He was appalled to feel
the almost indifference with which he looked upon the remains of
his manly and high-souled brother, and he repeated over and over to
himself: "Henry is dead! he is dead! Don't you hear? don't you know?
He is dead! Why don't you mourn?"
An hour later, came a gentle tap at the door. Barton went to find Mrs.
Hitchcock standing there.
"Your mother must be aroused and taken away. My mother and I will take
you to her house. She must be cared for now."
"Mother," said Bart, taking her lightly in his arms, "these dear good
ladies must care for you. Let me take you out; and our dear Henry must
be cared for, too."
How unnatural his voice sounded to him! Had he slain his brother, that
he should care so little?--that his voice should sound so hoarse and
hollow?
His mother was passive in his hands,--wearied, broken, and
overwhelmed. He carried her across a small open space, and into a
large house, where her kind hostess received and cherished her as only
women experienced and chastened by sorrow can.
Barton was conducted to a spacious, cool room, luxurious to his eyes;
yet he felt no weariness, but somehow supernaturally strained up to an
awful tension.
"Why don't I shriek, and tear my hair, and make some fitting moan over
this awful loss? Why can't I feel it? O God! am I a wretch without
nature, or heart, or soul? He is dead! Why should he die, and now,
plucked and torn up by the root, just at flowering? What a vile
economy is this! what a waste and incompleteness! and the world full
of drivellers and dotards, that it would gladly be quit of.
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