“A beautiful face,” murmured Sir Geoffry. “And a little like what mine must have been at his age, I fancy. Sometimes I have thought that you would see the likeness, and that it might impart its clue.”
“Since when have you known him?—known this?”
“Since the day after the accident, when my horse threw him down. Duffham dropped an unintentional word, and it enlightened me. Some nights ago I dreamt that the little lad was my true heir,” added Sir Geoffry. “I saw you kiss him in the dream.”
“You must have been letting your thoughts run on it very much,” retorted Lady Chavasse, rather sharply.
“They are often running on it, mother: the regret for what might have been and for what is, never seems to leave me,” was his reply. “For some moments after I awoke from that dream I thought it was reality: I believe I called out ‘Arthur.’ Rachel started, and inquired between sleeping and waking what the matter was. To find it was only a dream—to remember that what is can never be changed or redeemed in this world, was the worst pain of all.”
“You may have children yet,” said Lady Chavasse, after a pause. “It is not impossible.”
“Well, I suppose not impossible,” was the hesitating rejoinder. “But——”
“But you don’t think it. Say it out, Geoffry.”
“I do not think it. My darling mother, don’t you see how it is with me?” he added, in an impulse of emotion—“that I am not to live. A very short time now, and I shall be lying with my father.”
A piteous cry broke from her. It had to be suppressed. The ungrateful peacock, seeing no more dainty biscuit in store, had fluttered off with a scream, putting his tail down into the smallest possible compass; and Arthur came running back to the room. Mr. Duffham next appeared; his face grave, his account of Lady Rachel evasive. He suspected some latent disease of the spine, but did not wish to say so just yet.