". . . Query. What about Miss Varlins?. . ."
There was no doubt that Florry Marson was dangerously ill, for the sudden shock she had sustained in hearing of the unexpected death of Melstane had unsettled her brain. Weak, shallow, and frivolous, she was not the woman to stand bravely against calamity, and this first great sorrow of her life had rendered her completely prostrate. The poor butterfly which had rejoiced in the sunshine of prosperity was now lying on a bed of sickness, whence it seemed doubtful that she would ever rise. Through the long hours she lay helpless on her back, babbling incoherently of her past life, or else fought furiously with Judith to leave her bed, and go on imaginary errands; while her cousin, a patient and untiring nurse, never left her side. She loved Florry as a mother loves a wayward child, and although she was bitterly disappointed by the duplicity of which her darling had been guilty with regard to Melstane, yet she could not find it in her heart to be seriously angry with this poor, weak nature now broken down by a dangerous illness.
In truth, it was a very melancholy house, for while Judith sat in the sick-room watching the patient, Francis Marson was pacing to and fro in his study, wondering what would be the end of all this trouble. One thing he saw clearly, that unless he could obtain a large sum of ready money he would be a ruined man in a very short space of time. Relying on the promises of Jackson Spolger, he had thought he would be able to tide over the commercial depression now existing in Ironfields; but now that Florry was ill the marriage could not take place, and his future son-in-law absolutely refused to do anything to aid him. Unless his daughter recovered and married Spolger, he could expect no help from that quarter, and not knowing where else to turn for assistance, ruin, swift and irretrievable, would be the end.
To and fro he paced with bowed head, revolving in his weary brain a thousand schemes, all of which he rejected as chimerical as soon as they were formed. With that curious noting of trivial things habitual to overtaxed and over-worried brains, he mechanically marked the pattern of the carpet and planted each footstep directly in the centre of each square, counting the number with weary precision as he blindly groped for a way out of his difficulties.