“My father?” he said.
“Come in, sir; and let me send away your cab, and get your things; and then I’ll tell you—everything; only go in, for God’s sake, and sit down!”
He went in: the house was unchanged, but there was a great silence in it, or so he thought, a sense of vacancy—suspense almost as awful as ever, but his senses coming back to him, and the familiar scene round him restoring his self-control and his strength. He stood leaning upon the mantelpiece, listening to the sound of the portmanteaux placed in the hall, and the cab turning from the door. “Gilbert, where is my father?”—these were the only words he could say.
“You must want some breakfast, Mr Gervase,—something to keep up your strength. My wife’s in the house, sir; she’ll get you a cup of tea in a minute.”
“For anything as I know to the contrary, he’s quite well, Mr Gervase—as well as you or me.”
“Where is he?” cried the young man. “Is it all true?—and why are you here?”
“There is a great deal as is true, sir. I don’t know how much you’ve heard. Master left me here to wait for you. Everything is settled honourable and straightforward, and no dispersions on character. I was to tell you that the first thing. And the house is yours, sir. Them was master’s last words. ‘Tell him there’s no stain upon his name, and the house is his. Tell my boy that the first thing,’ was the last words he said.”
“What do you mean by last words? My father is not—he is not—— O God! is this what I have come home to?” the young man cried.
“He’s not dead, sir, if that’s what you mean. There’s nothing happened to him, so far as I know. He’s—he’s left town, Mr Gervase; but that’s all, sir,—that’s all, I give you my word.”