“No, ma’am, there was nothing, ma’am, to act, so to speak, in the nature of a warning. Mrs. Guthrie had much enjoyed your visit, and, if I may say so, ma’am, the visit of your young lady, last Thursday. Yesterday she was more cheerful-like than usual, talking a good bit about the Russians. She said that their coming to our help just now in the way they had done had quite reconciled her to them.”

Howse, Major Guthrie’s butler, his one-time soldier-servant, was speaking. By his side was Mrs. Guthrie’s elderly maid, Ponting. Mrs. Otway was standing opposite to them, and they were all three in the middle of the pretty, cheerful morning-room, where it seemed but a few hours ago since she and her daughter had sat with the old lady.

With the mingled pomp, enjoyment, and grief which the presence of death creates in a certain type of mind, Howse went on speaking: “She made quite a hearty tea for her—two bits of bread and butter, and a little piece of tea-cake. And then for her supper she had a sweetbread—a sweetbread and bacon. It’s a comfort to Cook now, ma’am, to remember as how Mrs. Guthrie sent her a message, saying how nicely she thought the bacon had been done. Mrs. Guthrie always liked the bacon to be very dry and curly, ma’am.”

He stopped for a moment, and Mrs. Otway’s eyes filled with tears for the first time.

On entering the house, she had at once been shown the War Office telegram stating that Major Guthrie was wounded and missing, and she had glanced over it with shuddering distress and pain, while her brain kept repeating “wounded and missing—wounded and missing.” What exactly did those sinister words signify? How, if he was missing, could they know he was wounded? How, if he had been wounded, could he be missing?

But soon she had been forced to command her thoughts, and to listen, with an outward air of calmness and interest, to this detailed account of the poor old lady’s last hours.

With unconscious gusto, Howse again took up the sad tale, while the maid stood by, with reddened eyelids, ready to echo and to supplement his narrative.

“Perhaps Mrs. Guthrie was not quite as well as she seemed to be, ma’am, for she wouldn’t take any dessert, and after she had finished her dinner she didn’t seem to want to sit up for a while, as she sometimes did. When she became so infirm, a matter of two years ago, the Major arranged that his study should be turned into a bedroom for her, ma’am, so we wheeled her in there after dinner.”

After a pause, he went on with an added touch of gloom: “She gazed her last upon the dining-room, and on this ’ere little room, which was, so to speak, ma’am, her favourite sitting-room. Isn’t that so, Ponting?” The maid nodded, and Howse said sadly: “Ponting will now tell you what happened after that, ma’am.”

Ponting waited a moment, and then began: “My mistress didn’t seem inclined to go to bed at once, so I settled her down nicely and comfortably with her reading-lamp and a copy of The World newspaper. She found the papers very dull lately, poor old lady, for you see, ma’am, there was nothing in them but things about the war, and she didn’t much care for that. But she can’t have been reading more than five minutes when there came the telegram.”

Howse held up his hand, for it was here that he again came on the scene.

“The minute the messenger boy handed me the envelope,” he exclaimed, “I says to myself, ‘That’s bad news—bad news of the Major!’ I sorely felt tempted to open it. But there! I knew if I did so it would anger Mrs. Guthrie. She was a lady, ma’am, who always knew her own mind. It wasn’t even addressed ‘Guthrie,’ you see, but ‘Mrs. Guthrie,’ as plain as plain could be. The boy ’ad brought it to the front door, and as we was having our supper I didn’t want to disturb Ponting. So I just walked along to Mrs. Guthrie’s bedroom, and knocked. She calls out, ‘Come in!’ And I answers, ‘There’s a telegram for you, ma’am. Would you like me to send Ponting in with it?’ And she calls out, ‘No, Howse. Bring it in yourself.’

“I shall never forget seeing her open it, poor old lady. She did it quite deliberate-like; then, after just reading it over, she looked up straight at me. ‘I know you’ll be sorry to hear, Howse, as how Major Guthrie is wounded and missing,’ she said, and then, ‘I need not tell you, who are an old soldier, Howse, that such are the fortunes of war.’ Those, ma’am, were her exact words. Of course I explained how sorry I was, and I did my very best to hide from her how bad I took the news to be. ‘I think I would like to be alone now, Howse,’ she says, ‘just for a little while.’ And then, ‘We must hope for better news in the morning.’ I asked her, ‘Would you like me to send Ponting up to you, ma’am?’ But she shook her head: ‘No, Howse, I would rather be by myself. I will ring when I require Ponting. I do not feel as if I should care to go to bed just yet,’ she says quite firmly.

“Well, ma’am, we had of course to obey her orders, but we all felt very uncomfortable. And as a matter of fact in about half an hour Ponting did make an excuse to go into the room”—he looked at the woman by his side. “You just tell Mrs. Otway what happened,” he said, in a tone of command.

Ponting meekly obeyed.

“I just opened the door very quietly, and Mrs. Guthrie did not turn round. Without being at all deaf, my mistress had got a little hard of hearing, lately. I went a step forward, and then I saw that she was reading the Bible. I was very much surprised, madam, for it was the first time I had ever seen her do such a thing—though of course there was always a Bible and a Prayer Book close to her hand. She was wheeled into church each Sunday—when it was fine, that is. The Major saw to that.... I couldn’t help feeling sorry she hadn’t rung and asked me to move the Book for her, for it is a big Bible, with very clear print. She was following the words with her finger, and that was a thing I had never seen her do before with any book. As she did not turn round, I said to myself that it was better not to disturb her. So I just backed very quietly out of the door again. I shall always be glad,” she said, in a lower tone, “that I saw her like that.”

“And then,” interposed Howse, “quite a long time went on, ma’am, and we all got to feel very uneasy. We none of us liked to go up—not one of us. But at last three of us went up together—Cook, me, and Ponting—and listened at the door. But try our hardest, as we did, we could hear nothing. It was the stillness of death!”

“Yes,” said Ponting, her voice sinking to a whisper, “that’s what it was. For when at last I opened the door, there lay my poor mistress all huddled up in the chair, just as she had fallen back. We sent for the doctor at once, but he said there was nothing to be done—that her heart had just stopped. He said it might have happened any time in the last two years, or she might have lived on for quite a long time, if all had gone on quiet and serene.”

“We’ve left the Bible just as it was,” said Howse slowly. “It’s just covered over, so that the Major, if ever he should come home again, though I fear that’s very unlikely”—he dolefully shook his head—“may see what it was her eyes last rested on. Major Guthrie, if you would excuse me for saying so, ma’am, has always been a far more religious gentleman than his mother was a religious lady. I feel sure it would comfort him to know that just before her end she was reading the Book.”

“It was open at the twenty-second Psalm,” added Ponting, “and when I came in that time and saw her without her seeing me, she must have been just reading the verse about the dog.”

“The dog?” said Mrs. Otway, surprised.

“Yes, madam. ‘Deliver my soul from the sword: my darling from the power of the dog.’”

Howse here chimed in, “Her darling, that’s the Major, and the dog is the enemy, ma’am.”

He paused, and then went on, in a brisker, more cheerful tone:

“I telegraphed the very first thing to Mr. Allen—that’s Major Guthrie’s lawyer, ma’am. The Major told me I was to do that, if anything awkward happened. Then it just occurred to me that I would telephone to the Deanery. The Dean was out here yesterday afternoon, ma’am, and Mrs. Guthrie liked him very much. Long ago, when she lived in London, she used to know the parents of the young gentleman to whom Miss Haworth is engaged to be married. They had quite a long pleasant talk about it all. I had meant, ma’am, if you’ll excuse my telling you, to telephone to you next, and then I heard as how you were coming here. The Major did tell me the morning he went away that if Mrs. Guthrie seemed really ailing, I was to ask you to be kind enough to come and see her. Of course I knew where he was going, and that he’d be away for a long time, though he didn’t say anything to me about it. But he knew that I knew, right enough!”

“Had Mrs. Guthrie no near relation at all—no sister, no nieces?” asked Mrs. Otway, in a low voice. Again she felt she was living in a dreamland of secret, poignant emotions shadowed by a great suspense and fear.

“No. Nothing of the kind,” said Howse confidently. “And on Major Guthrie’s side there was only distant cousins. It’s a peculiar kind of situation altogether, ma’am, if I may say so. Quite a long time may pass before we know whether the Major is alive or dead. ‘Wounded and missing’? We all knows as how there is only one thing worse that could be than that—don’t we, ma’am?”

“I don’t quite know what you mean, Howse.”

“Why, the finding and identifying of the Major’s body, ma’am.”

Through the still, silent house there came a loud, long, insistent ringing—that produced by an old-fashioned front door bell.

“I expect it’s Mr. Allen,” exclaimed Howse. “He wired as how he’d be down by two o’clock.” And a few moments later a tall, dark, clean-shaven man was shaking hands, with the words, “I think you must be Mrs. Otway?”

There was little business doing just then among London solicitors, and so Mr. Allen had come down himself. He had a very friendly regard for his wounded and missing client, and his recollection of the interview which had taken place on the day before Major Guthrie had sailed with the First Division of the Expeditionary Force was still very vivid in his mind.

His client had surprised him very much. He had thought he knew everything about Major Guthrie and Major Guthrie’s business, but before receiving the latter’s instructions about his new will he had never heard of Mrs. Otway and her daughter. Yet, if Major Guthrie outlived his mother, as it was of course reasonable, even under the circumstances, to suppose that he would do, a considerable sum of money was to pass under his will to Mrs. Otway, and, failing her, to her only child, Rose Otway.

Strange confidences are very often made to lawyers, quite as often as to doctors. But Major Guthrie, when he came to sign his will, the will for which he had sent such precise and detailed instructions a few days before, made no confidences at all.

Even so, the solicitor, putting two and two together, had very little doubt as to the relations of his client and of the lady whom he had made his residuary legatee. He felt sure that there was an understanding between them that either after the war, or after Mrs. Guthrie’s death—he could not of course tell which—they intended to make one of those middle-aged marriages which often, strange to say, turn out more happily than earlier marriages are sometimes apt to do.

The lawyer naturally kept his views to himself during the afternoon he spent at Dorycote House, and he simply treated Mrs. Otway as though she had been a near relation of the deceased lady. What, however, increased his belief that his original theory was correct, was the fact that there was no mention of Mrs. Otway’s name in Mrs. Guthrie’s will. The old lady, like so many women, had preferred to keep her will in her own possession. It had been made many years before, and in it she had left everything to her son, with the exception of a few trinkets which were to be distributed among certain old friends and acquaintances, fully half of whom, it was found on reference to Ponting, had predeceased the testator.

As the hours went on, Mr. Allen could not help wondering if Mrs. Otway was aware of the contents of Major Guthrie’s will. He watched her with considerable curiosity. She was certainly attractive, and yes, quite intelligent; but she hardly spoke at all, and there was a kind of numbness in her manner which he found rather trying. She did not once mention Major Guthrie of her own accord. She always left such mention to him. He told himself that doubtless it was this quietude of manner which had attracted his reserved client.

“I suppose,” he said at last, “that we must presume that Major Guthrie is alive till we have an official statement to the contrary?” And then he was startled to see the vivid expression of pain, almost of anguish, which quivered over her eyes and mouth. Then she did care, after all.

“Howse tells me,” she said slowly, “that Major Guthrie is probably a prisoner. He says, he says——” and then she stopped abruptly—it was as if she could not go on with her sentence, and Mr. Allen exclaimed, “I heard what he said, Mrs. Otway. Of course he is right in stating that an effort is always made to find and bring in the bodies of dead officers. But I fear that this war is not at all like the only war of which Howse has had any first-hand knowledge. This last week has been a very bad business. Still, I quite agree that we must not give up hope. I have been wondering whether you would like me to make inquiries at the War Office, or whether you have any better and quicker—I mean of course by that any private—means of procuring information?”

“No,” she said hopelessly; “I have no way of finding out anything. And I should be very grateful indeed, Mr. Allen, if you would do what you can.” For the first time she spoke as if she had a direct interest in Major Guthrie’s fate. “Perhaps”—she fixed her eyes on him appealingly, and he saw them slowly fill up and brim over with tears—“Perhaps if you should hear anything, you would not mind telegraphing to me direct? I think you have my address.”

And then, bursting into bitter sobs, she suddenly got up and ran out of the room.

So she did know about Major Guthrie’s will. In what other way could he, the man to whom she was speaking, know her address? Mr. Allen also told himself, with some surprise, that he had been mistaken—that Mrs. Otway, after all, was not the quiet, passionless woman he had supposed her to be.

When she reached the Trellis House late that Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Otway was met at the door by Rose, and the girl, with face full of mingled awe and pain, told her that the blow on the Deanery had fallen. Edith Haworth had received the news that Sir Hugh Severn was dead—killed at the head of his men in a great cavalry charge.