Maria went to Lady Cleeve's that afternoon. She found her very ill. Maria hid her own fears and forebodings, and spoke cheerfully and hopefully; although every now and then a blinding rush of tears would come into her eyes when she thought that perhaps in very truth she should never see Philip more on this side the grave. More than ever before, she seemed to realise how dear he was to her heart.
How many days of this terrible anxiety went on, neither of them cared to number. The vicar was getting better now, though still confined to a sofa in his room, and Maria spent much of her time at Homedale. One morning there arrived a telegram addressed to Lady Cleeve. The poor mother's face turned paler still, and her hands trembled so much that she could not open it. She signed to Maria to take the paper.
"No. 6, Maxwell Terrace, Wandsworth, London.
"From Phillip Cleeve,
"I have met with a slight accident, which will detain me in London for a few days yet. It is nothing serious, so do not be alarmed. Another message to-morrow."
"Thank heaven! my boy still lives," said Lady Cleeve. Tears of thankfulness stood in Maria's eyes: for she also had been fearing the worst. "And yet it is strange why he has not written," mused Lady Cleeve, stretching out her hand for the paper. "He says, 'Another message to-morrow!' Why send a telegram when, if he were to post a letter this evening, it would reach me in the morning? He must be worse than he wishes me to know of; he must be so ill that he cannot write. He may be dying. And I cannot go to him!"
"I will go to him, dear Lady Cleeve!" said Maria, with a lovely flush on her cheeks.
"You, my dear!"
"Yes, I. I can go: papa is almost well now."
"But, my dear child, will it do for you to go? You----"