How long, oh, how long appeared the interval! With what different feelings Charles now stood at the door of that room which he had once entered in such grief and resentment on the day of his return from Marshdale! He then hated the sounds which showed him where his brother was moving through the castle; now his ear was painfully strained to catch any accent of that brother’s voice: he was then almost inclined to murmur at the loss of the broad lands which he had once possessed; now, had they been his, he would have given them all to have had Ernest by his side once more. At length the door opened, and the two doctors came out, followed by Mrs. Hope. Charles looked the question which his voice could not utter—his aunt laid her finger upon her lips. “They will consult together in another room,” she whispered; “wait here, and I will bring you the result.” With a sickening heart Charles leaned back on the wall opposite the door of Ernest’s apartment: he tried to pray, but his mind could scarcely form a prayer—the suspense seemed to paralyze all its energies. After the lapse of some minutes, he heard the rustle of his aunt’s dress again: she came close to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and in a low voice uttered but one sentence: “Charles, you will be Lord of Fontonore!” CHAPTER XXVI. COMING TO THE RIVER. “Now I further saw, that between them and the gate was a river.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress_ “Well, as you please, but I would not do so,” said Mr. Hope, in conversation with Mr. Ewart in the saloon. “The doctors gave no hope, and I think that in such cases it is only right—it is only kind to let the patient know his danger.” “Your ideas are different to mine: the shock of being told that you are dying is enough to put out the last spark of life.” “Not to one who has the faith of Ernest.” “You would then only hide the truth from a bad man?” “I would hide it from none; I would act towards others as I should wish them to act towards me. It is cruel to conceal their state from the dying; to send them into the presence of their Maker unwarned, perhaps unprepared.” “Well, you must break the truth to Ernest yourself, I will not undertake to do it. You know his feelings better than I do, I never could understand them at all.” Bowed down with affliction, yet with sufficient self-command to be calm and composed in his manner, Mr. Ewart approached the bed-side of Ernest. “What do the doctors say of me?” asked Fontonore. “They say that the injuries which you have received are very severe.” “I thought so—I suffer so much pain. I daresay that it will be long before I quite recover. But you see,” he added, with a faint smile, “good comes out of evil in this case. I took advantage of the privilege of illness, and the claim which your having saved me has given you, and asked my uncle a favour which he could not refuse me; nor will you, I am sure, dear Mr. Ewart: you will be tutor at Fontonore again!”