“Have you seen—Mr. Faradeane lately?” she said, coldly.
Bessie looked up quickly; no tone or accent of her mistress’ beloved voice could escape her.
“No, miss; not here at the lodge—that is, I’ve seen him at a distance riding and walking. He’s been ill, miss—very ill, I’m afraid.”
“What has been the matter with him?” asked Olivia, in a constrained voice, as she drew the shawl round her.
Bessie got up and knelt beside her, and fastened it.
“I don’t know—nobody seems to know. He didn’t leave the cottage for some days, and nobody saw him. Father called, but the servant wouldn’t let him see him, and simply said his master was ill and he had instructions to let no one in. Father would have taken upon himself to send for the doctor, but he knew it would be no use. Mr. Faradeane is like iron, miss, when he says a thing.”
“Well?” said Olivia, with suppressed anxiety.
“Well, then he came out and I saw him riding. He wasn’t like the same man, miss, so pale and worn-like he looked. Father says he has had some great trouble, he’s sure; but I can’t think what it can be, can you?”
“No; how should I know, Bessie?” responded Olivia, almost sternly.
Bessie sighed.