Obviously, the best way to satisfy his curiosity on this head was to go at once, and this he did.
Mr Wheeler sat at the paper-laden desk in his private study, under the brilliant light of a lamp with a green glass shade over it. There was no other light in the room, which was consequently in shadow, while the tutor was in a flood of illumination.
“Sit down, Forsyth,” he said. “I am sorry to say I have bad news for you from home.”
“My mother!”
“No, no, my boy; bad enough, but not so bad as that. There are money losses. Your father was connected with a bank, and it has been unfortunate. It seems that it was a great shock to him, and he was not in very good health. You may have known that?”
“Yes, sir, yes. I noticed that he looked ill when I went home at Christmas.”
“To be sure—yes. Then you will not be surprised at this sudden blow having affected him very seriously?”
Harry could not take it all in at once; he had to sit silent awhile, and let the meaning of his tutor’s words sink in. At length he asked—“Is he dead?” And the sound of his own voice uttering the word made him give a sob.
“No,” said Mr Wheeler; “he is very ill, and insensible, but living, and while there is life there is hope, you know. People often recover from fits, and this seems to be an attack of that nature. But it is as well that you should go home at once. Put a few things together, and you will catch the 8:30 train. A fly and your travelling money shall be ready by the time you are.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, and went back to his Dame’s House in a dazed state. Strachan and Kavanagh heard him come upstairs, and as he went straight to his own room they followed him.