That was all his own fault, and but for it he now thought he should not have been so unobservant of things about him.  Could he, but for such weary nights of sleepless wandering and watching, have let his darling boy drive those young horses, filling the carriage so full of his brothers and sisters that there was no room for any beside him whose hands were strong enough to hold them in?  He was not sure.  His clearer thought would not consent to admit that he could have foreseen the danger, and yet he had been so accustomed to hold things in hand, and keep them safe and secure, that he could hardly suppose they would not, but for his own state of mind, have been managed better.

It was midnight now; he had no intention of coming indoors, or taking any rest, and his thoughts went on and on.  When the misfortune came, it was still his own perturbation of mind, which had worn and fretted him so that he could not meet it as he might have done.  This woman, whom he loved as it seemed to him man had never loved before, had taken herself out of his reach, and another man would win her.  How could he live out the rest of his days?  What should he do?

It was because that trouble, heaped upon the other, had made it hard to give his mind to the situation, that he had not forced himself to take rest, and what sleep he could, instead of wasting his powers in restless watching, till his overwrought faculties and jaded eyes had led him to the fearful moment when he had all but killed his own child.

Emily had scarcely spoken to him since her arrival.  All her thoughts were for her little favourite.  Perhaps even, she saw little in this fatal carelessness at all out of keeping with his character, as she had lately thought of it.  No, his best chances in this life were all brought to an end; the whole thing was irretrievable.

“Is that Valentine?” he asked as some one approached.

“Yes, it is past one o’clock.  I am going to bed; I suppose you will too.”

“No,” he answered in the dull inward voice now become habitual with him.  “Why should I come in?  Val, you know where my will is?”

“Yes,” said Valentine, distressed to hear him say it.

“If you and Giles have to act, you will find everything in order.”

“What is to be done for him?” thought Valentine.  “Oh for a woman to talk to him now!—­I cannot.”  He took to one of the commonplaces of admonition instead:  “Dear John, you must try and submit yourself to the will of God.”

“You have no need to tell me of that,” he answered with the same dimness of speech.  “I do not rebel, but I cannot bear it.  I mean,” he continued, with the calmest tone of conviction, “that this is killing me.”

“If only the child might be taken,” thought Valentine, “he would get over it.  It is the long suspense that distracts him.”

“They want you to come in and eat something,” he urged, “there is supper spread in the dining-room.”