William Monk 08 - The Silent Cry

his face. “It is not hopeful. Please do not encourage Mrs. Duff to expect … Miss Latterly, I confess I do not know what to say. One should never abandon any effort, try all one can, whatever the odds.” He hesitated before going on, as if it cost him an effort to master his feelings. “I have seen miracles of recovery. I have also seen a great many men die. Perhaps it is better to say nothing, if you can do that, living here in the house?”
    “I can try. Do you think he will regain his speech?”
    He swung around to face her, his eyes narrow and dark, unreadable.
    “I have no idea. But you must keep the police from harassing him. If they do, and they send him into another hysteria, it could kill him.” His voice was brittle and urgent. She heard the same note of fear in it that she saw in his eyes and mouth. “I don’t know what happened, or what he did, but I do know that the memory is unbearable to him. If you want to save his sanity, you will guard him with every spark of courage and intelligence you have from the police attempts to make him relive it with their questions. For him to do so could very well tip him over the abyss into madness from which he might never return. I have no doubt that if anyone is equal to that, you are.”
    “Thank you,” she said simply. It was a compliment she would treasure, because it was from a man who used no idle words.
    He nodded. “Now I will go and see him. If you will be good enough to ensure we are uninterrupted. I must examine not only his hands but his other wounds to see he has not tornany of the newly healing skin. Thank you for your care, Miss Latterly.”
    The following day Rhys received his first visitor since the incident. It was early in the afternoon. The day was considerably brighter. Snow was lying on the roofs and it reflected back from a windy sky and the pale sunlight of short, winter days.
    Hester was upstairs when the doorbell rang and Wharmby showed in a woman of unusual appearance. She was of average height and fair, unremarkable coloring, but her features were strong, decidedly asymmetrical and yet possessed of an extraordinary air of inner resolution and calm. She was certainly not beautiful, yet one gained from her a sense of well-being which was almost more attractive.
    “Good afternoon, Mrs. Kynaston,” Wharmby said with evident pleasure. He looked at the youth who had followed her. His hair and skin were as fair as hers, but his features were quite different. His face was thin, his features finer and more aquiline, his eyes clear light blue. It was a face of humor and dreams, and perhaps a certain loneliness. “Good afternoon, Mr. Arthur.”
    “Good afternoon,” Mrs. Kynaston replied. She was wearing dark browns and blacks, as became one visiting a house in mourning. Her clothes were well cut but somehow devoid of individual style. It seemed evident it did not matter to her. She allowed Wharmby to take her cloak and then to conduct her into the withdrawing room, where apparently Sylvestra was expecting her. Arthur followed a pace behind.
    Wharmby came up the stairs.
    “Miss Latterly, young Mr. Kynaston is a great friend of Mr. Rhys’s. He has asked if he may visit. Is that possible, do you think?”
    “I shall ask Mr. Rhys if he wishes to see him,” Hester replied. “If he does, I would like to see Mr. Kynaston first. It is imperative he does not say or do anything which would cause distress. Dr. Wade is adamant on that.”
    “Of course. I understand.” He stood waiting while she went to enquire.
    Rhys was lying staring at the ceiling, his eyes half closed.
    Hester stood in the doorway. “Arthur Kynaston is here. He would like to visit you, if you are feeling well enough. If you aren’t, all you have to do is let me know. I shall see he is not offended.”
    Rhys’s eyes opened wide. She thought she saw eagerness in them, then a sudden doubt, perhaps embarrassment.
    She waited.
    He was obviously uncertain. He was lonely, frightened, vulnerable, ashamed of his helplessness and perhaps of what he had not done to save his father. Maybe, like many soldiers she had known, the sheer fact that he had survived was a reproach to him, when someone else had not. Had he really been a coward, or did he only fear he had been? Did he even remember with any clarity, any approximation to fact?
    “If you see him, shall I leave you alone?” she asked.
    A shadow crossed his face.
    “Shall I stay and see that we talk of pleasant things,