"You mean to say—she—is dead?"
He no longer tried to conceal his agitation. It was a part of his duty to be agitated by the news of his stepdaughter's untimely death.
"O, sir, you may well be sorry," said the Yorkshirewoman, with deep feeling. "She was the sweetest, most forgiving creature that ever came into this world; and to the last no hard or cruel word ever passed her innocent lips. Yes, sir, she is gone; she is beyond the power of any one to harm her."
"All that sort of stuff is so much hypocritical twaddle, Mrs. Woolper," muttered Mr. Sheldon impatiently; "and I recommend you to keep it for the chaplain of the workhouse in which you are likely to end your days. At what time—did—did this—sad event—happen?
"About an hour ago."
In the very hour when, in his hideous dream, he had beheld the solemn funeral train winding on for ever through the dim realms of sleep. Was there some meaning in such foolish shadows, after all?
"And why was I not sent for?"
"You were asleep, sir. I came downstairs myself, and looked into your room. You were fast asleep, and I wouldn't disturb you."
"That was very wrong; but it was of a piece with the rest of your
conduct, which has been from first to last antagonistic to me. I suppose
I can see my stepdaughter now," Mr. Sheldon added, with a grim smile.
"There is no further excuse—about headache—or sleep."
"No, sir, you cannot see her yet. In an hour, if you wish to come into this room, you can come."