“You have been long coming,” said she gravely; “my father has asked for you several times.”
“I am sorry; I am but just returned from the Abbey. I will go to him now,” he said, in great confusion and haste.
“No, you can not, he is asleep, now; Sybil just told me so; and Dr. Symons would not have him disturbed for the world.” She spoke with an effort; she dared scarcely allow her breath to come, lest it should overpower her self-command. Each
nerve was stretched, each muscle rigid in the exertion to seem calm.
“Asleep—Dr. Symons! Good heavens! what is the matter?” inquired he, startled into forgetting his own concerns, and really thinking of her words.
“Do you not know?” she paused. “Walk in, I will tell you when I can!” Another pause, during which she tried to strangle some heaving sobs, she overpowered some rebellious flutterings. “I think I will call Hilary!” she added, quickly, as a last resource, and hurried away from the room door. He entered. Nest was there alone. She rose, but would hardly speak or come forward.
“What is the matter, Nest?” exclaimed he, abruptly.
“Papa is no better,” replied the child, looking down; “no better at all; and Dr. Symons, who came here yesterday, does not know how to make him better, and Sybil says, Mr. Ufford, it is all your fault!”
“My fault!” cried he; “how in the world? what have I to do with it?”
“Your being away, and obliging him to go out on Wednesday to the funeral, in all that storm; nobody knew where to find you, so poor papa had to do it himself.”