“You are very kind. You will be a great comfort.”
I, “a great comfort!” I—“kind.”
My thoughts must needs return into their right channel. I believe the next thing she said was something about my going to see “Penelope:” at least I found myself with my hand on the door, all but touching hers, as she was showing me how to open it.
“There: the second room to the left. Shall I go with you? No! I will stay here then, till you return.”
So, after she had closed the door, I remained alone in the dim passage for a few moments. It was well. No man can be his own master at all times.
Miss Johnston was a good deal more hurt than she had confessed. As she lay on the bed, still in her gay dress, with artificial flowers in her hair—her face, pallid and drawn with pain, looked almost like that of an old woman. She seemed annoyed at my coming—she dislikes me, I know: but anxiety about her father, and her own suffering, kept her aversion within bounds. She listened to my medical report from the next room, and submitted to my orders concerning herself, until she learnt that at least a week's confinement, to rest her foot, would be necessary. Then she rebelled.
“That is impossible. I must be up and about. There is nobody to do anything but me.”
“Your sister?”
“Lisabel is married. Oh, you meant Dora?—We never expect any useful thing from Dora.”
This speech did not surprise me. It merely confirmed a good deal which I had already noticed in this family. Also, it might in degree be true. I think, so far from being blind to them, I see clearer than most people every fault she has.