“Lead me to his chamber,” said Robert Ford, pale with excitement, “I must see him. He is my father.”
The servant looked in his agitated face, and moved aside that he might pass.
Lewis encountered him at the foot of the stairs. They looked at each other—those long-estranged cousins—a moment in silence. Lewis was as pale as death. His lips were compressed and bloodless. The shadow of failure darkened his way. Dismay and anger and strong disappointment struggled with him for the mastery. Robert was calmer. He would not have been human if the sight of his cousin had not awakened within him a feeling of resentment. But this was swallowed up by a feeling yet stronger—the desire to see his father.
“Where is my father, Lewis?” he demanded. “Tell me quickly.”
He was about to pass, when his cousin stepped before him.
“Hold!” he exclaimed, in a quick, hoarse voice. “Would you endanger your father’s life? He is in a most critical condition. The least excitement may kill him.”
Robert hesitated for a moment. After a separation of eighteen years he stood within a few feet of his father, and was forbidden to enter his presence. Nothing short of the urgent reason adduced by Lewis, would have stopped him for a moment.
“Is my father, then, so ill?” he asked, with emotion. “Why, oh why did you not send for me before?”
“Do you think I would not if I had known where to find you?” said Lewis, ignorant how far Robert had been apprised of his machinations.
“I cannot tell,” said Robert, shaking his head. “There was a time, Lewis, when I could not have deemed you capable of it.”