y better than their own. And the rumour
waxed and spread.

During the days before the funeral Brian scarcely saw anyone. He lived
shut up in his own room, as his mother did in hers, and had interviews
only with his lawyer and men who came on business. It was a sad and
melancholy house in those days. Angela was invisible: whether it was she
or Mrs. Luttrell who was ill nobody could exactly say. Hugo wandered
about the lonely rooms, or shut himself up after the fashion of the
other members of the family, and looked like a ghost. After the first
two days, Angela's only near relation, her brother Rupert, was present
in the house; but his society seemed not to be very acceptable to Hugo,
and, finding that he was of no use, even to his sister, Mr. Vivian went
back to England, and the house seemed quieter than it had been before.

The funeral took place at last. When it was over, Brian came home, said
farewell to the guests, had a long interview with Mr. Colquhoun, the
solicitor, and then seated himself in the study with the air of a man
who was resolved to take up the burden of his duties in a befitting
spirit. His air was melancholy, but calm; he seemed aged by ten years
since his brother's death. He dined with Hugo, Mr. Colquhoun and Dr.
Muir, and exerted himself to talk of current topics with courtesy and
interest. But his weary face, his saddened eyes, and the long pauses
that occurred between his intervals of speech, produced a depressing
effect upon his guests. Hugo was no more cheerful than his cousin. He
watched Brian furtively from time to time, yet seemed afraid to meet his
eye. His silence and depression were so marked that the doctor
afterwards remarked it to Mr. Colquhoun. "I did not think that Mr. Hugo
would take his cousin's death so much to heart," he said.

"Do you think he does?" asked Mr. Colquhoun, drily. "I don't believe
he's got a heart, the young scamp. I found him myself in the wood,
examining the bark of the tree near which the accident took place, you
know, on the morning after Richard's death, as cool as a cucumber. 'I
was trying to make out how it happened,' he said to me, when I came up.
'Brian must have shot very straight.' I told him to go home and mind his
own business."

"Do you think what they say about Brian's intentions had any
foundation?" asked the doctor.

"Not a bit. Brian's too tender-hearted for a thing of that sort. But the
mother's very bitter about it. She's as hard as flint.