Rosamond had just seen her off in the pony carriage, and was on the way up-stairs, when she stumbled on a little council, consisting of Dr. Worth, Mr. Charnock, and Grindstone, all in the gallery. “A widow in her twenty-second year. Good heavens!” was the echo she heard; and Grindstone was crying and saying, “She did it for the best, and she could not do it, poor lamb, not if you killed her for it;” and Dr. Worth said, “Perhaps Lady Rosamond can. You see, Lady Rosamond, Mrs. Grindstone, whose care I must say has been devoted, has hitherto staved off the sad question from poor young Mrs. Poynsett, until now it is no longer possible, and she is becoming so excited, that—”
Cecil’s bell rang sharply.
“I cannot—I cannot! In her twenty-second year!” cried her father, wringing his hands.
Grindstone’s face was all tears and contortions; and Rosamond, recollecting her last words with poor Cecil, sprang forward, both men opening a way for her.
Cecil was sitting up in bed, very thin, but with eager eyes and flushed cheeks, as she held out her hands. “Rosamond! Oh! But aren’t you afraid?”
“No, indeed, I’m always in it now,” said Rosamond, kissing her, and laying her down; “it has been everywhere.”
“Ah! then they sent him away—Raymond?” then clutching Rosamond’s hand, and looking at her with searching eyes, “Tell me, has his mother any right! Would you bear it if she kept you apart?”
“Ah! Cecil, it was not her doing.”
“You don’t mean it was his own? Papa is not afraid. You are not afraid. If it had been he, I wouldn’t have feared anything. I would have nursed him day and night till—till I made him care for me.”
“Hush, dear Cecil,” said Rosamond, with great difficulty. “I know you would, and so would he have done for you, only the cruel fever kept you apart.”