She thrust the telegram piteously into Farrell's hands. He read it, and turned to Bridget.
'What does Dr. Howson mean, Miss Cookson, and why does he refer Mrs.
Sarratt to you?'
For some seconds she could not make her pale lips reply. Finally, she said—'That's entirely my own affair, Sir William. I shall tell my sister, of course. But Nelly had better go at once, as Dr. Howson advises. I'll go and see to things.'
She turned slowly away. Nelly ran forward and caught her.
'Oh, Bridget—don't go—you mustn't go! What news is it? Bridget, tell me!—you couldn't—you couldn't be so cruel—not to tell me—if you knew anything about George!'
Bridget stood silent.
'Oh, what can I do—what can I do?' cried Nelly.
Then her eyes fell on the letters still in her hand. She tore one open—and read it—with mingled cries of anguish and joy. Farrell dared not go near her. There seemed already a gulf between her and him.
'It's from Miss Eustace'—she said, panting, as she looked up at last, and handed the letter to him—it's George—he's alive—they've heard from France—he asks for me—but—but—he's dying.'
Her head dropped forward a little. She caught at the back of a chair, nearly fainting. But when Farrell approached her, she put up a hand in protest.