“If she can only get well through the fatigues of the voyage, she may be better in India. Don’t you think so? The very change from this place will put new life into her.”
Mr. Snow paused in surprise, and the truth flashed into his mind—that Mr. Hastings was as yet in ignorance of Maria’s danger: flashed with pain. Of course it was his duty to enlighten him, and he would rather have been spared the task. “When did you see her last?” he inquired.
“The day Mrs. Hastings left. I have not been well enough to go out much since. And I dare say Maria has been busy.”
“I am sorry then to have to tell you that she has not been busy; that she has not been well enough to be busy. She is much worse.”
There was a significance in the tone that spoke to the father more effectually than any words could have done. He was silent for a full minute, and then he rose from his chair and walked once up and down the room before he turned to Mr. Snow.
“The full truth, Snow? Tell it me.”
“Well—the truth is, that hope is over. That she will not very long be here. I had no suspicion that you knew it not.”
“I knew nothing of it. When I and her mother were with her last: it was, I tell you, the day Mrs. Hastings left: Maria was talking of going back to London with her husband the next time he came down to Prior’s Ash. I thought her looking better that morning; she had quite a colour; was in good spirits. When did you see her?”
“Now. I went up there before I came down to you. She grows worse and worse every hour. Lord Averil telegraphed for George Godolphin last night.”
“And I have not been informed of this!” burst forth the Rector. “My daughter dying—for I infer no less—and I to be left in ignorance of the truth!”