"I am glad you have done me this tardy justice, sir," he said, in a firmer tone, "and that I have heard from your own lips that I am no criminal. When we parted, I remember you threatened me with penal servitude. No, I have not disgraced your name to that extent. I have starved, and nearly died of cold on a doorstep, but I have kept my hands clean."
"Alwyn," exclaimed Mr. Gaythorne, piteously, "I was too hard, I will confess that. All these years I have been longing to atone, and the sorrow and remorse have made me an old man before my time. There was much to forgive—much that you made me bear. Surely you cannot deny that."
"No, sir, I will not deny that I was a sad scapegrace, but you never took the right way to keep me straight. But for my mother and Olive, I should have run away long before. Father"—and here there was a frightened look in his eyes—"where are they? Why are you alone?" Then, as Mr. Gaythorne raised his hand with a solemn gesture, the young man laid his head down on the mantelpiece and his whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.
"Dead! Oh, no—impossible! My own mother, who always believed in me, and my little Olive!" he gasped out more than once.
"Mr. Alwyn," observed Olivia, putting her hand on his shoulder, but the tears were running down her face as she spoke, "your father cannot bear much more. I am afraid he is ill." But even as she spoke, Mr. Gaythorne, who had risen from his chair rather stiffly, suddenly fell on the rug at his son's feet.
The next moment the pealing of the bell brought Mrs. Crampton and the frightened servants to the room. They found Mrs. Luttrell and the stranger kneeling by the side of the prostrate form; but as the housekeeper caught sight of the young artist's face, she uttered a sudden cry. "It is Mr. Alwyn," she said, "and the joy of seeing him has killed my master." But Olivia hushed her.
"Send for Dr. Luttrell," she said; "we must do nothing till he comes. Mr. Alwyn,"—for the unfortunate young man seemed on the verge of fainting,—"I do not think he is dead; it is some sort of attack. We must do the best we can for him, without moving him, until my husband comes." But to her intense relief Marcus entered a moment afterwards.
One quick glance at the young artist's agitated face gave Dr. Luttrell a vague clue to the mystery, but he was soon too deeply engrossed with his patient to think of anything else. Under his directions, a temporary bed was made in the library, and the invalid was undressed and laid on it. Mrs. Crampton, who was a capable nurse, carried out the doctor's instructions, and Olivia made herself useful.
After the first few minutes Alwyn had left the room, unable to endure the sight any longer. An hour or two passed, then Dr. Luttrell rose from his seat beside his patient, and beckoned his wife from the room.
"Livy," he said, as they stood together by the hall fire, "I feel a little more sanguine now there is partial consciousness, but everything depends on keeping him quiet. I shall remain with him tonight and Mrs. Crampton will be with me. I want you to tell me what brought on this attack. From all your faces I can see something has happened. Barton looked as if he would have a stroke, too?"