"She's always saying unkind things," sobbed the child, clinging to him; "she oughtn't to—ought she? You don't answer me, father! Father, why don't you tell me? Why don't you say quick, it's not true?" And as his fear grew, his voice faltered, and his grasp on his father tightened. "Answer me—father—why—don't you—speak?"
"My poor child, my poor little fellow!" One more struggle for the truth, in spite of the failing voice, and the sense of deadly sickness.
"Lift up your face, father. Let—me—see—your—face!"
What was there in the face that struck terror to his heart, and brought conviction thumping up in great throbs, even before the faltering words came.
"Supposing it should be true—what then!"
Ah! what then? His dizzy brain refused to attach any meaning to the words, or to help him to understand how much was contained in them.
The loud beating of his heart echoed them, his parched lips strove to repeat them, and wildly he fought with his failing senses, straining every nerve to find an answer to the question. In vain! Every pulse in his throbbing head seemed to take up the words and beat them into his brain; the air was live with voices around him, and voices and pulses alike cried, "What then?—what then?" But the question went unanswered, for Humphrey fainted away.
* * * * *
Sir Everard hastily summoned the doctors, and they did all they could to restore him.
In a little while he showed signs of coming to himself, and to prevent his thoughts returning to the subject which had agitated him, they requested Sir Everard to remain out of sight, and stationed themselves close to the bedside, so that theirs should be the first figures that should attract his attention.