Frank Dalton was awake, but in all the languor of great debility. He scarcely listened to his sister, till he heard her pronounce the name of the Abbé D'Esmonde.
“Is he here, Kate?—is he here?” cried he, eagerly.
“Yes, and most anxious to see and speak with you.”
“Then let him come in, Kate. Nay, nay, it will not agitate me.”
Kate noiselessly retired, and, beckoning the Abbé to come forward, she left the room, and closed the door.
D'Esmonde approached the sick-bed with a cautious, almost timid air, and seated himself on a chair, without speaking.
“So, then, we are cousins, I find,” said Frank, stretching out his wasted hand towards him. “They tell me you are a Godfrey, Abbé?”
D'Esmonde pressed his hand in token of assent, but did not utter a word.
“I have no wish—I do not know if I have the right——to stand between you and your father's inheritance. If I am destined to arise from this sick-bed, the world is open to me, and I am not afraid to encounter it. Let us be friends, then, D'Esmonde, in all candor and frankness.”
“Willingly,—most willingly. There need be but one rivalry between us,” said D*Esmonde, with a voice of deep feeling,—“in the struggle who shall best serve the other. Had we known of this before; had I suspected how our efforts might have been combined and united; had I but imagined you as my ally, and not my—But these are too exciting themes to talk upon. You are not equal to them.”