He stepped inside at once, and I told him what had happened, there in the hall, in a quick, low whisper.
"There is no hope," I said. "I knew that quite well, although the doctor said that there was just a chance. He knew himself that he might die at any moment. He told me so yesterday, only I didn't really believe him."
My heart swelled at the recollection of that scene, but I did not cry. I wonder if he thought me heartless.
"How did it happen?" asked the squire.
"Mr. Hoad was with him. I heard them talking as I went out into the garden," answered I, sickening with the recollection of what I had gone there for. "Joyce says Mr. Hoad went out suddenly, and then they heard father fall. He has never spoken since."
"Ah, if we could only have kept that man away from him!" murmured the squire.
"Yes; and I feel as if it were my fault," whispered I. "He owed him money, and he came to press for it just now when the hops have failed and the rent is due. He is so mean that he had a grudge against father for not helping on Mr. Thorne. But how was I to get the money? It was cruel, cruel to suggest it!"
I caught the squire's eyes fixed upon me with a strange, pitying, questioning look. I did not understand it at the moment, but in the light of what I afterwards learned I understood its meaning.
I stopped abruptly. I felt as though my senses were leaving me—my head was whirling. I knew I had said something, in this moment of unusual craving for sympathy and support, which I should never have said at any other moment.