Mr. May was startled. He raised his head with a curious smile in his eyes, which made Ursula wonder painfully whether her father had taken much wine at the Hall.
“Ah, ha! is that what they are frightened for?” he said, and then he shrugged his shoulders. “She will show bad taste, Ursula; she might do better; but I suppose a girl of her class has not the delicacy—So that is what they are frightened for! And what are the other fish you have to fry?”
“Papa!”
“Yes. He told me he was not alarmed about you; that you had other fish to fry, eh! Well, it’s too late for explanations tonight. What’s that? Very odd, I thought I saw someone going out at the door—just a whiff of the coattails. I think my digestion must be out of order. I’ll go into the study and get my pills, and then I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Won’t you come upstairs to the drawing-room?” said Ursula, faltering, for she was appalled by the idea of explanations. What had she to explain, as yet? Mr. May shook his head, with that smile still upon his face.
“No, you’ll get on excellently well without me. I’ve had a long walk, and I think I’ll go to bed.”
“You don’t look very well, papa.”
“Oh, yes, I’m well enough; only confused in the head a little with fatigue and the things I’ve had to think about. Good night. Don’t keep those young fellows late, though one of them is your brother. You can say I’m tired. Good night, my dear.”
It was very seldom that he called her “my dear,” or, indeed, said anything affectionate to his grown-up children. If Ursula had not been so eager to return to the drawing-room, and so sure that “they” would miss her, she would have been anxious about her father; but as it was, she ran upstairs lightly when he stopped speaking, and left him going into the study, where already his lamp was burning. Betsy passed her as she ran up the stairs, coming from the kitchen with a letter held between two folds of her apron. Poor papa! no doubt it was some tiresome parish business to bother him, when he was tired already. But Ursula did not stop for that. How she wanted to be there again, among “them all,” even though Janey still made one! She went in breathless, and gave her father’s message only half-articulately. He was tired. “We are never to mind; he says so.” They all took the intimation very easily. Mr. May being tired, what did that matter? He would, no doubt, be better tomorrow; and in the meantime those sweet hours, though so hampered by Janey, were very sweet.
Betsy went in, and put down the note before Mr. May on his table. He was just taking out his medicine from the drawer, and he made a wry face at the note and at the pills together.
“Parish?” he said, curtly.
“No, sir; it’s from Mr. Cotsdean. He came this morning, after you’d gone, and he sent over little Bobby.”
“That will do.”
A presentiment of pain stole over him. He gave Betsy a nod of dismissal, and went on with what he was doing. After he had finished, he took up the little note from the table with a look of disgust. It was badly scrawled, badly folded, and dirty. Thank Heaven, Cotsdean’s communications would soon be over now.
Janey had proposed a round game upstairs. They were all humble in their desire to conciliate that young despot. Reginald got the cards, and Northcote put chairs round the table. He placed Ursula next to himself, which was a consolation, and sat down by her, close to her, though not a word, except of the most commonplace kind, could be said.
Just then—what was it? an indescribable thrill through the house, the sound of a heavy fall. They all started up from their seats to hear what it was. Then Ursula, with a cry of apprehension, rushed downstairs, and the others after her. Betsy, alarmed, had come out of the kitchen, followed by her assistant, and was standing frightened, but irresolute; for Mr. May was not a man to be disturbed with impunity. And this might be nothing—the falling of a chair or a table, and nothing more.
“What is it?” cried Ursula, in an anxious whisper.
She was the leader in the emergency, for even Reginald held back. Then, after a moment’s pause, she opened the door, and with a little cry rushed in. It was, as they feared, Mr. May who had fallen; but he had so far recovered himself as to be able to make efforts to rise. His face was towards them. It was very pale, of a livid colour, and covered with moisture, great beads standing on his forehead. He smiled vaguely when he saw the circle of faces.
“Nothing—nothing—a faintness,” he faltered, making again an effort to rise.
“What is it, papa? Oh, what’s the matter?” cried Janey, rushing at him and seizing him by the arm. “Get up! get up! what will people think? Oh, Ursula, how queer he looks, and he feels so heavy. Oh, please get up, papa!”
“Go away,” said Mr. May, “go away. It is—a faintness. I am very well where I am—”
But he did not resist when Reginald and Northcote lifted him from the floor. He had a piece of paper tightly clasped in his hand. He gave them a strange suspicious look all round, and shrank when his eyes fell upon Phoebe. “Don’t let her know,” he said. “Take me away, take me away.”
“Reginald will take you upstairs, papa—to your room—to bed; you ought to go to bed. It is the long walk that has worn you out. Oh, Reginald, don’t contradict him, let him go where he pleases. Oh, papa, where are you going?” cried Ursula, “the other way; you want to go to bed.”
“This
