Mr. Treffry went on:
“I get better every day, but I can't last for ever. It's not pleasant to
lie here and know that when I'm gone there'll be no one to keep a hand
on the check string!”
“Don't talk like that, dear!” Christian murmured.
“It's no use blinking facts, Chris. I've lived a long time in the world;
I've seen things pretty well as they are; and now there's not much left
for me to think about but you.”
“But, Uncle, if you loved him, as I do, you couldn't tell me to be
afraid! It's cowardly and mean to be afraid. You must have forgotten!”
Mr. Treffry closed his eyes.
“Yes,” he said; “I'm old.”
The fan had dropped into Christian's lap; it rested on her white frock
like a large crimson leaf; her eyes were fixed on it.
Mr. Treffry looked at her. “Have you heard from him?” he asked with
sudden intuition.
“Last night, in that room, when you thought I was talking to Dominique—”
The pipe fell from his hand.
“What!” he stammered: “Back?”
Christian, without looking up, said:
“Yes, he's back; he wants me—I must go to him, Uncle.”
There was a long silence.
“You must go to him?” he repeated.
She longed to fling herself down at his knees, but he was so still, that
to move seemed impossible; she remained silent, with folded hands.
Mr. Treffry spoke:
“You'll let me know—before—you—go. Goodnight!”
Christian stole out into the passage. A bead curtain rustled in the
draught; voices reached her.
“My honour is involved, or I would give the case up.”
“He is very trying, poor Nicholas! He always had that peculiar quality
of opposition; it has brought him to grief a hundred times. There is
opposition in our blood; my family all have it. My eldest brother died
of it; with my poor sister, who was as gentle as a lamb, it took the
form of doing the right thing in the wrong place. It is a matter of
temperament, you see. You must have patience.”
“Patience,” repeated Dawney's voice, “is one thing; patience where there
is responsibility is another. I've not had a wink of sleep these last
two nights.”
There was a faint, shrill swish of silk.
“Is he so very ill?”
Christian held her breath. The answer came at last.
“Has he made his will? With this trouble in the side again, I tell you
plainly, Mrs. Decie, there's little or no chance.”
Christian put her hands up to her ears, and ran out into the air. What
was she about to do, then—to leave him dying!