“Bad—bad,” said Septimus. “I have lost all, and been put to great shifts, while my poor wife is a confirmed invalid.”
“Dear me, dear me!” said the doctor blandly, “how sad! I might perhaps be able to give her advice. I suppose she could not call at my surgery any morning before ten?”
“She always was delicate,” put in Mrs Hardon hastily, for she was annoyed at her husband’s behaviour; while something kept, as it were, whispering to her, “He is from London, and may know something of my poor girl.”
There was a dead silence then for some few minutes, which the doctor broke.
“I—er—er—I—er—I think you have hardly come on a visit of ceremony,” he said; “you wished to see me?” and after coughing away something which seemed to form in his throat, he spoke in his most unguental tones—in the voice he kept for married ladies upon particular occasions.
“I came down,” said Septimus, in a broken voice, “upon seeing my poor father’s death. It was shown to me—by a friend—newspaper—torn scrap—I have walked down—weak—and ill.”
Mrs Hardon uttered an exclamation, for Septimus had risen as he spoke, and stood working his hands together, as he gazed appealingly at his uncle; and then, as he trailed off in his speech, he reeled and clutched at the table, sweeping off a wine-glass in his effort to save himself from falling.
“Better now,” said Septimus faintly, as he sank into the chair behind him. “I am sorry, but I feel overcome, and weak, and giddy. I have had much sorrow and trouble lately, and my father’s death was so sudden.”
The doctor winced a little, but recovered himself in a moment, for he was used to witnessing trouble, and could bear it.
“Yes—yes—a sad thing,—very sad—mournful I may say,” he observed. “But my poor brother always was so distant and peculiar in his dealings with his relations. Of course you know that the funeral takes place to-morrow?”