The next morning a letter was handed to
my uncle as we sat at breakfast. He looked hard at the address, changed
countenance, and frowned very dark, but I could not read the frown. Then
his face cleared a little; he opened, read, and handed the letter to me.
Lady Cairnedge hoped Mr. Whichcote would excuse one who had so lately
come to the neighbourhood, that, until an hour ago, she knew nothing of
the position and character of the gentleman in whose house her son had,
in a momentary, but, alas! not unusual aberration, sought shelter, and
found generous hospitality. She apologized heartily for the unceremonious
way in which she had sent for him. In her anxiety to have him home, if
possible, before he should realize his awkward position in the house of a
stranger, she had been inconsiderate! She left it to the judgment of his
kind host whether she should herself come to fetch him, or send her
carriage with the medical man who usually attended him. In either case
her servants must accompany the carriage, as he would probably object to
being removed. He might, however, be perfectly manageable, for he was,
when himself, the gentlest creature in the world!
I was in a rage. I looked up, expecting to see my uncle as indignant with
the diabolical woman as I was myself. But he seemed sunk in reverie, his
body present, his spirit far away. A pang shot through my heart.
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