Late October and a grey morning tinging to gold through the warming
mist. A large comfortable dining-room smelling faintly of chrysanthemums
and more strongly of coffee and breakfast dishes. In the hearth a great
fire, throwing its flames about as with joy of life. The table-cloth,
the silver, the dishes, the carpet on the floor, the side-board, the
pictures, the wall-paper told of wealth and ease, the fruits of peace,
and the arrangement of these things told of the good taste which is so
essentially the fruit of long peace.
The room was empty, and the first to enter it that morning was the Mother.
She was a tall imposing woman, and her bearing and her little mannerisms
were of the kind that the latter-day novelists have delighted to use
as matter for their irony. It was the Boy's birthday--his eighteenth
birthday, the first he had spent at home since he had been going to
his preparatory and his public school. So she departed from the usual
routine to place by the side of his napkin the neat little parcels she
had brought down with her. Two of them were from her other sons fighting
in France. They were a very affectionate and united family--father and
mother and the three sons.
After that she went to her husband's end of the table and looked through
the heap of letters placed there as usual by the admirable butler. It
was understood of old that she opened no letters but those addressed
to her, not even the letters from the fighting sons when they happened
to write to their father instead of to her.
This time, however, her eye caught at once, between the edges of the
others, an official envelope and, lower yet, another. She became rigid
and stood for a minute by the table, her mind running vaguely into
endless depths. Then she put her hand out and picked the envelopes from
the heap and saw that her fears might not be groundless. But they were
addressed to her husband, and at that moment she heard his tread and
his slight cough as he came slowly down the stairs. Hastily she pushed
them back among the others and went to her place. When he came into
the room she was busy with the urn.
As usual he was just putting his handkerchief back; as usual he looked
out of the window, then walked over to the fire and warmed his hands
automatically. All this business of coming down to breakfast had been
to him for so many years a leisurely pleasant business in a world free
from serious worries, that even the War, with its terrible disturbances,
with its breaking up of the family circle, had not succeeded in altering
his habits. Everything waited for him--for he was not unpunctual--the
letters, the newspaper and the breakfast. But this day was the Boy's
birthday and the Father took from his pocket an envelope and placed it
with a smile by the side of the little parcels.
Would he never look at his letters? The Mother was on the point of
speaking, but long habit, the old habit of obedience to her lord,
restrained her. Even now, when she was cold with anxiety, those old
concealed forces of habit restrained her. Might she not offend him?
The Father sat down, put on his glasses and began to look at the pile by
his side. She noticed the slight start he gave and her eyes met his as
he looked up suddenly at her. Deliberately braving Fate, he put those
two envelopes aside. It was evident that he meant to read through all
the others first, but he was not so strong as he thought. His fingers
went again to the official envelopes and he took up the letter-opener
placed ready for his use by the admirable butler and slit along the
top of one envelope and took the thin paper from it and read.
His head drooped a little, and the Mother came round to his side. Then
he opened the other and suddenly sat very still, with his great strong
fine hand open on the paper, gazing straight in front of him. His wife
bent over him and tried to speak, but her voice had died to a whisper,
a hoarse straining sound.
"Dead?" she said at last.
Her husband dropped his head in affirmation.
"Which?"