“Good morning, madam; charmed to see you looking so well,” were the baronet’s first words to poor Mrs. Lockhart, who immediately burst into tears, partly because she thought Sir Francis had gone mad, and partly because the contrast between her feelings and his observation was so grotesque. “Is—er—are all well, I hope?” he proceeded, while the questioning agony in his bloodless lips and staring eyes seemed to belong to another being than he who uttered the meaningless phrases.
“I only hope you may not have come too late, dear Sir Francis,” she said, instinctively replying to his look instead of to his words. “Poor Mr. Grant—he was murdered outright, but your son ...” she faltered, and resumed her tears....
The baronet stood at the foot of the stairs, with his hat under his arm and one knee bent—a most unexceptionable attitude. He was dressed at least as fastidiously as usual, only that, in shaving, he had accidentally cut his cheek, and the blood had trickled down and stained his else immaculate white stock. This little mishap might fancifully be regarded as symbolical of his moral state at the moment. He awaited something further from Mrs. Lockhart; but at length, as she did not speak, he said carefully, “Grant murdered! I cannot believe it! He parted from me, not twelve hours ago, in such capital health and spirits.” Then, after another pause, he bent forward and added in a grating whisper, as if confidentially, “The message that summoned me here mentioned the name of my son—Thomas. Pardon a father’s anxiety—alluding to him at such a moment. But ... nothing wrong ... eh?”
“Oh, Sir Francis! the surgeon says he cannot live; but he was very brave: it was while he was trying to protect Mr. Grant that he was struck. Oh, how can any one be so wicked!”
A peculiar sound escaped from the baronet’s throat, and his upper lip drew slowly back so as to reveal the teeth. It seemed to Mrs. Lockhart as if he were laughing; but only a madman could laugh at such a juncture, and she trembled with horror. It was immediately evident, however, that Sir Francis was simply in the grip of a horror vastly greater than hers, and that it had momentarily mastered him. Presently his eyes rolled, his head swayed forward, and, had he not grasped the balusters, he would have fallen. But calling up all his energies, he commanded himself a little, and, without attempting to speak, began the ascent of the stairs. Just then a door opened above, and Perdita’s voice said in a hushed tone:
“Sir Francis, are you there?”
He stopped, and looked upward; then, still in silence, he mounted the remaining stairs with a labored movement, and arrived, tremulous and panting on the landing. Perdita was standing at the door of Philip’s room. Her brows were drawn down, and her eyes, quick, dark and bright, scrutinized the baronet with a troubled expression.
“Is he there?” the latter inquired.
“Who?” said Perdita, reluctantly.
Sir Francis stared; then half lifted his hands and said: “I know about Grant; dead; can hardly believe it; left me last night in such health and spirits: but Tom ... as Tom’s my son ... is he...?”