"Yes," said Marian, "he is in his own room now."
"Ah! you spoke long ago," said Mr. Lyddell; "I wish we had attended to you."
"It was Edmund who remarked it," said she.
"Ay, ay, and senseless it was not to attend. Then it seems that something might have been done, at any rate he would not have gone on injuring them with his work at Eton, but now it is as good as a lost case. Poor fellow!"
"O!" exclaimed Marian, thrown back again, "I thought there was a hope that it might not prove to be the worst."
"There is just a shade of chance that it may turn out otherwise, and that, your mother—Mrs. Lyddell I mean—takes hold of, but I have not the slightest hope. The surgeon said, it had all the appearance of a confirmed case, such as cannot be removed."
Marian stood aghast, and Mr. Lyddell, with a sort of groan, most painful to hear, passed her, and shut himself into his study. The only thing she could think of doing, was to pour out her dismay and compassion in a letter to Gerald, and she repaired to the schoolroom for the purpose of writing, but she had not been there long, before Lionel came in, and sat down astride on the music-stool, just as he used to do, but with a very different expression of countenance from the wild, reckless spirit of merriment which used to possess him. He sat and meditated for a little while, then exclaimed, "Marian, whom have you seen since I left you?"
"Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Lyddell."
"Did you hear papa say anything about it?"
"Yes, a little."