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 118 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. 119 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, 120 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. 121

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: 122

“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 123 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 124 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.