“Believe me, I am so old a friend now, that I should not scruple to ask for them if I was so disposed.—Hah! Yes, that is one of the things which teach us that we are growing old.”
“I do not understand you.”
“I meant your cousin’s acuteness; when a man is about fifty, young ladies consider him a safe mark for their shafts.”
“Don’t think that, Doctor Asher. There is no malice in my dear cousin, but her deformity has caused her to be petted and indulged. She has not had a mother’s constant care.”
“Neither have you, my child.”
“No,” said Claude quietly; “but believe me, my cousin would be deeply grieved if she knew that she had said—Yes. What’s the matter? Papa?”
Claude had started from her chair, for, after giving a sharp tap at the door, Sarah Woodham had entered, looking ghastly, her dark eyes so widely open that they showed a white ring about the iris, her lips apart, and her hands convulsively twisting and tearing the apron she held out before her.
“Master, my dear. He frightens me.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” said the doctor quickly, as he rose perfectly cool and collected, and followed Claude out of the room, while, as the door swung to, the woman uttered a hoarse, panting sound, threw herself upon her knees, and clasping her hands together, she rocked herself to and fro.
“Oh, Isaac! husband!” she moaned, “it is too terrible. Heaven help me! Why did I come here?”