“Does he know?” whispered Mr. Aggland to his niece, who nodded an affirmative.
After they reached Marshlands, Basil stood in the hall for a moment, like a man trying to collect his senses; but when Phemie was going to leave him with her uncle, he detained her, saying—
“I want to see——”
“Had you not better wait a little?” she asked.
He only answered her with an impatient gesture, and motioned that she should lead the way.
She ascended the staircase, he following; they passed by the door of Mrs. Stondon’s room, and at the end of a long corridor crossed the threshold of the chamber in which the child lay.
Almost involuntarily as it seemed, Basil caught hold of Phemie’s hand, after the fashion of a frightened girl; and so, together, side by side, they walked towards the bed.
He let her draw back the sheet, and then, trembling violently, looked upon his boy.
Till that moment it seemed as if he had not fully realised his loss. But whenever his eyes fell on the face—which was the face of his first-born and yet that of a stranger,—when he touched the little cold hands, and pressed his lips on the icy cheeks, Basil Stondon gave way, and his grief burst out wild and uncontrolled.
Phemie moved back and closed the door. Then, standing at a distance from him, she let the trouble flow on unchecked,—only, with folded hands and bowed head, prayed for him silently.