“Kaatje,” I said, “go back and tell the Missie Heda that I want to speak to her as soon as I can. Never mind the hot water, but stop and help her to dress.”
She began to grumble a little in a good-natured way, but something in my eye stopped her and she went back into the room. Ten minutes later Heda was by my side.
“What is it, Mr. Quatermain?” she asked. “I feel sure that something dreadful has happened.”
“It has, my dear,” I answered, “that is, if death is dreadful. Your father died last night.”
“Oh!” she said, “oh!” and sank back on to the seat.
“Bear up,” I went on, “we must all die one day, and he had reached the full age of man.”
“But I loved him,” she moaned. “He had many faults I know, still I loved him.”
“It is the lot of life, Heda, that we should lose what we love. Be thankful, therefore, that you have some one left to love.”
“Yes, thank God! that’s true. If it had been him—no, it’s wicked to say that.”
Then I told her the story, and while I was doing so, Anscombe joined us, walking by aid of his stick. Also I showed them both Marnham’s letter to me and the will, but the other bit of paper I did not speak of or show.