"Rupert!" said Elinor, whispering in his ear, "you are ill—let us go."
"Elinor, it's he, it's he!" he stammered in the same voice.
"Who?"
"My father!"
"And that lady?"
"My mother!"
"Good heaven! Lady Railton!"
"I have killed him," continued Rupert. "I have killed him!"
Before the confusion consequent upon the removal of Lord Railton had subsided, Elinor, with presence of mind, rose from her seat, and implored her husband to do the like. He obeyed, hardly knowing what he did, and followed her instinctively. Like a woman possessed, she ran from the scene, and did not stop until she reached her own apartments. Rupert kept at her side, not daring to look up. When he arrived at his room, he was not aware that he had passed his parents in his progress—that the eyes of his wife and his mother had again encountered, and that the sternest scowl of the latter had been met by the most indignant scorn of the former. To this pass had arrived the pleasant acquaintance established three hours before in the hotel garden.
Whilst Elinor Sinclair slept that melancholy night, Rupert watched at his father's door. He believed him to be mortally ill, and he accused himself in his sorrow of the fearful crime of parricide. He had made frequent inquiries, and to all one answer had been returned. The noble lord was still unconscious: her ladyship could not be seen. It was not until the dawn of morning that a more favourable bulletin was issued, and his lordship pronounced once more sensible and out of danger. Rupert withdrew—not to rest, but to write a few hurried lines to his mother—begging one interview, and conjuring her to concede it, even if she afterwards resolved to see him no more. The interview was granted.