He had not made up his mind. Very likely, if chance had brought him face to face with Mr. Cope, he would have spoken about Alfred as the best way to hinder the Curate from reproving himself; but he had not that right sort of boldness which would have made him go to meet the reproof he so richly deserved, and he was trying to persuade himself either that when Alfred was amused and cheery, he would forget all about ‘that there Betsey’s nonsense,’ or else that Mr. Cope might come that way of himself.
But Alfred was not likely to forget. What he had heard hung on him through all the little occupations of the morning, and made him meek and gentle under them, and he was reckoning constantly upon Mr. Cope’s coming, fastening on the notion as if he were able to save him.
Still the Curate came not, and Alfred became grieved, feeling as if he was neglected.
Mr. Blunt, however, came, and at any rate he would have it out with him; so he asked at once very straightforwardly, ‘Am I going to die, Sir?’
‘Why, what’s put that in your head?’ said the doctor.
‘There was a person here talking last night, Sir,’ said Mrs. King.
‘Well, but am I?’ said Alfred impatiently.
‘Not just yet, I hope,’ said Mr. Blunt cheerfully. ‘You are weak, but you’ll pick up again.’
‘But of this?’ persisted Alfred, who was not to be trifled with.
Mr. Blunt saw he must be in earnest.