It needed all his self-command to finish the reading, and when he came to the end and handed back the paper, Raby perceived that his hand shook and his face was deadly pale.
“Why, what is the matter, Mr Jeffreys?” said she, suddenly alarmed herself; “it is good news, isn’t it? and he has only got a scratch!”
“Yes, it is good news; and I congratulate you.”
“But you look—perhaps you know some one who has been killed. You never told me you had any friend out there.”
“I have not. I think I must be not quite well; will you excuse me?”
And he went out into the open air, leaving Raby very much perplexed and concerned. She was relieved, however, to see him half an hour later starting off with Percy for what, to judge by their mountain boots and the luncheon box strapped across Jeffreys’ shoulders, promised to be a long walk.
Jeffreys’ first sensations on finding himself alone had been those of stupefaction. Although all that he knew of Forrester’s father was that he had been in India, it never occurred to him now for a moment that the gallant officer mentioned in the telegram could be any other than the father whom he had so cruelly and irreparably wronged. And now once more he seemed suddenly face to face with his crime. He saw before him that fatal scene in the Bolsover meadow; he heard his comrades’ howl of execration and saw the boy’s white face on the grass turned up to meet his. It seemed but yesterday. Nay, it seemed all to be there that moment; he could feel the keen breeze on his cheek; his eye rested on the boy’s cap where he had flung it; he was conscious of Mr Freshfield’s look of horror—he could even see twenty yards away the football lying idle between the goals.
Strange, that the doubtful mention of an officer’s name should call it all up thus! But so it was. He even seemed half guilty of that gallant death in Afghanistan. Had he not wronged him worse than death? and now if anywhere the friendless boy, whose whole hope was in his father, should read those lines and find himself orphaned as well as crippled!
Jeffreys in his misery groaned aloud.
“Hullo,” said Percy, in the path before him, “you in the blues too! What a jolly sell! Here am I as miserable as an owl, and everybody I meet’s miserable too. Scarfe’s gone to Sharpfield, and won’t be back till late. Raby’s so taken up with her precious telegram that she won’t look at me. Ma and Mrs Scarfe, have bagged the pony trap and Appleby, and now you’re looking as if you’d just been hung.”