XLIII
The blinds were down at the vicarage. Prince, whose stealthy grace of movement was that of the perfect parlor maid, walked with more than usual delicacy. Her master had not slept in his bed for two nights. Miss Edith was working in a Paris hospital, and news had come from France that Mr. Tom was gone.
In the absence of Miss Edith, Prince felt herself to be the most authoritative female in that diminished household; and she was much concerned for her master, whom she adored. It was the nature of Prince to adore. In her face was the look of stern beauty worn by nearly every Englishwoman of her generation. It seemed but yesterday that she had ordered a wedding dress she was never to wear, because “her boy,” a lusty towheaded young sergeant of the Sussex Regiment, had gone to sleep on the Somme.
Ever since the telegram had come from the War Office, the vicar had not been himself. But his first act had been to go up to town for the day, and comfort and advise the brave girl whose three bairns would never see their father again. It had called for a great effort, for he was stunned by the sense of loss. To a father, the first-born is a symbol. And there is nothing to replace an eldest son in the heart of a lonely man who lives in the memory of a great happiness. He had only to look at gifted, rare-spirited Tom to see the mother, to watch the play of her features, to behold the light of her eyes.
Of his four children he had never disguised the fact that Tom was the fine flower. Like many men of rather abrupt mental limitation, the vicar had, at bottom, a reverence for a good brain. This boy had been given a talent, and many a time had the father amused himself with the pious fancy that the brilliant barrister, of whom much was predicted, would be the second Lord Chancellor of his name and blood.
On the third morning of the news, as the vicar sat at breakfast solitary and without appetite, Prince brought him a letter. It bore a service postmark. It was from Somewhere in France, and it said:
1st Metropolitan Regiment.
Dear Sir:
It is with the deepest regret that I have to inform you that Captain Perry-Hennington was killed on the 5th inst. His loss falls very heavily indeed upon his brother officers and the men of his Regiment. I will not attempt to say how much he meant to all ranks, for no man could have been more looked up to, or more generally beloved. All knew him for what he was, a good soldier, a true Christian, a great gentleman. He was in the act of writing you a letter (which I inclose) when word was brought to him that a man of another battalion, mortally hit, had asked for Captain Perry-Hennington. He went out at once, across the danger zone to a communication trench, where the poor fellow lay, but half way he was caught by a shell and killed instantly. If it was his turn, it was the end he would have asked for, and the end those who loved him would have asked for him. Assuring you of the Regiment’s deepest sympathy in your great loss,
I am, very sincerely yours,