The old man came towards her a step or two. Then he left the room hurriedly.
Cicely watched him go, with startled eyes. But she recovered herself, and looked at Paul undaunted.
“Why do you treat me so, Cicely?” he said. “I care about Ferdie as much as you do; I have always cared about him,—hasn’t he ever told you? There never were two boys such chums; and although, since he has grown up, he has had others, I have never had any one but him; I haven’t wanted any one. Is it likely, then, that I should try to set you against him?—that I should turn against him myself?—I ask you that.”
“It is setting me against him not to let me go to him. How do we know that he is not dying?” Her voice was quiet and hard.
“We know because the letters do not speak of danger; on the contrary, they tell us that the ball has been extracted, and that the fever is going down. He will get well. And then some measures must be taken before you can go back to him; otherwise it would not be safe.”
“And do I care about safe? I should like to die if he did!” cried Cicely, passionately. She looked like a hunted creature at bay.
“And your child; what is your idea about him?”
“That’s it; take up Eve’s cry—do! You know I will never give up baby, and so you both say that.” She sank down on the sofa, her head on her arms, her face hidden.
Her little figure lying there looked so desolate that Eve hurried forward from the window. Then she stopped, she felt that Cicely hated her.
“I say what I think will influence you,” Paul was answering. “Ferdie has already thrown the boy about once; he may do it again. Of course at such times he is not responsible; but these times are increasing, and he must be brought up short; he must be brought to his senses.” He went to the sofa, sat down beside her, and lifted her in his arms. “My poor little sister, do trust me. Ferdie does; he wrote to me himself about that dreadful time, that first time when he hurt you; isn’t that a proof? I will show you the letter if you like.”