Gradually, however, his glance began to wander over the familiar room, lingering now upon some picture, now upon some rare article of virtu, each endeared by peculiar associations, until at length it rested upon the table and that document, which his sister had dropped and forgotten in her surprise at his appearance.
Its likeness to the one he had previously received startled him.
He arose and went forward to examine it. Its postmark told him at once whence it had come.
A deathly paleness overspread his face; a horrible numbness fell upon his heart.
With trembling hands he tore it open, and one glance was sufficient to tell him the nature of its contents.
It was the one bitter blow too much, even though he had half-expected it, and, with a despairing cry that would have melted the hardest heart, "Lost! lost! Virgie, my love! my love!" he fell prone upon the floor, clutching that fatal paper in his grasp.
Long weeks of watching and anxiety followed—weeks during which Lady Linton began to fear that she was paying dearly for her plotting and treachery, even though her son might become the master of Heathdale in the event of her brother's death.
But he did not die. His constitution was naturally rugged, and by the end of winter, after many alternations of hope and fear, he slowly began to rally.
As soon as he was able to be dressed and sit up he began to talk of going again to America.
Of course Sir Herbert Randal vetoed such a proposition at once.