He had died, silent, as a gentleman must.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
When Jack entered his mother’s house that afternoon he looked as if he had left boyhood behind him for ever. His face was drawn and pinched, his eyes were swollen with weeping, his rosy mouth was pale and compressed.
“His Grace is to go to the duchess at once, and alone, if you please, sir,” said one of the servants.
“Go upstairs to your mother,” said Mr. Lane to the child.
But Jack stood irresolute, his hands clenched involuntarily, his breath was uneven.
“Go,” repeated his tutor.
Jack obeyed, and mounted the staircase with slow, unwilling steps; his heart was aching as it had never ached in his life.
“It’s hit him hard, hasn’t it, sir?” said the servant to the tutor, and smiled a discreet but eloquent smile.
Mr. Lane seemed not to hear, and went into the study; the boy passed out of sight amongst the heaths and poinsettias on the staircase, a stray pale London sunbeam following his golden head. His mother was alone.