“Of course, it is not her fault! We cannot blame, we can only pity her!”
“Blame her! Pity her! What for?”
Once again Susan is mouthpiece; and Lavinia, herself paralyzed by apprehension, blesses her. What has Féodorovna done to him? Poisoned him with the wrong medicine? Set fire to his sheets? Undone his bandages, and let him bleed to death? To one acquainted with Miss Prince, all these suppositions come well within the range of the probable.
“She is nearly mad herself!” continues Féodorovna’s mother. “I have never seen her in such a state!”
Mrs. Darcy lays the rolling-pin quietly down; and, going over to the intruder, puts a resolute slight hand on her arm.
“I think you ought to tell us what you are talking about? You are frightening us all!”
“Didn’t I tell you!” answers the other, with vague surprise. “I thought you knew! How stupid of me! But I have quite lost my head! So have we all!”
She pauses. And there is a silence, only broken by some one—Mrs. Darcy alone knows who it is—catching her breath.
“Tell us!” says the rector’s wife, with low-voiced command, and the enragingly reticent lips obey.
“Féodorovna is ill in bed. She has developed jaundice. It declared itself last night.”