“I thought you were not coming to see me, Grace.”
“I was out; I went to Hamlet’s Wood this morning with Mr. Akeman,” sobbed Grace. “Whatever is the reason that you have suddenly grown so ill as this?”
“I have been growing ill a long time,” was Maria’s answer.
“But there must be hope!” said Grace in her quick way. “Mr. George Godolphin”—turning to him and dashing away the tears on her cheeks, as if she would not betray them to him—“surely there must be hope! What do the medical men say?”
“There is no hope, Grace,” interposed Maria in her feeble voice. “The medical men know there is not. Dr. Beale came with Mr. Snow at midday; but their coming at all is a mere form now.”
Grace untied her bonnet and sat down. “I thought,” said she, “you were getting well.”
Maria made a slight motion of dissent. “I have not thought it myself; not really thought it. I hoped it might be so, and the hope prevented my speaking: but there was always an undercurrent of conviction to the contrary in my heart.”
George looked at her, half-reproachfully. She understood the look, and answered it.
“I wish now I had told you, George: but I was not sure. And if I had spoken you would only have laughed at me then in disbelief.”
“You speak very calmly, Maria,” said Grace with passionate earnestness. “Have you no regret at leaving us?”