He looked greatly distressed; in reality much more so for Mrs. Fitzpatrick than for Aveline. He had a strong regard, a sincere friendship for the mother; for the daughter he merely felt the interest which her precarious health had recently awakened.
"But is there nothing," said he eagerly, "a different treatment, a warmer climate. Why not try Madeira? So many have derived benefit—"
"Because, in summer, no climate can surpass our own in this place," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "and Aveline will not live to be tried by another winter."
There was something shocking in her calmness. He looked at her as if not comprehending what she said.
"For all sorrow," she continued, as if answering some thought of her own, "it wears you out, or you wear it out, so there is an end either way; and a great end, Mr. Haveloc, in the education of the soul. An end, so important, that we ought not to shrink so cowardly from the agony of the means."
"I wish earnestly it was in my power to offer you consolation, or relief," he said, "but this is a case in which words are idle."
"And yet there is one thing, Mr. Haveloc, which, if Aveline's fate were less certain, I could never propose to you. Your society is an amusement to her, and in sickness every enjoyment is so curtailed, that I dread for her the slightest deprivation. Can I ask you to devote some of your time to us while you remain in the neighbourhood; can I even ask that you should prolong your stay beyond what you might have originally intended. If she should linger—"
Her voice failed her.
"Most willingly, my dear Mrs. Fitzpatrick," he exclaimed with eagerness, "sickness admits of few alleviations. I should be thankful, indeed, if I could afford any comfort to your daughter or yourself."
"You see how desperate I have become," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a smile, "to demand of you such a melancholy seclusion. You, whose wealth and position would make you so welcome, so caressed in general society. But all considerations give way to the approach of death."