“It is necessary, my lady—absolutely essential.”
She broke into a passion of tears and sobs as Mr. Carlyle lead her to another apartment.
“He is my dear father; I have but him in the wide world!” she exclaimed.
“I know—I know; I feel for you all that you are feeling. Twenty times this night I have wished—forgive me the thought—that you were my sister, so that I might express my sympathy more freely and comfort you.”
“Tell me the truth, then, why I am kept away. If you can show me sufficient cause, I will be reasonable and obey; but do not say again I should be disturbing him, for it is not true.”
“He is too ill for you to see him—his symptoms are too painful. In fact, it would not be proper; and were you to go in in defiance of advice, you would regret it all your after life.”
“Is he dying?”
Mr. Carlyle hesitated. Ought he to dissemble with her as the doctors had done? A strong feeling was upon him that he ought not.
“I trust to you not to deceive me,” she simply said.
“I fear he is—I believe he is.”