“Young Sir Ranulph!” ejaculated he, so soon as the syncope would permit him.
“Sir Ranulph here?” echoed Palmer, rising.
“Angels and ministers!” exclaimed Small.
“Odsbodikins!” cried Titus, with a theatrical start; “this is more than I expected.”
“Gentlemen,” said Ranulph, “do not let my unexpected arrival here discompose you. Doctor Small, you will excuse the manner of my greeting; and you, Mr. Coates. One of the present party, I believe, was my father’s medical attendant, Doctor Tyrconnel.”
“I had that honour,” replied the Irishman, bowing profoundly—”I am Doctor Tyrconnel, Sir Ranulph, at your service.”
“When, and at what hour, did my father breathe his last, sir?” enquired Ranulph.
“Poor Sir Piers,” answered Titus, again bowing, “departed this life on Thurday last.”
“The hour?—the precise minute?” asked Ranulph, eagerly.
“Troth, Sir Ranulph, as nearly as I can recollect, it might be a few minutes before midnight.”
“The very hour!” exclaimed Ranulph, striding towards the window. His steps were arrested as his eye fell upon the attire of his father, which, as we have before noticed, hung at that end of the room. A slight shudder passed over his frame. There was a momentary pause, during which Ranulph continued gazing intently at the apparel. “The very dress too!” muttered he; then turning to the assembly, who were watching his movements with surprise, “Doctor,” said he, addressing Small, “I have something for your private ear. Gentlemen, will you spare us the room for a few minutes?”
“On my conscience,” said Tyrconnel to Jack Palmer, as they quitted the sanctum, “a mighty fine boy is this young Sir Ranulph!—and a chip of the ould block!—he’ll be as good a fellow as his father.”
“No doubt,” replied Palmer, shutting the door. “But what the devil brought him back, just in the nick of it?”
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“An individual known at the hall as Jack Palmer.”
CHAPTER X
RANULPH ROOKWOOD
THERE is nothing, I trust, my dear young friend, and quondam pupil,” said Doctor Small, as the door was closed, “that weighs upon your mind, beyond the sorrow naturally incident to an affliction, severe as the present. Forgive my apprehensions if I am wrong. You know the affectionate interest I have ever felt for you—an interest which, I assure you, is nowise diminished, and which will excuse my urging you to unburden your mind to me; assuring yourself, that whatever may be your disclosure, you will have my sincere sympathy and commiseration. I may be better able to advise you, should counsel be necessary, than others, from my knowledge of your character and temperament. I would not anticipate evil, and am, perhaps, unnecessarily apprehensive. But I own, I am startled at the incoherence of your expressions, coupled with your sudden and almost mysterious appearance at this distressing conjuncture. Answer me: has your return been the result of mere accident? is it to be considered one of those singular circumstances which almost look like fate, and baffle our comprehension? or were you nearer home than we expected, and received the news of your father’s demise through some channel unknown to us? Satisfy my curiosity, I beg of you, upon this point.”
“Your curiosity, my dear sir,” replied Ranulph gravely and sadly, “will not be decreased, when I tell you, that my return has neither been the work of chance (for I came, fully anticipating the dread event, which I find realised), nor has it been occasioned by an intelligence derived from yourself, or others. It was only, indeed, upon my arrival here that I received full confirmation of my apprehensions. I had another, a more terrible summons to return.”
“What summons? you perplex me!” exclaimed Small, gazing with some misgiving into the face of his young friend.
“I am myself perplexed—sorely perplexed,” returned Ranulph. “I have much to relate; but I pray you bear with me to the end. I have that on my mind which, like guilt, must be revealed.”
“Speak, then, fearlessly to me,” said Small affectionately pressing Ranulph’s hand; “and assure yourself, beforehand, of my sympathy.”
“It will be necessary,” said Ranulph, “to preface my narrative by some slight allusion to certain painful events (and yet I know not why I should call them painful, excepting in their consequences) which influenced my conduct in my final interview between my father and myself—an interview which occasioned my departure for the Continent—and which was of a character so dreadful, that I would not even revert to it, were it not a necessary preliminary to the circumstance I am about to detail.”