Dr. Ashby was a stout, bald-headed man, with a quick, penetrating eye, and a manner which inspired confidence; decided, without being harsh. Charles could hardly have been prevented from following him into Ernest’s room, in which Mr. Ewart and Dr. Mansell now were, but Mrs. Hope kept him back with the words, “Stay here in the corridor, Charles; the sight of your agitated face would be enough to kill him at once.” She entered in, and closed the door gently behind her.
How long, oh, how long appeared the interval! With what different feelings Charles now stood at the door of that room which he had once entered in such grief and resentment on the day of his return from Marshdale! He then hated the sounds which showed him where his brother was moving through the castle; now his ear was painfully strained to catch any accent of that brother’s voice: he was then almost inclined to murmur at the loss of the broad lands which he had once possessed; now, had they been his, he would have given them all to have had Ernest by his side once more.
At length the door opened, and the two doctors came out, followed by Mrs. Hope. Charles looked the question which his voice could not utter—his aunt laid her finger upon her lips.
“They will consult together in another room,” she whispered; “wait here, and I will bring you the result.”
With a sickening heart Charles leaned back on the wall opposite the door of Ernest’s apartment: he tried to pray, but his mind could scarcely form a prayer—the suspense seemed to paralyze all its energies. After the lapse of some minutes, he heard the rustle of his aunt’s dress again: she came close to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and in a low voice uttered but one sentence: “Charles, you will be Lord of Fontonore!”