Which information considerably lightened the doubt which was tormenting Miss Nave’s mind. She wanted, oh how badly, and was wanted, to remain at the Rill, being sorely needed there; but she had not seen her way clear to do it. If Nash was indeed confined to his bed, she might perhaps venture to leave him for a day or two to Grizzel.
But, please don’t think old Grizzel mean for keeping in what had taken place: she was only obeying orders. Duffham and the Squire had laid their heads together and then talked to Caromel; and it was agreed that for the present nothing should be disclosed. They gave their orders to Grizzel, and her master confirmed them.
“And what news have you brought from the Rill, ma’am?” questioned Grizzel, who was making a custard pudding at the kitchen table. “I hope you found things better than you feared.”
“They could not well be worse,” sighed Miss Gwinny, untying her bonnet. She had not the beauty of Charlotte. Her light complexion was like brick-dust, and her hair was straw-coloured. Not but that she was proud of her hair, wearing it in twists, with one ringlet trailing over the left shoulder. “Your mistress lies unconscious still; it is feared the brain is injured; and papa’s leg is broken in two places.”
“Alack a-day?” cried Grizzel, lifting her hands in consternation. “Oh, but I am sorry to hear it, Miss Gwendolen! And the pretty little boy?”
Miss Gwendolen shook her head. “The croup came on again last night worse than ever,” she said, with a rising sob. “They don’t know whether they will save him.”
Grizzel brushed away some tears as she began to beat up her eggs. She was a tender-hearted old thing, and loved little Dun. Miss Nave put aside her bonnet and shawl, and turned to the staircase to pay a visit to Nash. But she looked back to ask a question.
“Then, I am to understand that you had no trouble with the master last night, Grizzel? He did not want to force himself out?”
“The time for that has gone by, ma’am, I think,” answered Grizzel, evasively; not daring and not wishing to confess that he had forced himself out, and what the consequences were. “He seems a deal weaker to-day, Miss Gwinny, than I’ve ever seen him.”
And when Miss Gwinny got into Nash’s room she found the words true. Weak, inert, fading, there lay poor Nash. With the discovery, all struggle had ceased; and it is well known that to resign one’s self to weakness quietly, makes weakness ten times more apparent. One thing struck her greatly: the hollow sound in the voice. Had it come on suddenly? If not, how was it she had never noticed it before? It struck her with a sort of unpleasant chill: for she believed that peculiar hollowness is generally the precursor of death.