A HOUSE OF SORROW
Mr. Barnby took his leave, feeling very wretched. John Swinton remained
in the study, staring at the telegram like one stunned. He read and
re-read it until the words lost their meaning.
"Gone--gone--poor Dick gone!" he murmured, "and just as we were beginning
to hold up our heads again, and feel that life was worth living. My poor
boy--my poor boy!"
A momentary spirit of rebellion took possession of him, and he clenched
his fists and cursed the war.
Light, rippling music broke on his ear. Netty was at the piano in the
drawing-room. He must calm himself. His hand was shaking and his knees
trembling. He could only murmur, "Poor Dick! Poor Dick!" and weep like a
child.
The music continued in a brighter key, and jarred upon him. He covered
his ears, and paced up and down the room as though racked with pain.
"How can I tell them--how can I tell them?" he sobbed. "Our poor boy--our
fine boy--our little Dick, who had grown into such a fine, big chap. He
died gloriously--yes, there's some consolation in that. But it doesn't
wipe out the horror of it, my poor lad. Shot as a spy! Executed! A crowd
of ruffians leveling their guns at you--my poor lad--"
He could not follow the picture further. He buried his face in his hands
and dropped into the little tub chair by the fire. The music in the next
room broke into a canter, with little ripples of gaiety.
"Stop!" he cried in his agony.
At the moment, the study door opened gently--the soft rustle of silk--his
wife.
In an instant, she was at his side.
"What is it--what has happened?"
He rose, and extended his hand to her like a blind man. "Dick--"
"Is dead! Oh!"
A long, tremulous cry, and she fell into his arms. "I knew it--I felt it
coming. Oh, Dick--Dick, why did they make you go?"
"He died gloriously, darling--for his country, performing an act of
gallantry--volunteering to run a great risk. A hero's death."
They wept in each other's arms for some moments, and the gay music
stopped of its own accord.
"Netty will be here in a moment, and she'll have to be told," said Mrs.
Swinton. "The bishop and the others mustn't get an inkling of what has
happened. Their condolences would madden us. Send them away, John--send
them away."
"They'll be going presently, darling. If I send them away, I must explain
why. Pull yourself together. We've faced trouble before, and must face
this. It is our first real loss in this world. We still have Netty."
"Netty! Netty!" cried his wife, with a petulance that almost shocked him.
"What is she compared with Dick? And they've taken him--killed him. Oh,
Dick!"
Netty's voice could be heard, laughing and talking in a high key as she
opened the drawing-room door. "I'll find her," she was saying, and in
another moment she burst into the study.
"Mother--mother, they're all asking for you. The bishop is going now.
Why, what is the matter?"
"Your mother and I are not very well, Netty, dear. Tell them we shall be
back in a moment."
"More money worries, I suppose," sighed Netty with a shrug, as she went
out of the room.
"You see how much Netty cares," cried Mrs. Swinton.
"You're rather hard on the girl, dearest. Your heart is bitter with your
loss. Let us be charitable."
"But Dick!--Dick! Our boy!" she sobbed. Then, with a wonderful effort,
she aroused herself, dried her eyes, and composed her features for the
ordeal of facing her guests again. With remarkable self-control, she
assumed her social manner as a mummer dons his mask; and, after one clasp
of her husband's hand and a sympathetic look, went back to her guests
with that leisurely, graceful step which was so characteristic of the
popular and self-possessed Mary Swinton.
Netty, who was quick to read the signs, saw that something was wrong, and
that her mother was eager to get rid of her guests. She expedited the
farewells with something of her mother's tact, and with an artificial
regret that deceived no one. The bishop went unbidden to the study of his
old friend, the rector, ostensibly to say good-bye, but in reality to
drop a few hints concerning the unpleasant complaints that had reached
him during the year from John Swinton's creditors. He knew Swinton's
worth, his over-generous nature, his impulsive optimism and his
great-hearted Christianity; but a rector whom his parishioners threatened
to make bankrupt was an anxiety in the diocese. While the clergyman
listened to the bishop's friendly words, he could not conceal the misery
in his heart.
"What's the matter?" cried the bishop at last, when John Swinton burst
into tears, and turned away with a sob.
The rector waved his hand to the telegram lying on the table, and the
bishop took it up.
"Dreadful! A terrible blow! Words of sympathy are of little avail at the
present moment, old friend," he said, placing his hand on the other's
shoulder. "Everyone's heart will open to you, John, in this time of
trouble. The Lord giveth and He taketh away. Your son has died the death
of an honorable, upright man. We are all proud of him, as you will be
when you are more resigned. Good-bye, John. This is a time when a man is
best left to the care of his wife."
The parting handgrip between the bishop and the stricken father was long
and eloquent of feeling, and the churchman's voice was husky as he
uttered the final farewell. Soon, everyone was gone. The door closed
behind the last gushing social personage, and the rector was seated by
the fire, with his face buried in his hands. Netty came quietly to his
side.
"Father, something serious is the matter with mother. You've had news
from the war. What is it--nothing has happened to Harry?"
"No, child--your brother."
"Oh!"
The unguarded exclamation expressed a world of relief. Then, Netty's
shallow brain commenced to work, and she murmured:
"Is Dick wounded or--?"
"The worst, Netty dear. He is gone."
He spoke with his face still hidden. "Go to your mother," he pleaded, for
he wished to be alone.
A furious anger against the war--against all war and bloodshed, was
rising up within him. All a father's protective instinct of his offspring
burst forth. Revenge entered into his soul. He beat the air with clenched
fists, and with distended eyes saw the muzzles of rifles presented at his
helpless boy.
Of a sudden, he remembered Mr. Barnby's accusation against his son's
honor. The horrible, abominable suggestion of forgery.
Everybody seemed to have been against the boy. How could Dick have forged
his grandfather's signature? Herresford, who was always down on Dick, had
made an infamous charge--the result of a delusion in his dotage. It
mattered little now, or nothing. Yet, everything mattered that touched
the honor of his boy. It was disgraceful, disgusting, cruel.
Netty had gone to her own room, weeping limpid, emotional tears, with no
salt of sorrow in them. The mother was in the drawing-room, sobbing as
though her heart would break. A chill swept over the house. In the
kitchen, there was silence, broken by an occasional cry of grief.
The rector pulled himself together, and went to his wife. He found her
in a state of collapse on the hearth-rug, and lifted her up gently. He
had no intention of telling her of Barnby's mistake, or of uttering words
of comfort. In the thousand and one recollections that surged through his
brain touching his boy, words seemed superfluous.
He put his arm tenderly around the queenly wife of whom he was so proud,
for she was more precious to him than any child--and led her back to his
study. He drew forward a little footstool by the fire, which was a
favorite seat with her, and placed her there at his feet, while he sat in
the tub chair; and she rested between his knees, in the old way of years
ago, when they were lovers, and gossiped over the fire after all the
house was quiet and little golden-haired Dick was fast asleep upstairs.
And thus they sat now, till the fire burned out, and the keen, frosty air
penetrated the room, chilling them to the bone.
"Grieving will not bring him back, darling," murmured the broken man.
"Let us to bed. Perhaps, a little sleep will bring us comfort and
strength to face the morrow, and attend to our affairs as usual."
She arose wearily, and asked in quite a casual manner, as if trying to
avoid the matter of their sorrow:
"What did Barnby want?"
"Oh, he came with some crazy story about--some checks Dick cashed for
you, which your father repudiates. The old man must be going mad!"
"Checks?" she asked huskily, and her face was drawn with terror.
"Checks for quite large amounts," said the rector. "Two or five thousand
dollars, or something like that. The old man's memory must be failing
him. He's getting dangerous. I always thought his animosity against Dick
was more assumed than real, but to launch such a preposterous accusation
is beyond enduring."
"Does he accuse Dick?" she asked, in a strained voice; "Dick, who is
dead?"
"Yes, darling. But don't think of such nonsense. Barnby himself saw the
absurdity of discussing it. Dick has had no money except what you got for
him."
She made no reply, but with bowed head walked unsteadily out of the room.