The banquet was just drawing to its close when there were signs of some disturbance in the household. The butler whispered to Erle, who immediately left the room, and a few minutes later a message was brought to Mr. Huntingdon.
Something had happened—something dreadful had happened, they told him, and he must come with them at once; and he had shuddered and turned pale.
He was growing old, and his nerves were not as strong as they used to be, and he supported himself with some difficulty as he bowed to his guests with old-fashioned politeness, and, excusing himself, begged his old friend Sir Frederick Drummond to take his place. But as the door closed behind him, and he found himself surrounded by frightened servants, he tottered and his face grew gray.
“You will kill me among you,” he muttered. “Where is my nephew? Will none of you fools tell me what is the matter?”
“He’s in there,” returned the butler, who was looking very scared, and pointing to the library; and the next moment Erle came out with a face as white as death.
“Oh! uncle, uncle, don’t go in till they have told you. Percy is there, and—” but Mr. Huntingdon only motioned him aside with his old peremptoriness, and then closed the door upon them.
He knew what he should find there—he knew it when they whispered into his ear that something had happened; and then he walked feebly across the room to the couch, where something lay with strange rigid lines under a satin coverlid that had been flung over it; and as he drew it down and looked at the face of his dead grandson, he knew that the hand of death had struck him also, that he would never get over this—never!
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
NEA AND HER FATHER MEET AGAIN.
Whence art thou sent from us?
Whither thy goal?