“How dry and burning your hand is, Lawrence,” said I. “You are really ill, and I have made you worse by all this talk.”
“Oh, it is nothing; only a cold got by the rain.”
“My doing, too.”
“Never mind that. But tell me, did you mention this affair to my sister?”
“To confess the truth, I had not the courage to do so; but when you tell her, will you just say that I deeply regret it, and—?”
“Oh, never fear! I shall say nothing against you, as long as you keep your good resolution of remaining aloof from her. She has not heard of my illness, then, that you are aware of?”
“I think not.”
“I’m glad of that, for I have been all this time tormenting myself with the fear that somebody would tell her I was dying, or desperately ill, and she would be either distressing herself on account of her inability to hear from me or do me any good, or perhaps committing the madness of coming to see me. I must contrive to let her know something about it, if I can,” continued he, reflectively, “or she will be hearing some such story. Many would be glad to tell her such news, just to see how she would take it; and then she might expose herself to fresh scandal.”
“I wish I had told her,” said I. “If it were not for my promise, I would tell her now.”
“By no means! I am not dreaming of that;—but if I were to write a short note, now, not mentioning you, Markham, but just giving a slight account of my illness, by way of excuse for my not coming to see her, and to put her on her guard against any exaggerated reports she may hear,—and address it in a disguised hand—would you do me the favour to slip it into the post-office as you pass? for I dare not trust any of the servants in such a case.”