“Lilias is ill; we will go in,” said Helen, supporting her friend on the nervous, firm arm, which began to tremble in sympathetic sorrow. “Will you come to us when you can, Mossgray? Lilias is ill.”
And Lilias was ill. After this long sinking in the deep waters of grief, the fever of hope was too much for her. Large, cold drops stood upon her white, shadowy forehead, her thin, wasted frame was shaken with sudden pains, the mist of blindness was upon her eyes, and the slender arm twined in Helen’s leaned so heavily—you could not have fancied there was so much weight in the slight, drooping figure altogether as there was in that one thin arm.
“And, Captain Alick,” said Hope, stepping forward bravely, “did you see Peter Delvie in India? They have sent home word that he is dead; do you think Peter is dead?”
“Why, I believe this is little Hope Oswald,” exclaimed Captain Alick, shaking Hope’s hand energetically, and offering a salutation from which Hope, immensely red and angry, withdrew in high disdain. “Why, Hope, you are taller than Adelaide; and what a little thing you were when I went away.”
“Will you tell me about Peter Delvie, Captain Fendie?” said Hope, with some dignity.
“Who is Peter Delvie, Hope? I never saw him in India, I assure you. But why do you never come to the Mount? I must come and see you myself one of these days.”
Hope went away dissatisfied and sad. Nobody would care except for themselves, nobody would attend to her inquiries, nobody would think of the old man who had lost his only child.
Lilias was sitting on a low chair, bending her head down upon her knees, as Mossgray looked in at the door of their usual sitting-room. Her face was hidden in her hands; she did not see him.
Helen stood close beside her, holding one of those feverish, hot hands.
“Helen, it is very hard to bear,” said the broken Lily, “very terrible. I thought I was patient, I thought I had learned to endure; but this hope, this false, vain hope—I cannot bear it, Helen.”