Worry is hardly the word either. It was so much deeper than "worry."
I had no more sleep that night. Was it likely I should?
The blow that had fallen seemed too dreadful to be borne. My father, my kind gentle good father, gone from us in one moment, without warning, without good-bye! And to think that the last days of his life had been darkened and embittered by my ill-conduct and deceit! If it hadn't been for those last words, and that last kiss of forgiveness, I think I must have died of remorse. The pain would have been more than I could bear.
The thought that his death itself might have been in part owing to what I had done—I mean to his mind being over-full—didn't come to torture me till later. I had enough to bear without that—more than enough. As I lay through the slow hours of the early morning, racked with looking back and looking forward, I did feel as if my heart must break—as if I couldn't live through the time that was coming.
When Mr. Baitson called, he said I must keep still, and not think of getting up; and, indeed, I had lost all wish to move. I only wanted to lie still, and to think of father's last kiss. That was my one comfort, though tears came in floods with the recollection. But if I hadn't spoken to him then, oh, how could I ever have borne it?
"Kitty, you must not leave your room again without my leave," says Mr. Baitson.
"No, I won't," I said; "but I want mother! I want mother!"
"I hope she will be able to come to you soon," he says gently. "Not for a day or two, at all events."
"Is mother ill?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "There are different sorts of illness, Kitty. Such a shock must tell upon her, you know. I would rather have seen her bodily more ill, than this."