ARTHUR WARDLAW fixed on the speaker a gaze full of horror; his jaw fell;
a livid pallor spread over his features; he echoed in a hoarse whisper,
"The _Proserpine!"_ and turned his scared eyes upon Wylie, who was
himself leaning against the wall, his stalwart frame beginning to
tremble.
"The sick girl," murmured Wylie, and a cold sweat gathered on his brow.
General Rolleston looked from one to another with strange misgivings,
which soon deepened into a sense of some terrible calamity; for now a
strong convulsion swelled Arthur Wardlaw's heart; his face worked
fearfully; and, with a sharp and sudden cry, he fell forward on the
table, and his father's arm alone prevented him from sinking like a dead
man on the floor. Yet, though crushed and helpless, he was not
insensible; that blessing was denied him.
General Rolleston implored an explanation.
Wylie, with downcast and averted face, began to stammer a few
disconnected and unintelligible words; but old Wardlaw silenced him and
said, with much feeling, "Let none but a father tell him. My poor, poor
friend--the _Proserpine!_ How can I say it?"
"Lost at sea," groaned Wylie.
At these fatal words the old warrior's countenance grew rigid; his large,
bony hands gripped the back of the chair on which he leaned, and were
white with their own convulsive force; and he bowed his head under the
blow, without one word.
His was an agony too great and mute to be spoken to; and there was
silence in the room, broken only by the hysterical moans of the miserable
plotter, who had drawn down this calamity on his own head. He was in no
state to be left alone; and even the bereaved father found pity in his
desolate heart for one who loved his lost child so well; and the two old
men took him home between them, in a helpless and pitiable condition.