"My son Frank is dead," said the vicar, with a sob.
"Oh!" Clarice was dreadfully shocked, and now quite understood the sick looks of the bereaved father. She knew that Frank had been the apple of Mr. Clarke's eyes, notwithstanding that he had always behaved like the rascal, he inherently was.
"I am sorry," she said, rising; "perhaps you would like me to go away."
"No! no! Stop, please, I'll send Prudence to you, as I have to attend to some pastoral matters myself."
"But your poor son----"
"Don't say anything more, Clarice," interrupted the vicar, looking an untidy but pathetic figure. "My son is dead, and I never wish to hear his name mentioned again. As he has sown so has he reaped, and I hope that God will have mercy upon his soul."
"How did he die?"
"No! no! Say no more," cried Mr. Clarke, and before Clarice could apologise, he hurried from the room.
Clarice was puzzled. Frank was dead, and--strange to say--the vicar seemed glad that he was dead. Frank, undoubtedly, was a prodigal son, but his father had always condoned his follies and rascalities. Yet, apparently, at the eleventh hour Frank had done something which even the lenient parent could not forgive. Clarice did not wish to know what the deed was. She had quite enough troubles of her own, without thinking of those of other people. Still, the attitude and wild words of Mr. Clarke astonished her not a little.
Prudence came in, looking almost as ill as her father had done. The girl was tall, handsome, and dark, with a cool, confident manner, and with a considerable fund of common sense. But she appeared very sick and very ill at ease, and accepted the kiss of her old friend in a mechanical way, which provoked Clarice into speech.