He had always thought of her as Nettie; until he saw her he purposed to have called her Nettie; but this was not to be thought of now, in the presence of this imperial-looking girl, with whom he would no more have ventured upon familiarity than he would have dared to make free with an empress. She, too, had thought of her childhood’s companion as plain Hugh, had addressed him as dear Hugh in her letter; but now, when she saw before her this stately and reserved man, she blushed to think of it. And when, with deferential suavity, he repeated his question:
“I presume—Miss Seabright?”
She answered: “Yes, Dr. Hutton;” and added, with mournful gentleness, “Under happier circumstances I should say that I am very glad to see you, sir; but now I can only tell you truly that you are very, very welcome to Mount Calm.” And she offered him her hand.
“My mother? Miss Seabright! How is my mother?” he inquired, alarmed at the sorrowful manner of his young hostess.
“Come into the parlor, Dr. Hutton; there is a fire there, and you are chilled,” said Garnet, sadly evading the question, and leading the way.
“My mother?” again inquired the guest, when she had conducted him into the drawing room.
“Sit down, pray, sit down; you look so weary—here, near the fire,” said his hostess, drawing a chair to the hearth. He dropped into the seat—his prophetic heart already prepared for the words she was about to utter.
“Your mother, Dr. Hutton, is above all pain and grief now.”
“Dead! dead!” exclaimed Hugh, dropping his head upon his open hands.
Garnet bent over the side of his chair, and laid her hand gently on his shoulder, and bowed her head until tears fell upon his hands, but said nothing.