CHAPTER XI
A HOUSE OF SORROW
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.