There was silence a moment. Then Fenwick stooped and kissed her.
'Poor old girl!' he said, softly. She made but slight response. He returned to his place, repeating with a frowning energy--'You must have some one to sleep here.'
Daisy was their little servant of the summer, the daughter of a quarryman near by.
She drew herself up sharply. 'I haven't got the money--and you always say, when you write, you haven't any either.'
'I'll find some for that. I can't have you scared like this.'
But, though his tone was vehement, it was not particularly affectionate. He was horribly discomposed indeed, could not get the terrible image out of his mind. But as he went on with his supper, the shock of it mingled with a good many critical or reproachful thoughts. Why had she persisted in staying on in Langdale, instead of going to her father? All that foolish dislike of her stepmother! It had been open to her to stay in her father's farm, with plenty of company. If she wouldn't, was _he_ to blame if the cottage was lonesome?
But as though she divined this secret debate she presently said:
'Father's ill--he's got a bad chest, and the doctor says he may be going into a consumption.'
'Doctors'll say anything!' cried Fenwick, wrathfully. 'If ever there was a strong man, it's your father. Don't you believe any croaking of that sort, Phoebe.'
'He looks so changed,' she said; and began drawing with her finger on the tablecloth. He saw that her lips were trembling. A strong impulse worked in him, bidding him go to her again, kiss away her tears, and say--'Hang everything! Come with me to London, and let's sink or swim together.'
Instead of which some perverse cross-current hurried him into the words:
'He'd be all right if you'd go and nurse him, Phoebe.'
'No, not at all. They didn't want me--and Mrs. Gibson, poor creature, was real glad when I said I was going. She was jealous of me all the time.'
'I didn't!' she said, shortly. 'Everybody in the house knew it.'
The meal went on rather silently. Fenwick's conscience said to him, 'Take her back with you!--whatever happens, take her to London--she's moping her life out here.' And an inner voice clamoured in reply--'Take her to those rooms?--in the very middle of the struggle with those two pictures?--go through all the agitation and discomfort of explanations with Lord Findon and Madame de Pastourelles?--run the risk of estranging them, and of distracting your own mind from your work at this critical moment?--the further risk, moreover, of Phoebe's jealousy?'