“You are feeling worse, Nash, Grizzel says,” she observed; and she thought she had never seen him looking half so ill.
“Oh, I am all right, Gwendolen,” answered he. “What of Charlotte and the child?”
Sitting down on the edge of the large bed, Gwendolen told him all there was to tell. Her papa would get well in time, though he could not be moved yet awhile; but Charlotte and the child were lying in extreme danger.
“Dear me! dear me!” he said, and began to cry, as Grizzel had begun. When a man is reduced, as Nash was, faint in mind and in body, the tears are apt to lie near the eyes.
“And there’s nobody to attend upon them but Mrs. Smith and her maids—two of the stupidest country wenches you ever saw,” said Gwendolen. “I did not know how to come away this morning. The child is more than one person’s work.”
“Why did you come?”
“Because I could not trust you; you know that, Nash. You want to be up to your tricks too often.”
“My tricks!”
“Yes. Going out of doors at night. I’m sure it is a dreadful responsibility that’s thrown upon me. And all for your own sake!”
“You need no longer fear that—if you call my going out the responsibility. I shall never get out of this bed again, Gwinny.”