‘And low spirits are more apt to accompany a slight ailment, than such an illness as you apprehend.’
‘I believe you are right,’ said Mr. Kendal. ‘Where is the letter?’
Albinia did not like it to come under discussion, but could not withhold it, and as she read it again, she felt that neither Maurice nor her cousin Fred could have written the like, but she was only the more impelled to do battle, and when she came to the unlucky conclusion, she exclaimed, ‘I am sure that was an afterthought. I dare say Price asked him while he was writing.’
‘What’s this?’ asked Mr. Kendal, coming to the ‘presentiment.’
She hesitated, afraid both of him and of Maurice, but there was no alternative. ‘Poor Gilbert!’ she said. ‘It was a cry or call from his brother just at last. It has left a very deep impression.’
‘Indeed!’ said his father, much moved. ‘Yes. Edmund gave a cry such as was not to be forgotten,’ and the sigh told how it had haunted his own pillow; ‘but I had not thought that Gilbert was in a condition to notice it. Did he mention it to you?’
‘Yes, not long after I came, he thinks it was a call, and I have never known exactly how to deal with it.’
‘It is a case for very tender handling,’ said Maurice.
‘I should have desired him never to think of it again,’ said Mr. Kendal, decidedly. ‘Mere nonsense to dwell on it. Their names were always in Edmund’s mouth, and it was nothing but accident. You should have told him so, Albinia.’
And he walked out of the room.