“Ah! he is gone then! my dear, dear father!” and Endymion burst into passionate tears, and leant on the table, his face hid in his hands.
The rector walked up and down the room with an agitated countenance. He could not deny, it would seem, the inference of Endymion; and yet he did not proffer those consolations which might be urged, and which it became one in his capacity peculiarly to urge.
“I must see Myra,” said Endymion eagerly, looking up with a wild air and streaming eyes.
“Not yet,” said the rector; “she is much disturbed. Your poor father is no more; it is too true; but,” and here the rector hesitated, “he did not die happily.”
“What do you mean?” said Endymion.
“Your poor father had much to try him,” said the rector. “His life, since he was amongst us here, was a life, for him, of adversity—perhaps of great adversity—yet he bore up against it with a Christian spirit; he never repined. There was much that was noble and exalted in his character. But he never overcame the loss of your dear mother. He was never himself afterwards. He was not always master of himself. I could bear witness to that,” said the rector, talking, as it were, to himself. “Yes; I could conscientiously give evidence to that effect”——
“What effect?” asked Endymion, with a painful scrutiny.
“I could show,” said the rector, speaking slowly, and in a low voice, “and others could show, that he was not master of himself when he committed the rash act.”
“O Mr. Penruddock!” exclaimed Endymion, starting from his chair, and seizing the rector by the arm. “What is all this?”
“That a great sorrow has come upon you, and your sister, and all of us,” said Mr. Penruddock; “and you, and she, and all of us must bow before the Divine will in trembling, though in hope. Your father’s death was not natural.”