‘O Sir!’ said Harold, bursting out crying as he began to speak, ‘poor Alfred is took so bad; and Mother told me to tell you, Sir—if he’s not better—he’ll never live out the day!’
Poor Harold, who had never seemed to heed his brother’s illness, was quite overwhelmed now. It had come upon him all at once.
‘What is it? Has the doctor been?’
‘No, Sir; I went in at six o’clock this morning to ask him to come out, and he said he’d come—and sent him a blister—but Alf was worse by the time I got back, Sir,—he can’t breathe—and don’t seem to notice.’
And without another word, nor waiting for comfort, Harold dug his heels into Peggy, passed his elbow over his eyes, and cantered on with the tears drying on his face in the brisk March wind.
There was no finishing breakfast for the Curate; he thrust his letters into his pocket, caught up his hat, and walked off with long strides for the post-office.
It shewed how different things were from usual, that Paul, who had hardly yet been four times down-stairs, his thin pointed face all in a flush, was the only person in the shop, trying with a very shaky hand to cut out some cheese for a great stout farm maid-servant, who evidently did not understand what was the matter, and stared doubly when the clergyman put his strong hand so as to steady Paul’s trembling one, and gave his help to fold up the parcel.
‘How is he, Paul?’
Paul was very near crying as he answered, ‘Much worse, Sir. Mother has been up all night with him. O Sir! he did so want to live till you came home.’
‘May I go up?’ asked Mr. Cope.