It was Ash Wednesday, and I am afraid I went through my Lenten
services in the spirit of the elder son, nursing my virtuous
indignation, and dwelling chiefly on what would become of me if
Arghouse were to be made uninhabitable, as I foresaw.
I was ashamed to consult Miss Woolmer, and spent the afternoon in
restless attempts to settle to something, but feeling as if nothing
were worth while, not even attending to Dora, since my faith in
Harold had given way, and he had broken his word and returned to his
vice.
Should I go to church again, and spare myself the meeting him at
dinner? I was just considering, when Mr. George Yolland came limping
up the drive, and the sight was the first shock to the selfish side
of my grief. "Is anything the matter?" I asked, trying to speak
sternly, but my heart thumping terribly.
"No--yes--not exactly," he said hastily; "but can you come, Miss
Alison? I believe you are the only person who can be of use."
"Then is he ill?" I asked, still coldly, not being quite sure whether
I ought to forgive.
"Not bodily, but his despair over what has taken place is beyond us
all. He sits silent over the accounts in his room at the office;
will talk to none of us. Mr. Alison has tried--I have--Ben and all
of us. He never looks up but to call for soda-water. If he yields
again, it will soon be acute dipsomania, and then--" he shrugged his
shoulders.
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