And on sending to inquire if there was anything for him at the hotel, there was brought to him an envelope directed to “Sir Jack Trevellian,” received that morning, the bar-maid said.  Breaking the seal, Jack read aloud: 

    “VICHY, July ——­, 18—.

    “To Sir Jack Trevellian, George Hotel, Bangor, Wales: 

    “It is impossible for me to come.  Will write Bessie soon.  Please see
    that everything is done decently, and send bill to me.

    “JOHN McPHERSON.”

Nothing could have been colder or more matter of fact, and Bessie’s cheeks were scarlet as she listened, while Grey involuntarily gave a low whistle, and turning on his heel, walked away, and Jack tore the paper in shreds, which he threw into the empty grate.  Then he looked at Bessie, whose face was now very white and quivering with pain and disappointment.  Jack’s first impulse was to denounce Mr. McPherson for his selfishness and neglect, but his kinder nature prevailed, and he said, apologetically: 

“It is a long way from Vichy here, and the weather is very hot.  But never mind.  Grey and I will do all we can, and both Mr. McPherson and Lady Jane will surely come to you later.”

“It is not that.  I don’t know what it is, only it is dreadful to be without one of your own kindred at such a time as this.  Surely Neil might come or write,” Bessie said, with such pathos in her voice that Jack looked sharply at her, thinking to himself: 

“Is it possible she cares for him more than as a cousin?  Doesn’t she know Neil is the last one to inconvenience himself, if he can help it?  Funerals are not to his taste.”

But he did not give expression to his thoughts; he said, instead: 

“Perhaps Neil is not there.  I hardly think he is, as he does not like Vichy.  You will hear from him soon no doubt.  I am sorry for your sake that none of your relatives are here.  But don’t distress yourself.  Grey and I will do everything.”

“I know you will,” she said; “but, Mr. Trevellian,” and she laid her hand upon his arm, “you will not send that bill to Neil’s father?  I have over forty pounds.  I can pay it myself.  You will not send it?”

“Never!” Jack answered, emphatically, and then he went out to consult with Grey, who was sitting in the porch staring hard at an iron post which Jack began to kick vigorously, as he said:  “Well, Jerrold, we are in for it, you and I; and we will see it through in shape.  The old curmudgeon!  He might come as well as not if he chose.  There is plenty of time to get here, and he knows her mother is gone, for I added that to the dispatch I sent, so as to insure his coming.  And where is Neil, the milksop?  He, at least, might come.  I have no patience with the whole tribe.  But we will do what we can for the poor little forsaken girl.”

“Yes,” Grey answered him.  “We will do what we can.”

CHAPTER XIX.