“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