I believe there is not the character, however elevated, which does not at a moment of supreme grief calculate the particular degree of benefit or disadvantage it will obtain from it.
It was noon when I walked over to the Grange to ask how Miss Gascoyne was. The servant said her mistress particularly desired to be informed of my arrival, and I went into the inner hall and waited. She came down almost immediately. I was shocked at the change in her appearance. She had evidently been weeping bitterly, and for a moment I would have given anything to restore her brother to her. The weakness was only momentary, however, and after all it would have been doing her a very bad turn.
She appeared to derive a certain degree of comfort and help from my presence.
“It seems a little sad, Mr. Rank, that although we have so many relations there is hardly one to whom I could write at this emergency.”
This was a great opportunity to please Mr. Gascoyne by obtaining her consent to send for him. There were also other schemes in my head, nebulous as yet, which such a reconciliation would assist materially.
“I should have thought,” I said gently, “that your father’s brother would be the proper person to send for under the circumstances.”
She looked at me in surprise. The idea had evidently not struck her, and she became thoughtful.
“I am afraid he would not come.”
“I think he would. I know it hurt his feelings somewhat that when his son died neither you nor your brother wrote to him.”
“He told you so?”