Fabian, genuinely touched by the ravages she saw, broke the silence that followed.
"I was greatly surprised and shocked to hear of Aunt Mary's sudden going."
She began to feel uncomfortable under the set gaze of Eliza's swollen eyes.
"I suppose you sent to my house at once, and found that Mr. Fabian and I were in the far West."
"No, I didn't think of sending," returned Eliza.
"You should have done so. Surely there was no one nearer to Aunt Mary than I."
"It was in the paper," said Eliza dully.
"Had I been here I should, of course, have taken charge of the funeral."
The pale eyes emitted a curious light.
"No, you wouldn't, Mrs. Fabian," was the quiet reply.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because the time for you to have done something for Mrs. Ballard was while she was alive."
Eliza was too spent physically to speak other than softly, but her words brought the amazed color to her visitor's face.
"You are presuming," Mrs. Fabian said, after a moment. "What do you know about it? I suppose Aunt Mary did not think it worth while to tell you all the things I did for her."
"No," agreed Eliza, "she never said a word about the times you came with your automobile to take her riding; nor the picture exhibitions you took her to see, or the way you had her to dinner Thanksgivin' time and other times, or how you had her to spend part o' the summer with you at the island, or – "
"Eliza Brewster, what does this mean!" Mrs. Fabian's eyes were dilated. "Aunt Mary was not related to my husband or to his children. I never expected him to marry my family."
Miss Brewster's gaze was fixed upon the speaker with pale scorn, but the latter continued with what she endeavored to make a dignified defence. "I always sent Aunt Mary a present at Christmas."
"Yes," interrupted Eliza. "Last season 'twas a paper-cutter. You gave her cuts enough without that."
"And I called upon her at intervals," continued the visitor in a heightened tone to drown the small voice.
"Intervals of a year," said Eliza.
Mrs. Fabian started to rise, but bethought herself, and sank back.
"You are impertinent," she said coldly. "A person in your position cannot understand the duties of one in mine. There can be no discussion between you and me." The speaker stirred in her chair and collected herself. "I – and every one of Aunt Mary's relatives – appreciate your faithful service to her, and thank you for it."
"Don't you dare!" ejaculated Eliza, with such sudden belligerency that Mrs. Fabian started.
"You're almost crazed with fatigue and grief, poor creature," she said at last. "I can see that you are scarcely responsible for what you say to-day. You must take a long rest. Shall you go home to the island or take another place in town? I can find you one."
Mrs. Fabian felt the superiority of her own self-control as she made this kind offer; besides, in these troublous days with servants, steady, reliable Eliza, with a sure touch in cookery, was not to be despised. The visitor accompanied her offer with a soothing attempt at a smile.
Eliza had relapsed into dullness. "I won't trouble you," she said.
"It would not be any trouble," was the magnanimous reply. "Just let me know any time when you would like a reference, Eliza. It will give me pleasure to reward your faithfulness."
Mrs. Fabian loved approval quite as much as she did admiration. She would feel much more comfortable to win that of even this uncompromising, cranky individual, so lined with the signs of suffering. As Eliza Brewster was a native of the island where Mrs. Fabian had resorted from the days of her girlhood, she had a very slight but old acquaintance with this woman. As she glanced at the thin hair, now fast turning grey, the sunken eyes and cheeks, and the bony, roughened hands, she shuddered beneath her ermine-lined sables, to remember that she and Eliza Brewster were about the same age. She passed a white-gloved hand over the firm contour of her smooth cheek as if to make sure of its firmness. "I believe it was I who recommended you to Aunt Mary in the first place, long ago," she added.
"That's one o' your mistakes," said Eliza drily.
"On the contrary," returned Mrs. Fabian graciously. She was determined to warm this forlorn specimen of New England frigidity into something humanly companionable, else how was she going to attain the object of her visit? She went on with such flattery of manner as she might have employed toward a desirable débutante. "It has proved quite the best thing that I ever did for Aunt Mary; securing her comfort and thereby the peace of mind of all who belonged to her. Don't call it a mistake, Eliza."
"However that may be," returned the other immovably, "'t wa'n't you that did it. 'Twas your Cousin Mary."
"Oh – was it? Oh, indeed?" responded Mrs. Fabian, slipping back her furs still further. Eliza Brewster's disagreeable manner was making her nervous. "Yes, I believe Mrs. Sidney was with us on her wedding-trip just at that time. Mr. Fabian and I have just returned from visiting Mrs. Sidney out in her wild mountain home."
Eliza's eyes roved involuntarily to two blank sheets of board standing on the mantelpiece; but she was silent.
"Do you know the contents of Aunt Mary's will, Eliza?" asked Mrs. Fabian, after waiting vainly for an inquiry as to her cousin's well-being.
"I do."
"What do you think of it?"
"That don't matter, does it?"
A streak of light illumined Mrs. Fabian's annoyance. Ah, that was what was the matter with Eliza. After twenty-five years of faithful service, she had expected to inherit her mistress's few hundreds. Full explanation, this, of the present sullenness. The disappointment must, indeed, have been bitter.
Mrs. Fabian felt an impulse of genuine sympathy. She knew the singular loneliness of Eliza's situation; knew that she had no near kin, and the transplanting from the island home had been complete. What an outlook now, was Eliza Brewster's!
"Perhaps the will was as much of a surprise to you as it was to the rest of us," Mrs. Fabian went on. "The Sidneys were amazed. They didn't tell me just how much Aunt Mary left young Mr. Sidney. Do you know?"
"Yes," replied Eliza promptly.
And again Mrs. Fabian looked at her interrogatively. As well question the Sphinx. She comprehended the stony closing of the thin lips. There might be a combination which would make them open, but she did not have it. She shrugged her fine-cloth shoulders. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. It must have been very little, anyway."
She sighed. She must get at her business, though she dreaded absurdly to introduce it. "Well, Eliza, if you will take me to Aunt Mary's room, I will go through her belongings. It is always the most painful duty connected with a death, but it cannot be escaped."
Eliza stared at her, speechless.
"Aunt Mary had a few very nice things," went on Mrs. Fabian. She tried to smile as at a loving memory. "The regulation treasures of a dear old lady, – her diamond ring, a diamond brooch, and a camel's hair shawl – My heavens!" cried the visitor,
