Part 31 (2/2)
He was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words she uttered, and did not see the expression of her face.
”Master Henry has not come back,” said nurse. Her voice, heard in unusual speech to him, arrested his attention, and rubbing his eyes, he looked at the servant.
”Harry! oh, no! he had to attend a meeting of the masters about these cursed turn-outs. I don't expect him yet. What are you looking at me so strangely for, Sophy?”
”O papa, Harry is come back,” said she, bursting into tears.
”What do you mean?” said he, startled into an impatient consciousness that something was wrong. ”One of you says he is not come home, and the other says he is. Now, that's nonsense! Tell me at once what's the matter. Did he go on horseback to town? Is he thrown? Speak, child, can't you?”
”No! he's not been thrown, papa,” said Sophy sadly.
”But he's badly hurt,” put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing his anxiety to a point.
”Hurt? Where? How? Have you sent for a doctor?” said he, hastily rising, as if to leave the room.
”Yes, papa, we've sent for a doctor--but I'm afraid---I believe it's of no use.”
He looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth.
His son, his only son, was dead.
He sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, and bowed his head upon the table. The strong mahogany dining-table shook and rattled under his agony.
Sophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck.
”Go! you are not Harry,” said he; but the action roused him.
”Where is he? where is the”--said he, with his strong face set into the lines of anguish, by two minutes of such intense woe.
”In the servants' hall,” said nurse. ”Two policemen and another man brought him home. They would be glad to speak to you when you are able, sir.”
”I am now able,” replied he. At first when he stood up he tottered.
But steadying himself, he walked, as firmly as a soldier on drill, to the door. Then he turned back and poured out a gla.s.s of wine from the decanter which yet remained on the table. His eye caught the wine-gla.s.s which Harry had used but two or three hours before.
He sighed a long quivering sigh, and then mastering himself again, he left the room.
”You had better go back to your sisters, Miss Sophy,” said nurse.
Miss Carson went. She could not face death yet.
The nurse followed Mr. Carson to the servants' hall. There on their dinner-table lay the poor dead body. The men who had brought it were sitting near the fire, while several of the servants stood round the table, gazing at the remains.
THE REMAINS!
One or two were crying; one or two were whispering; awed into a strange stillness of voice and action by the presence of the dead.
When Mr. Carson came in they all drew back and looked at him with the reverence due to sorrow.
He went forward and gazed long and fondly on the calm, dead face; then he bent down and kissed the lips yet crimson with life. The policemen had advanced, and stood ready to be questioned. But at first the old man's mind could only take in the idea of death; slowly, slowly came the conception of violence, of murder. ”How did he die?” he groaned forth.
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