"Yes, I know, I know," answered I, absently. "But, Mr. Broderick, I wanted to ask you whether you don't think Mr. Harrod ought to be sent for?" said I, hastily.
He turned away his head; I could not help noticing that he looked embarrassed.
"I'm sure he can't know of father's illness, and I feel that he ought to be told," said I. "I know very well he would never choose this time for a holiday if he knew how very urgently his presence is needed. Everything must be going at sixes and sevens on the farm."
"I see that things aren't going at sixes and sevens," murmured he.
"You!" cried I, aghast. "Oh, but that isn't fitting."
Still he looked awkward. "Don't you trouble your head about it," said he, kindly. "You have enough to do without that. My bailiff has very little work just now, and he can as easily as not see to things a bit."
Something in his whole manner froze me, but I cried, eagerly, almost angrily, "But he must come back; it's his duty to come back. You are too kind—you don't want to spoil his holiday; but that isn't fair, and not real kindness. He would much rather come back, I know. If you won't write to him, I will."
I spoke peremptorily, but something in the way the squire now looked at me—pitifully, and yet reproachfully—made me ashamed, and I lowered my eyes. He came up to me and said, in a low voice, for I had raised mine: "Will you leave it all to me? Do. I promise you that I will do you right; and for you, just now, anything—everything but one thing, must remain in abeyance."
I could not answer, something choked me. He took my hand in his to say good-bye. "I thought he seemed easier, less restless to-night," said he.
I nodded, and he pressed my hand and went out. Not till the last yellowness had died out of the twilight did I go up again to the sick-room.