Part 6 (1/2)
There was something dark and anxious in the man's looks, which ill-accorded with the welcome he spoke, and which suggested some undefined alarm.
”The master, and mistress, and Miss Rhoda--are all well?” he asked eagerly.
”All well, sir, thank G.o.d,” replied the man.
Young Marston spurred on, filled with vague apprehensions, and observing the man still leaning upon his spade, and watching his progress with the same gloomy and curious eye.
At the hall-door he met with one of the servants, booted and spurred.
”Well, Daly,” he said, as he dismounted, ”how are all at home?”
This man, like the former, met his smile with a troubled countenance, and stammered--
”All, sir--that is, the master, and mistress, and Miss Rhoda--quite well, sir; but--”
”Well, well,” said Charles, eagerly, ”speak on--what is it?”
”Bad work, sir,” replied the man, lowering his voice. ”I am going off this minute for--”
”For what?” urged the young gentleman.
”Why, sir, for the coroner,” replied he.
”The coroner--the coroner! Why, good G.o.d, what has happened?” cried Charles, aghast with horror.
”Sir Wynston,” commenced the man, and hesitated.
”Well?” pursued Charles, pale and breathless.
”Sir Wynston--he--it is he,” said the man.
”He? Sir Wynston? Is he dead, or who is?--Who is dead?” demanded the young man, almost fiercely.
”Sir Wynston, sir; it is he that is dead. There is bad work, sir--very bad, I'm afraid,” replied the man.
Charles did not wait to inquire further, but, with a feeling of mingled horror and curiosity, entered the house.
He hurried up the stairs, and entered his mother's sitting room. She was there, perfectly alone, and so deadly pale, that she scarcely looked like a living being. In an instant they were locked in one another's arms.
”Mother--my dear mother, you are ill,” said the young man, anxiously.
”Oh, no, no, dear Charles, but frightened, horrified;” and as she said this, the poor lady burst into tears.
”What is this horrible affair? Something about Sir Wynston. He is dead, I know, but is it--is it suicide?” he asked.
”Oh, no, not suicide,” said Mrs. Marston, greatly agitated.
”Good G.o.d! Then he is murdered,” whispered the young man, growing very pale.
”Yes, Charles--horrible--dreadful! I can scarcely believe it,” replied she, shuddering while she wept.