Part 14 (1/2)
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 d.i.c.k? And they've taken him--killed him. Oh, d.i.c.k!”
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 d.i.c.k!--d.i.c.k! 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 a.s.sumed 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 paris.h.i.+oners 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 gus.h.i.+ng 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 d.i.c.k 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.