Sir Stephen nodded, and was moving away—they made a kind of lane for him—when a servant came up to him with a cablegram on a salver. As he did so, Howard stepped forward quickly.
"Take it into the study!" he said, almost sharply, to the man; then to
Stafford he whispered: "Don't let him open it. It is bad news.
Griffenberg has just told me—quick! Take it!"
But before Stafford, in his surprise, could take the cablegram, Sir Stephen had got it. He stood with his head erect, the electric light falling on his handsome face: the embodiment of success. He opened the telegram with the smile still on his lips, and read the thing; then the crowd of staring—shall it be written, gaping?—persons saw the smile fade slowly, the flushed face grow paler, still paler, then livid. He looked up and round him as if he were searching for a face, and his eyes, full of anguish and terror, met Stafford's.
"Stafford—my boy!" he cried, in accents of despair.
Stafford sprang to him.
"Father—I am here!" he said, for Sir Stephen's gaze grew vacant as if he had been stricken blind.
The next moment he threw up his arms and, with a gasp, fell forward. Stafford caught him as a cry of terror rose from the crowd which fell back as if suddenly awed by some dreadful presence; and forcing his way through it a famous doctor reached the father and son.
There was a moment of awful suspense, then—the music sounded like a mockery in the silence—all knew, though no word had been spoken, that the great Sir Stephen—pardon! the Right Honourable the Earl of Highcliffe—was dead.
CHAPTER XXXII.
By a stroke, as of Heaven's lightning, the house of joy was turned into the house of mourning.