He was, physically as well as mentally, incapable of bearing any great affliction, and it is likely enough that the untoward events which had taken place in a measure tended to hasten his decline.
Nothing, however, could have saved him, so his medical attendant declared, for he was suffering from the worst form of consumption.
This fact, however, was kept from his father for as long a time as possible.
Lord Ethalwood hoped against hope. He could not, and would not, up to the very last, believe that his only remaining son was slowly but surely passing away.
“Remember, Herbert, you are the last of the Ethalwoods, my son, the last of our name. Our race all depends upon you. It behoves you, therefore, to take great care of yourself. Live, live, for my sake.”
Then he would sit down and watch the thin features of the young man with the deepest anxiety.
Whether he believed in the possibility of his recovery, or whether he clung to hope as a last refuge, it is not possible to say.
It was perfectly evident to all the inmates of Broxbridge Hall that their young master was daily becoming weaker and weaker, and the end most of them guessed, and even hinted at.
There were many who said the father’s excessive care helped to kill him.
Observations of this nature are cruel enough under any circumstances. In this case they were most unjustifiable and unpardonable.