Having concluded this train of meditation, he rang for Gibson, who appeared.

“Gibson, let Miss Gourlay know that, ill as I am, I shall try to see her:  be precise in the message, sir; use my own words.”

“Certainly, Sir Thomas,” replied the footman, who immediately withdrew to deliver it.

The baronet, when Gibson went out again, took a pair of pillows, with which the sofa was latterly furnished, in order to maintain the appearance of illness, whenever it might be necessary, and having placed them under his head, laid himself down, pulled the nightcap over his brows, and affected all the symptoms of a man who was attempting to struggle against some serious and severe attack.

In this state he lay, when Lucy entering the room, approached, in a flood of tears, exclaiming, as she knelt by the sofa, “Oh, papa—­dear papa, forgive me;” and as she spoke, she put her arms round his neck, and kissed him affectionately.  “Dear papa,” she proceeded, “you are ill—­very ill, I fear; but will you not forgive your poor child for having abandoned you as she did?  I have returned, however, to stay with you, to tend you, to soothe and console you as far as any and every effort of mine can.  You shall have no nurse but me, papa.  All that human hands can do to give you ease—­all that the sincerest affection can do to sustain and cheer you, your own Lucy will do.  But speak to me, papa; am I not your own Lucy still?”

Her father turned round, as if by a painful effort, and having looked upon her for some time, replied, feebly, “Yes, you are—­you are my own Lucy still.”

This admission brought a fresh gush of tears from the affectionate girl, who again exclaimed, “Ah, papa, I fear you are very ill; but those words are to me the sweetest that ever proceeded from your lips.  Are you glad to see me, papa?—­but I forget myself; perhaps I am disturbing you.  Only say how you feel, and if it will not injure you, what your complaint is.”

“My complaint, dear Lucy, most affectionate child—­for I see you are so still, notwithstanding reports and appearances—­”

“Oh, indeed, I am, papa—­indeed I am.”

“My complaint was brought on by anxiety and distress of mind—­I will not say why—­I did, I know, I admit, wish to see you in a position of life equal to your merits; but I cannot talk of that—­it would disturb me; it is a subject on which, alas!  I am without hope.  I am threatened with apoplexy or paralysis, Lucy, the doctor cannot say which; but the danger, he says, proceeds altogether from the state of my mind, acting, it is true, upon a plethoric system of body; but I care not, dear Lucy—­I care not, now; I am indifferent to life.  All my expectations —­all a father’s brilliant plans for his child, are now over.  The doctor says that ease of mind might restore, but I doubt it now; I fear it is too late.  I only wish I was better prepared for the change which I know I shall soon be forced to make.  Yet I feel, Lucy, as if I never loved you until now—­I feel how dear you are to me now that I know I must part with you so soon.”