“Dead! of course he is dead. Why you told me so yourself, this moment.”
“I—I couldn’t; I—I didn’t know—I—if I said anything like that, it was the merest slip.”
“He’s either dead or alive, Sir, I suppose; and, whether intentionally or by a slip, it is for you to determine; but I’m positive you did tell me that he’s dead; and if he be so, pray, as between friends, let there an end of concealments, which can have no object or effect but a few hours’ delay in making known a fact which must immediately appear in all the newspapers,” expostulated Mrs. Kincton Knox, as nearly offended as it was possible to be with so very eligible a young man, so opportunely placed, and in so docile a mood.
“He’s dying, at all events,” she added.
“That I know,” said William, with that coolness which had before struck Mrs. Kincton Knox, during this interview, as a new filial phenomenon.
“And although we shall miss you, some of us very much, yet, of course, knowing all, we have no claim—no right—only you must pledge me your honour—you really must.” She was holding his hand and pressed it impressively between both hers, “that you won’t forget your Kincton friends—that so soon as you can, you will return, and give us at least those weeks on which we reckon.”
“It is very kind—it’s very good of you. It is very odd, but I had such a wish to go, just for a day or two—only to see Dr. Sprague—and to consult him about writing to Gilroyd before finally determining on a course of life. I was thinking of—in fact going away and leaving England altogether.”
Mrs. Kincton Knox stared, and at last asked—
“Who is Gilroyd?”
“My aunt’s house, a small place, Gilroyd Hall.”