“How tired you must be!” said Ella.
A world of tenderness underlay the commonplace words. Sylvester looked at her gratefully. She was deliciously fresh and sweet in her simple morning dress, and again Sylvester felt how gracious a thing was life,—especially after his night's battle with death. They talked of Leroux. All were deeply shocked by the news, for he had been a universal favourite. In the days past Ella had been accused of a schoolgirl flirtation with him. Miss Lanyon used to save up especial household goodies for his consumption during the holidays. Matthew, always fond of youth, had loved the boy's frank nature, and in his generous way had seldom let him leave the house without a five-pound note, or a watch, or a silver-mounted walking-stick in his possession. And now the prodigal had returned in this dismaying and tragic fashion.
“What I can't understand,” said Sylvester, “is why he did not announce his coming,—why he should suddenly turn up at that ungodly hour. There are plenty of day trains.”
He appealed unconsciously to his father, who made no reply. But a little later, when Miss Lanyon and Ella had left the room, Matthew said, suddenly breaking a short silence,—
“I was expecting him.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” asked Sylvester, involuntarily.
“He was in some trouble apparently, and asked to see me alone this morning on business.”
“I wonder what it could have been?”
“I wonder,” said the old man, drily.
Sylvester flushed, as if at a rebuke. Knowing his father, he was aware of indiscretion. Matthew had always maintained the most impenetrable reserve as regards his business affairs; the son had been trained from childhood to look upon them as sacrosanct, and to question was an indecency.