who was a witness to this episode, nearly sank through the floor with shame. That a relative of his should kiss—actually, kiss Marston—! He felt like throwing himself on the ground and imploring Marston's pardon, dedicating himself to his service for life as an expiation.
Yet Marston only blushed and laughed a little and said he had done nothing, and bade good-by to James with unimpaired cordiality.
Aunt Cecilia had been the first of the relatives to arrive on the spot after Hilary's death, and she remained commander-in-chief of the relief forces throughout. But her command was not a complete or unquestioned one. Among the relatives that assembled at the Wimbourne house on that Sunday and Monday for Hilary's funeral was one with whom the story has hitherto had no dealings, but who was a very important force in the family, for all that. This was Lady Fletcher, Hilary's younger sister, by all odds the handsomest and most naturally gifted of her generation. She was the wife of an English army officer, Sir Giles Fletcher, who, having won his major-generalship and a K.C.B. by distinguished service with Kitchener in the Soudan, and being physically incapacitated by that campaign for further service in the tropics, was now, with the able assistance of his wife, devoting his declining years to politics. Lady Fletcher, by the discreet exercise of her social qualities, had succeeded in making herself in the five years since her husband had entered Parliament, one of the most important political hostesses in London. At the time of Hilary's death she was paying one of her flying autumn visits to the country of her birth, in which her headquarters was always her brother James' house in New York.
She and James had gone up to New Haven on the Sunday afternoon in a leisurely fashion several hours in the wake of Aunt Cecilia, who had rushed off, without so much as packing a bag, the moment she received Miss Fraile's telegram that morning. Miriam—that was her Christian name—always felt that she and her brother James understood one another better than any other members of the family, and it was her private opinion that they between them possessed more of the rare gift of common sense than all the other Wimbournes put together, with their wives and husbands thrown in. During the short two-hour journey from New York to New Haven neither she nor her brother appeared so overcome by sorrow over their recent loss that they were not able to discuss the newly created situation pretty satisfactorily, or, to "be practical" as Lady Fletcher was fond of putting it.
"You aren't going to smoke, James?" she asked, as her brother, shortly after the train had started, exhibited preparatory signs of a restlessness which she knew would culminate in an apologetic exit to the smoking car. "Please don't; I can't, on the train, and the thought of your doing it would make me miserable." She stopped for a moment, reflecting that there was perhaps that in the air which ought to make her miserable anyway; then went on, with a significantly lowered voice. "Beside, I want to talk to you; we may not get another chance...."