"Shall we go to my hotel? I have a great deal to talk over—business which concerns—ahem—ahem—your lordship, on behalf of your mother, having come expressly—" he turned again to David. "Ah, now don't be at all alarmed, I beg of you. I see I have disturbed you. She is quite well, or was a week or more ago. Doctor Hoyle, you'll accompany us? At my request. Undoubtedly you are interested in your young friend."
Mechanically David walked with the two older men, filled with a strange sinking of the heart, and at the same time with a vague elation. Was he called home by his mother to help her sustain a new calamity? Had the impossible happened? Mr. Stretton's manner continued to be mysteriously deferential toward him, and something in his air reminded David of England and the atmosphere of his uncle's stately home. Had he ever seen the man before? He really did not know.
They reached the hotel shortly and were conducted to Mr. Stretton's private apartment, where wine was ordered, and promptly served. For years thereafter, David never heard the clinking of glasses and bottles borne on a tray without an instant's sickening sinking of the heart, and the foreboding that seemed to drench him with dismay as the glasses were placed on the stand at Mr. Stretton's elbow. When that gentleman, after seeing the waiter disappear, and placing certain papers before him, began speaking, David sat dazedly listening.
What was it all—what was it? The glasses seemed to quiver and shake, throwing dancing flecks of light; and the wine in them—why did it make him think of blood? Were they dead then—all three—his two cousins and his brother—dead? Shot! Killed in a bloody and useless war! He was confounded, and bowing his head in his hands sat thus—his elbows on his knees—waiting, hearing, but not comprehending.
He could think only of his mother. He saw her face, aged and grief-stricken. He knew how she loved the boy she had lost, above all, and now she must turn to himself. He sat thus while the lawyer read a lengthy document, and at the end personally addressed him. Then he lifted his head.
"What is this? My uncle? My uncle gone, too? Do you mean dead? My uncle dead, and I—I his heir?"
The lawyer replied formally, "You are now the head of a most ancient and honorable house. You will have the dignity of the old name to maintain, and are called upon to return to your fatherland and occupy the home of your ancestors." He took up one of the papers and adjusted his monocle.
For a time David did not speak. At last he rose and, with head erect, extended his hand to the lawyer. "I thank you, sir, for your trouble,—but now, Doctor, shall we return to your house? I must take a little time to adjust my mind to these terrible events. It is like being overtaken with an avalanche at the moment when all is most smiling and perfect."
The lawyer began a few congratulatory remarks, but David stopped him, with uplifted hand.
"It is calamitous. It is too terrible," he said sadly. "And what it brings may be far more of a burden than a joy."