As for him, poor fellow, he was completely overcome, and when Parsons had to break the cruel tidings that even at the best the noble boy must live with an impaired intellect, and that there was a strong possibility of his not surviving the accident, Stanhope covered his face with his big hands and absolutely sobbed aloud.
As long as I live, I shall never forget the sound of that awful weeping, wrung from a strong man in his agony. Even Parsons, who looked as if he were made of iron, was visibly affected. He turned his head aside and muttered into my ear:—
"My God! I can't stand any more of this—I shall return to town by the next train."
I felt incapable of saying a word to induce him to delay his departure. At that moment I felt more than annoyed with him. He showed, in my opinion, a cautiousness which amounted almost to cowardice. Under the circumstances, a rasher man would have ventured to perform the operation which alone could give little Hal Stanhope back his reason. I remembered now, when too late, that Parsons was always remarkable for his overcarefulness, and regretted that I had not brought Fieldman down to see the child.
Eliot and I accompanied the surgeon into the hall, we had a few last words together, and then the sounds of the carriage wheels were heard as they bore him away in time to catch the midnight train to town.
I went back to the room where we had left the father and mother, and Eliot went upstairs to watch by the sick child's bed. Stanhope was now the sole occupant of the large dining-room, and I guessed that his wife had returned to the child. He had partly recovered from the intense emotion which he had exhibited in Parsons's presence, and was now walking restlessly up and down in front of the hearth.
"Sit down and have some supper, Guy," he said to me. "Help yourself, old fellow."
"You will eat with me?" I queried.
"I could not swallow food; don't ask me," he said, with a shake of his head.
I saw it was useless to press him at that moment, and seating myself at the table I made a short meal. I can truly say that the food tasted like ashes in my mouth. When I had finished eating, Hal sat down by me and to my surprise began to ask me questions with regard to the boy.
"Tell me exactly what Parsons said over again," he remarked. "I heard the words, of course, at the time, but they were so mixed up with a singing in my ears, and a drumming round the region of my heart, that I could listen to nothing distinctly. I am quieter now and can hear what you say. Tell me the truth, Guy."
"The truth is simply this," I answered: "the child suffers from serious injuries of the brain and spine. These are causing insensibility and paralysis. The paralysis is of a nature which is not necessarily fatal, and the possibilities are that after a time a certain amount of consciousness will return, and by-and-by he will be able to use his limbs again."
"The brain will be all right, of course?" queried Hal. "I've a confused idea that Parsons said something dreadful about the future condition of the brain; but perhaps I made a mistake. With the sort of shock which I was suffering from at the time such a mistake is highly probable—eh, Guy, eh?"
He looked at me with such intense eagerness, I thought the cruellest moment in my life had come when I was obliged to shake my head.
"You heard correctly, my poor fellow," I said. "The injury to the brain is so extensive that even should the paralysis and insensibility pass off gradually, the higher centres are some of them sure to be affected; and, as Parsons said, more or less of mental impairment is, I fear, certain."
"My God!" said Hal. "In other words, that means that the boy will be an idiot."
"It may not be quite so bad as that," I said, in a faint voice.
"Yes, yes, Guy—I know better. I saw the truth in the surgeon's eyes—I read it now in your face. The heir of Chartelpool will be an idiot. God help us! God help his mother and me!"
It I was silent—I had not a word to say. It would have been cruel to attempt even a word of sympathy.
"Still, he'll be heir of Chartelpool," continued Hal.
"That is true," I answered, wondering that he could turn to such a fact for consolation.
"And that brute of a Charles Stanhope and his sons are cut out," he continued. "That is a comfort—it is more than a comfort."
He went up to the supper-table as he spoke, poured out a large glass of brandy, added a very little water to it, and gulped it down.
"And Parsons can do nothing for the child?" he said, facing round on me.
