“Kiss him, dear,” said Hugh, tenderly, to Lilia.
She looked up at him with a wan, bewildered look—the look of a lost child; then she flung her arms round her father, and the touch of his icy face told her that she was an orphan.
She flung herself back with a shriek.
“You have let him die!” she cried, frantically, to Hugh. “How dared you? Why did you? Oh father! come back, come back!”
“Lilia! you forget,” said Hugh, firmly, seizing her wrist. “Remember, we cannot dictate to God!”
He threw all the will he was capable of into those words. To his relief, he felt that he had some influence over his future wife. She recoiled, he felt her stiffen; then she slowly turned her head towards him.
“He is gone? There is no hope?” she asked, quietly.
“No hope—here” said Hugh. “Now, you will be good, be worthy of him? You will come away with me, me (he trusted me, you know, dear), for a little while? We will come back very, very soon!”
Like a child she held out her arms, and allowed him to assist her from the bed, and to half-support, half-carry her from the room and downstairs to the drawing-room, where, like a tired child, she sobbed herself into calm, then sleep.
When she was soundly asleep upon the sofa, Hugh fetched Mrs. Mervyn.