Shame, misery, bitter indignation with the Morgans, a sickening perception that if Blanche had been true to him the worst might have been averted, all this seethed in his mind. With a desperate effort he steadied his hand and again bent his eye on the pink paper and the large round-hand scrawl. Oh, yes, there was no mistake, he read the fatal words again:
“Father bankrupt, owing to failure Iceland expedition, also loss Morgan’s agency.”
By this time he had partly recovered, was sufficiently himself again to feel some sort of anxiety to read the rest of the message. Possibly there was something he might do to help his father. He read on and took in the next sentence almost at a glance.
“Shock caused cerebral hemorrhage. He died this afternoon.”
Frithiof felt a choking sensation in his throat; if he could not get out into the open air he felt that he should die, and by an instinct he turned toward the door, made a step or two forward, then staggered and caught at Roy Boniface to save himself from falling.
Roy held him up and looked at him anxiously. “You have had bad news?” he asked.
Frithiof tried to speak, but no words would come; he gasped for breath, felt his limbs failing, saw a wavy, confused picture of the vestibule, the waiter, the two girls, an elderly gentleman joining them, then felt himself guided down on to the floor, never quite losing consciousness, yet helpless either to speak or move and with a most confused sense of what had passed.
“It is in Norwegian,” he heard Roy say. “Bad news from his home, I am afraid.”
“Poor fellow!” said another voice. “Open the door some one. It’s air he wants.”
“I saw there was something wrong, father,” this was in a girl’s voice. “He looked quite dazed with trouble as he read.”