“May I come up in the evening, sir, and see how you are?”
“In the evening? this evening?” cried Bramleigh, in a harsh, discordant voice. “Why, good heavens, sir! have a little, a very little discretion. You have been here since eleven. I marked the clock. It was not full five minutes after eleven, when you came in,—it's now past one. Two mortal hours, and you ask me if you may return this evening; and I reply, sir, distinctly—No! Is that intelligible? I say no!” As he spoke he turned away, and the curate, covered with shame and confusion, hastened out of the room, and down the stairs, and out into the open air, dreading lest he should meet any one, and actually terrified at the thought of being seen. He plunged into the thickest of the shrubberies, and it was with a sense of relief he heard from a child that his sister had gone home some time before, and left word for him to follow her.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE CURATE CROSS-EXAMINED.
When the party returned from the picnic, it was to find Colonel Bramleigh very ill. Some sort of fit the doctor called it,—not apoplexy nor epilepsy, but something that seemed to combine features of both. It had, he thought, been produced by a shock of some sort, and L'Estrange, who had last been with him before his seizure, was summoned to impart the condition in which he had found him, and whatever might serve to throw light on the attack.
If the curate was nervous and excited by the tidings that reached him of the Colonel's state, the examination to which he was submitted served little to restore calm to his system. Question after question poured in. Sometimes two or three would speak together, and all—except Ellen—accosted him in a tone that seemed half to make him chargeable with the whole calamity. When asked to tell of what they had been conversing, and that he mentioned how Colonel Bramleigh had adverted to matters of faith and belief, Marion, in a whisper loud enough to be overheard, exclaimed, “I was sure of it. It was one of those priestly indiscretions; he would come talking to papa about what he calls his soul's health, and in this way brought on the excitement.”
“Did you not perceive, sir,” asked she, fiercely, “that the topic was too much for his nerves? Did it not occur to you that the moment was inopportune for a very exciting subject?”
“Was his manner easy and natural when you saw him first?” asked Augustus.
“Had he been reading that debate on Servia?” inquired Temple.
“Matter enough there, by Jove, to send the blood to a man's head,” cried Culduff, warmly.