She looked at him with a terrified eye.
‘Don’t be frightened, my dear,’ he said, leaning forward, ‘there is no occasion. Such things must come sooner or later, and it is only that I wished to tell you that I have been having advice for a good many uncomfortable feelings that have troubled me lately.’
‘Well?’ she asked, breathlessly.
‘And Dixon tells me that it is aneurism.’
Quick and fast came Honora’s breath; her hands were clasped together; her eyes cast about with such a piteous, despairing expression, that he started to his feet in a moment, exclaiming—‘Honor! Honor dear! don’t! there’s no need. I did not think you would feel it in this way!’
‘Feel! what should I feel if not for you? Oh! Humfrey! don’t say it! you are all that is left me—you cannot be spared!’ and as he came towards her, she grasped his hand and clung to him, needing the support which he gave in fear of her fainting.
‘Dear Honor, do not take it thus. I am very well now—I
dare say I shall be so to the last, and there is nothing terrible to the imagination. I am very thankful for both the preparation and the absence of suffering. Will not you be the same?’
‘Yes, you,’ said Honora, sitting up again, and looking up into his sincere, serene face; ‘I cannot doubt that even this is well for you, but it is all selfishness—just as I was beginning to feel what you are to me.’
Humfrey’s face lighted up suddenly. ‘Then, Honor,’ he said, evidently putting strong restraint upon his voice, ‘you could have listened to me now!’