“Poor, poor Flora!” said Meta, wiping away her tears.
“What have you done with the woman?”
“I sent her to Mrs. Larpent’s. I knew she would receive her and keep her till she could write to her friends. Bellairs took her, but I could hardly speak to her—”
“She did it ignorantly,” said Dr. May.
“I could never be so merciful and forbearing as you,” said Meta.
“Ah! my dear, you will never have the same cause!”
They could say no more, for George awoke, and the argument of his exclusion had to be gone through again. He could not enter into it by any means; and when Dr. May would have made him understand that poor Flora could not acquit herself of neglect, and that even his affection was too painful for her in the present state; he broke into a vehement angry defence of her devotion to her child, treating Dr. May as if the accusation came from him; and when the doctor and Meta had persuaded him out of this, he next imagined that his father-in-law feared that he was going to reproach his wife, and there was no making him comprehend more than that, if she were not kept quiet, she might have a serious illness.
Even then he insisted on going to look at her, and Dr. May could not prevent him from pressing his lips to her forehead. She half opened her eyes, and murmured “good-night,” and by this he was a little comforted; but he would hear of nothing but sitting up, and Meta would have done the same, but for an absolute decree of the doctor.
It was a relief to Dr. May that George’s vigil soon became a sound repose on the sofa in the dressing-room; and he was left to read and muse uninterruptedly.
It was far past two o’clock before there was any movement; then Flora drew a long breath, stirred, and, as her father came and drew her hand into his, before she was well awake, she gave a long, wondering whisper, “Oh, papa! papa!” then sitting up, and passing her hand over her eyes, “Is it all true?”