Since our last visit to it, Vernon Hall had changed from gay to grave.
Only in its interior. Outside, its fine façade presented the same cheerful front to its park; the Corinthian columns of its portico looked open and hospitable as ever.
As ever, elegant equipages came and went; but only to draw up, and remain for a moment in the sweep, while their occupants left cards, and made inquiries.
Inside there was silence. Servants glided about softly, or on tiptoe; opened and closed the doors gently, speaking in subdued tones.
It was a stillness, solemn and significant. It spoke of sickness in the house.
And there was sickness of the most serious kind—for it was known to be the precursor of death.
Sir George Vernon was dying.
It was an old malady—a disease of that organ, to which tropical climes are so fatal—in the East as in the West.
And in both had the baronet been exposed; for part of his earlier life had been spent in India.
Induration had been long going on. It was complete, and pronounced incurable. At the invalid’s urgent request, the doctors had told him the truth—warning him to prepare for death.