There were two watchers in the dark room when they entered, May Everard, pale and quiet, and the young artist, Guy Legard. Even in that moment, Col. Jocyln could not repress a supercilious stare of wonder to behold the housekeeper's son in the death-chamber of Lady Thetford. And yet it seemed strangely his place, for it might have been one of those lusty old Thetfords, framed up stairs, stepped out of the canvas, and dressed in the fashion of the day.
"Very bad taste all the same," the proud old colonel thought, with a frown; "very bad taste on the part of Sir Rupert. I shall speak to him on the subject presently."
He stood in silence beside his daughter, looking down at the marble face. May, shivering drearily in a large shawl, and looking like a wan little spirit, was speaking in whispers to Aileen.
"We persuaded Rupert—Mr. Legard and I—to go and lie down; he has neither eaten nor slept since his mother died. O, Aileen! I am so sorry for you!"
"Hush!" raising one tremulous hand and turning away; "she was as dear to me as my own mother could have been. Don't think of me."
"Shall we not see Sir Rupert?" the colonel asked. "I should like to, particularly."
"I think not—unless you remain for some hours. He is completely worn out, poor fellow."
"How comes that young man here, Miss Everard?" nodding in the direction of Mr. Legard, who had withdrawn to a remote corner. "He may be a very especial friend of Sir Rupert, but don't you think he presumes on that friendship?"
Miss Everard's eyes flashed angrily.
"No, sir! I think nothing of the sort. Mr. Legard has a perfect right to be in this room, or any other room at Thetford Towers. It is by Rupert's particular request he remains."