"Oh, no, no, dear Charles, but frightened, horrified;" and as she said this, the poor lady burst into tears.
"What is this horrible affair? Something about Sir Wynston. He is dead, I know, but is it—is it suicide?" he asked.
"Oh, no, not suicide," said Mrs. Marston, greatly agitated.
"Good God! Then he is murdered," whispered the young man, growing very pale.
"Yes, Charles—horrible—dreadful! I can scarcely believe it," replied she, shuddering while she wept.
"Where is my father?" inquired the young man, after a pause.
"Why, why, Charles, darling—why do you ask for him?" she said, wildly, grasping him by the arm, as she looked into his face with a terrified expression.
"Why—why, he could tell me the particulars of this horrible tragedy," answered he, meeting her agonized look with one of alarm and surprise, "as far as they have been as yet collected. How is he, mother—is he well?"
"Oh, yes, quite well, thank God," she answered, more collectedly—"quite well, but, of course, greatly, dreadfully shocked."
"I will go to him, mother; I will see him," said he, turning towards the door.