A CRISIS AT PENNINGHAME.
All this time the old Squire lay in the same stupor of death in life. He
did not rally. Sometimes there was a look in his eyes--a quiver as of
meaning, between the half-closed lids. But they could not tell what it
meant, or indeed if it was anything but vague reflection of the light
that would break in through a drawn curtain or raised blind. There he
lay, day after day, wearing out all his nurses. If he ever slept, or
ever was awake, no one could tell; but this old man, in the grip of
deadly disease, lay there motionless, and tired out all the younger
people who watched over him. A nurse had been got for him from the
nearest town, and Mary was rarely out of the sick-chamber. Both of these
attendants were worn to death as the monotonous days and nights went
past; but the Squire lay just the same. They grew pale and hollow-eyed,
but he apparently had stopped short at the point where he was when their
vigil began.
In these circumstances all the world flocked to Penninghame to inquire
for Mr. Musgrave. Rural importance shows in such circumstances. He was
“by rights” the greatest man in the district, though superior wealth had
come in and taken his pre-eminence from him--but everybody recollected
his pretensions now. Inquiries came for him daily from every one near
who could pretend to be anything. The great great people, and the small
great people, the new families and the old, the clergy (who were as good
as anybody), and all who sought for a place among the gentry, with
whatever hope or right, all interested themselves about the invalid.
“His eldest son is still living, I believe. And what will happen when
Mr. Musgrave dies?” the people asked. And all who had any possibility of
knowing, all who had any right to know, exerted themselves to supply
answers to this question. One had it on the best authority, that John
Musgrave was waiting, ready to come home, and that there would be
another trial immediately. Some, on the other hand, were certain that
John Musgrave never would come home at all to tempt Providence. “There
will be an effort made to pass him over, and make his little son heir
instead,” they said; and some believed it to be certain that the other
brother would pension him off, so that the house might not be shamed by
a convict squire.
Naturally, Mary knew nothing about these discussions. She spent her time
in her father’s room, relieving the nurse when her hours for sleep came,
resting herself only when she could no longer bear up against the
fatigue, seeing nobody but Mr. Pen and Lilias. Mary took little notice
now of Nello’s departure, and the schoolmaster’s letter. It had all been
done against her will, but she was too much occupied, now that it was
done, to dwell upon it. It was very shameful that he was so backward,
and perhaps Mr. Pen and Randolph were right in sending him to school.
Her mind was too much pre-occupied for the moment to give anything but
this half-angry, reluctant assent to what had been done. And perhaps it
would be better _now_ if Lilias could go to school too, out of this
melancholy house, out of the loneliness which was so hard upon the
child. But Lilias was the only consolation Mary herself had; she had
grown to be part of herself during this long year. It might be doing the
child injustice, as she feared; but how could she send her only
companion, her consoler and sympathiser, away? As for Lilias, though she
was deeply moved by Nello’s departure, the want of news of him did not
move her much. Her father never wrote, never communicated with the
child. They had not the custom of letters. It was very dreary, no doubt,
but still when he came back unexpectedly, perhaps just at the moment he
was most wanted, stepping in, with all the delight of surprise added to
the pleasure of again seeing the absent, that was worth waiting for.
This was the philosophy of the family. It was not their habit to write
letters. Lilias accepted her own loneliness with resignation, not
thinking of any possible alleviation; and she watched, sitting at the
door of the old hall, for every one who might come along the road. It
was October--the days getting short, the air more chilly, the sun less
genial. The woods began to put on robes of colour, as if the rosy sunset
clouds had floated down among them. The air blew cold in her face, as
she sat outside the hall door. Martuccia within, in the background,
shivered, and drew her shawl more closely across her ample shoulders.
But Lilias did not feel the cold. She was looking out for some one--for
papa, who might come all at once, at any time--for Mr. Geoff, who might
bring news of papa--for something to come and break the monotony of this
life. Something Lilias felt sure must be coming; it could not go on like
this for ever.
“Nello was always company for his sister,” Mary said. Though she
assented, she could not but complain. She had come out to breathe the
air, and was walking up and down, Mr. Pen by her side. “It is very hard
upon Lily, just at this moment, when everything is hanging in the
balance, that her little brother should have been sent away.”
“It would be very well,” said Mr. Pen, “if you would send her away too.
Nello wanted it. He would never have learned anything at home. He will
come back so much improved. If he is to be received as the heir of
everything----”
“If, Mr. Pen?”
“Well; I would not go against you for the world; but there is truth in
what Randolph says. Randolph says there must be certificates of his
birth, and all that; quite easy--quite easy to get--but where is your
brother John to look after it all? He ought to be here now.”
“Yes, he ought to be here. But would it be safe for him to come, Mr.
Pen?”
“Miss Mary, I can’t help wondering about that,” said Mr. Pen, with
troubled looks--had he grown unfaithful to John?--“if he is innocent,
why shouldn’t he come _now_? No jury would convict----”
Mary stopped him with a motion of her hand. “Randolph has been gaining
you over to his side,” she said. They were walking up and down the road
close to the house. Just where the great gates ought to be--if the
Musgraves were ever rich enough to restore the courtyard of the old
Castle--was the limit of their walk. Mary could not allow herself to be
out of reach even for an hour. She was here, ready to be called, in case
her father should come to any semblance of himself. “I do not say he has
not some reason on his side, now that my father is--as he is.
Everything seems to have grown so much nearer. It is dreadful not to
know where John is, not to be able to communicate with him. I wrote to
the last place where they were living--the place the children came
from--but I have never had any answer. When my poor father goes--as go
he must, I suppose--what am I to do?”
“You must let Randolph manage for you. Randolph must do it. God knows,
Miss Mary, I don’t want to go against you----”
“But you do,” she said with a half-smile. She smiled at it, but she did
not like it. It is hard, even when a dog who has been your special
follower turns away and follows some one else.
“You never did it before since we have known each other, Mr. Pen.”
Poor Mr. Pen felt the reproach. He was ready to weep himself, and looked
at her with wistful, deprecating eyes; but was it not for her sake?
“I don’t know what else to say to you. It breaks my heart to go against
you,” he said. “Whatever pleases you seems always best to me. But
Randolph says--and I cannot deny it, Miss Mary, there’s truth in what he
says.”
“Yes, there’s truth in what he says. He has got the child away, and
placed him out of reach, with your help, Mr. Pen; and he will push the
father away, out of his just place, and make all the difficulties
double. He has put you against him already that was his friend, and he
will put other people against him. I begin to see what he is aiming at;”
cried Mary, clasping her hands together, with indignant vehemence.
Mr. Pen did not know what to say or do to soothe her. He was full of
compunction, feeling himself guilty. He to have turned against her! He
felt all the horror of it to his very heart.
“We should be just to Randolph too,” he said, tremulously; “he means to
do what is right. And if I seem to cross you, ’tis but to serve you,
Miss Mary. How could you stand in the breach, and bear all that will
have to be borne? If Randolph does not come to do what has to be done,
you would have to do it; and it would be more than should be put upon
you.”
“Have I ever shrunk from what has to be done?” she said, with again a
half-smile of pained surprise.
Mr. Pen had no answer to make; he knew very well she had not failed
hitherto; and in his heart he was aware that Randolph’s motives were
very different from Mary’s. Still, he held with a gentle obstinacy to
the lesson he had learned. It was going against her, but it was for her
sake. They took one or two turns together in silence, neither saying any
more. As they turned again, however, towards the house for the third
time, Eastwood met them, hurrying from the door. Nurse had sent
downstairs for Miss Musgrave, begging her to come without delay. The
urgent message, and the man’s haste and anxious, eager looks, frightened
Mary. The household generally had come to that state of expectation
which welcomes any event, howsoever melancholy, as a relief to the
strain of nerve and strength which long suspense produces. Eastwood was
eager that there might be some change--if for the better, so much the
better--but that was scarcely to be looked for--anyhow a change, a new
event. The same thrill of anticipation ran through Mary’s veins. Was it
come now--the moment of fate, the crisis which would affect so many? She
bade Mr. Pen to follow her, with a movement of her hand. “Wait in the
library,” she said, as she went upstairs.
While Mary took the air in this anxious little promenade up and down,
Lilias sat at the hall door, looking out upon the road, looking far away
for the something that was coming. She did not know that the rider on
the pale horse was the most likely passenger to come that way. Happier
visitors were in Lilias’ thoughts--her father himself to clear up
everything, who would go and fetch Nello back, and put all right that
was wrong; or Mr. Geoff, who was not so good, but yet very comforting,
and between whom and Lilias there existed a link of secret alliance,
unknown to anybody, which was sweet to the child. Lilias was looking out
far upon the road, vaguely thinking of Geoff, for he was the most likely
person to come--he who rode along the road so often to ask for the
Squire: far more likely than her father, who was a hope rather than an
expectation. She was looking far away, as is the wont of the dreamer,
pursuing her hope to the very horizon whence it might come--when
suddenly, all at once, Lilias woke to the consciousness that there was
some one standing near her, close to her, saying nothing, but looking at
her with that intent look which wakes even a sleeper when fixed upon
him, much more a dreamer, linked to common earth by the daylight, and
all the sounds and touches of ordinary life. She rose to her feet with a
start--frightened yet satisfied--for here was something which had
happened, if not the something for which she looked. But Lilias’ eyes
enlarged to twice their size, and her heart gave a great jump, when she
saw that the figure standing beside her was that of the old woman whom
she had met in the Chase.
’Lizabeth had come up unobserved from the water-side. She was dressed
exactly as she had been when Lilias saw her before, with the hood of her
grey cloak over her white cap--a stately figure, notwithstanding the
homely dress.
Lilias gave a cry at the sight, and ran to her. “Oh, old woman!” she
cried--“oh, I want to ask you--I want to ask you so many things.”
“Honeysweet!” said ’Lizabeth, with a glow in her dark eyes. She did not
for the moment think either of what she had come to say, or of the risk
that attended her communications with her daughter’s child. She thought
only of the face she saw reflected in that other face, and of the secret
property she had in the child who was so beautiful and so sweet. This
was ’Lizabeth’s heiress, the inheritor of the beauty which the old woman
had been conscious of in her own person, and still more conscious of in
the person of her daughter. Lilias was the third in that fair line.
Pride filled the old woman’s heart, along with the warm gush of
tenderness. No one had ever looked at Lilias with such passionate love
and admiration. She did not venture to take the child into her arms as
she had done in the solitude of the woods, but she looked at her with
all her heart in her eyes.
Lilias seized her by the hand and drew her to the seat from which she
had herself risen. “Come!” she said eagerly. “They say you know
everything about papa--and I have a right to know; no one has so good a
right to hear as I. Oh, tell me! tell me! Sit down here and rest. I once
went up the hill, far away up the hill, to go to you, but there I met
Mr. Geoff. Do you know Mr. Geoff? Come, come, sit down here and tell me
about papa----”
“My darling,” said. ’Lizabeth, “blessings on your bonnie face! but I
dare not stay. Some time--soon, if it’s God’s will, you’ll hear all the
like of you could understand, and you’ll get him back to enjoy his own.
God bless my bairn that would give me her own seat, and think no shame
of old ’Lizabeth! That’s like my Lily,” the old woman said, with ready
tears. “But listen, honey, for this is what I came to say. You must tell
the lady to send and bring back the little boy. The bairn is in trouble.
I cannot tell you what kind of trouble, but she must send and bring him
back. My honey, do you hear what I say?”
“The little boy, and the lady?” said Lilias, wondering; then she
exclaimed suddenly with a cry of pain, “Nello! my little brother!” and
in her eagerness caught ’Lizabeth’s hands and drew her down upon the
seat.
“Ay, just your little brother, my honeysweet. My lad is away that would
go and look after him, so you must tell the lady. No, no, I must not
stay. The time will maybe come. But tell the lady, my darling. The
little boy has need of her, or of you. He is too little a bairn to be
away among strangers. I cannot think upon his name--nor I cannot think,”
said ’Lizabeth, with a gleam of grandmotherly disapproval, “what my Lily
could be thinking of to give a little lad such an outlandish name. But
tell the lady to send and bring him home.”
“Oh, I will go, I will go directly. Wait till I tell you what Mary
says,” cried Lilias; and without pausing a moment, she rushed through
the hall, her hair flying behind her, her face flushed with eagerness.
The old woman stood for a moment looking after her with a smile;
listening to the sound of the doors which swung behind the child in her
rapid course through the passages which led to the inhabited part of the
house. ’Lizabeth stood stately yet rustic in her grey cloak, with her
hands folded, and looked after Lilias with a tender smile on her face.
She had nothing left to be proud of, she so proud by nature, and to whom
it was the essence of life to have something belonging to her in which
she could glory. ’Lizabeth’s pride had been broken down with many a
blow, but it sprang up again vigorous as ever on the small argument of
this child. Her beauty, her childish refinement and ladyhood, gave the
old woman a pleasure more exquisite perhaps than any she had ever felt
in her life. There was little in her lot now to give her pleasure. Her
daughter was dead, her days full of the hideous charge which she had
concealed for so many years from all the world; and she was old,
approaching the end of all things, with nothing better to hope for than
that death might release her unfortunate son before herself. At this
moment even a worse terror and misery was upon her; yet as she stood
there, looking after the little princess who was of her blood, her
representative, yet so much above anything that had ever belonged to
’Lizabeth, there was a glow through all her veins, more warm, more sweet
than any she had ever felt in her life. Pride, and love, and delight
swelled in her. Her child’s child--heir of her face, her voice, all the
little traits of attitude and gesture, which mark individuality--and yet
the young lady of the Castle, born to a life so different from hers. She
stood so, gazing after Lilias till the sound of her feet and the door,
closing behind her, had died away. Her heart was so full that she turned
to Martuccia sitting motionless behind with her knitting. “Oh, that her
life may be as sweet as her face!” she said involuntarily. Martuccia
turned upon her with a smile, but shook her head and said, “Not speak
Inglese.” The sound of the voice called ’Lizabeth to herself. The smile
faded from her face. Little had she to smile for, less than ever at this
moment. She sighed, coming to herself, and turned and walked away.
Lilias ran against Mary as she entered the house at Eastwood’s call.
“Oh!” she cried, breathless, “Nello! will you send for Nello? Oh, Mary,
he is in trouble, the old woman says--he is ill, or he is unhappy, or I
cannot tell you what it is. Will you send for him, will you send for
him, Mary? What shall I do? for papa will think it was my fault. Oh,
Mary, Mary, send for my Nello! Wait a moment, only wait a moment, and
hear what the old woman says----”
“Speak to her, Mr. Pen,” said Mary; “I cannot stay.” She was going to
her father, who must, she felt sure, want her more urgently than Lilias
could. Even then it went to Mary’s heart to neglect the child’s appeal.
“Mr. Pen will hear all about it, Lilias,” she said, as she hastened
upstairs. But Mr. Pen paid very little attention to what Lilias said.
“An old woman! What old woman? My dear child, you cannot expect us at
such a moment as this--” said the Vicar. He was walking up and down the
library with his ears open to every sound, expecting to be called to the
Squire’s bedside, feeling in his pocket for his prayer-book. For it
seemed to Mr. Pen that the hasty summons could mean only one thing. It
must be death that had come--and it would be a happy release--what else
could any one say? But death, even when it is a happy release, is a
serious visitor to come into a house. He has to be received with due
preparation, like the potentate he is. Not without services of solemn
meaning, attendants kneeling round the solemn bedside, the commendatory
prayer rising from authorised lips--not without these formulas should
the destroying angel be received into a Christian house. He was ready
for his part, and waiting to be called; and to be interrupted at such a
moment by tales of an old woman, by the grumblings of a fretful child
sent to school against his will--even the gentle Mr. Pen rebelled. He
would not hear what Lilias said. “Your grandfather is very ill, my
dear,” he told her solemnly, “very ill. In an hour or so you may have no
grandfather, Lilias; he is going to appear in the presence of God----”
“Is he afraid of God, Mr. Pen?” asked Lilias with solemn eyes.
“Afraid!--you--you do not understand. It is a solemn thing--a very
solemn thing,” said the Vicar, “to go into God’s presence! to stand
before Him and answer----”
“Oh!” cried the little girl, interrupting him, “Nello is far worse, far
worse. Would God do him any harm, Mr. Pen? But cruel people might do a
little boy a great deal of harm. God is what takes care of us. The old
gentleman will be safe, quite safe there; but my Nello! he is so little,
and he never was away from me before. _I_ always took care of him
before. I said you were not to send him away, but you would not pay any
attention. Oh, my Nello, my Nello, Mr. Pen!”
“Hush, Lilias, you do not know what you are speaking of. What can
Nello’s troubles be? Perhaps the people will not pet him as he has been
petted; that will do him no harm whatever--it will be better for him. My
dear, you are too little to know. Hush, and let me listen. I must be
ready when I am called for. Nothing that can happen to Nello can be of
so much importance as this is now.”
And the Vicar went to the door to look out and listen. Lilias followed
him with her anxious eyes. She was awed, but she was not afraid for the
old gentleman. Would God hurt him? but anybody that was strong could
hurt Nello. She made one more appeal when the Vicar had returned,
hearing nothing and leaving the door ajar.
“Mr. Pen! oh, please, please, think of Nello a little! What am I to do?
Papa said, ‘Lily, I trust him to you--you are to take care of him.’ What
shall I say to papa if he comes home and asks me, ‘Where is my little
Nello?’ Papa may come any day. That is his way, he never writes to tell
us, but when he can, he comes. He might come to-day,” cried Lilias. “Mr.
Pen, oh, send somebody for Nello. Will you not listen to me? What should
I say to papa if he came home to-day?”
“My dear little Lilias,” said Mr. Pen, shaking his head mournfully,
“your papa will not come to-day. Heaven knows if he will ever be able to
come. You must not think it is such an easy matter. There are things
which make it very difficult for him to come home; things of which you
don’t know----”
“Yes,” said Lilias eagerly, “about the man who was killed; but papa did
not do it, Mr. Pen.”
Mr. Pen shook his head again. “Who has told the child?” he said. “I hope
not--I hope not, Lilias; but that is what nobody knows.”
“Yes,” she cried, “Mr. Geoff knows; he told me. He says it was another
man, and that papa went away to save him. Mr. Pen, papa may come any
day.”
“Who is Mr. Geoff?” said the Vicar; but he did not pay any attention to
what the child was saying. There seemed to be a sound on the stairs of
some one coming down. “Oh, run away, my dear! run away! Run and play,
or do whatever you like. I have not time to attend to you now.”
Lilias did not say a word more, or even look at him again, but walked
away with a stately tread, not condescending even to turn her head
towards him. In this solemn way she went back to the hall, expecting to
find ’Lizabeth; but when she found that even the old woman was gone, in
whom she put a certain trust as the one person who knew everything,
Lilias had a moment of black despair. What was she to do? She stood and
gazed out into vacancy--her eyes intent, her mind passionately at work.
It was to her after all, and not to Mary, that Nello had been intrusted,
and if nobody would think of him, or attend to him, it was she who must
interfere for her brother. She stood for a minute or two fixed--then
turned hastily, paying no attention to Martuccia, and went to her room.
Lilias, too, had a sovereign, which Mary had given her, and something
more besides. She took her money out of its repository, and put on her
hat and jacket. A great resolution was in her face. She had seen at last
what was the only thing to do.
“I think, ma’am, there is a change,” the nurse said, as Mary noiselessly
but swiftly, as long nursing teaches women to move, came into the room.
The nurse was an experienced person. When Miss Brown, and even Mary
herself, had seen “a change,” or fancied they had seen it, before, nurse
had never said so. It was the first time she had called any one to the
Squire’s room, or made the slightest movement of alarm. She led the way
now to the bedside. The patient was lying in much the same attitude as
before, but he was moving his hands restlessly, his lips were moving,
and his head on the pillow. “He is saying something, but I cannot make
out what it is,” the nurse said. Mary put her ear close to the
inarticulate mouth. How dreadful was that living prison of
flesh!--living, yet dead--the spirit pent up and denied all its usual
modes of utterance. Mary wrung her hands with a sense of the intolerable
as she tried in vain to distinguish the words, which seemed to be
repeated over and over again, though they could make nothing of them.
“Cannot you help us?--can you make it out? Is there nothing we can do?”
she cried; “no cordial to give him strength?” but the nurse could only
shake her head, and the doctor when he came was equally helpless. He
told Mary it was a sign of returning consciousness--which, indeed, was
evident enough--but could not even say whether this promised for or
against recovery. The nurse, it was clear, did not think it a good sign.
He might even recover his speech _at the end_, she said. And hours
passed while they waited, watching closely lest any faint beginning of
sound should struggle through. The whole night was passed in this way.
Mary never left the bedside. It was not that he could say anything of
great importance to any one but himself. The Squire was helpless as
respected his estate. It was entailed, and went to his eldest son,
whether he liked it or not; and his will was made long ago, and all his
affairs settled. What he had to say could not much affect any one; but
of all pitiful sights, it seemed to his daughter the most pitiful, to
see this old man, always so entirely master of himself, trying to make
some communication which all their anxiety could not decipher. Could he
be himself aware of how it was that no response was made to him?--could
he realise the horror of the position?--something urgent to say, and no
way of getting to the ears of those concerned, notwithstanding their
most anxious attention? “No, no,” the nurse said; “he’s all in a maze;
he maybe don’t even know what he’s saying;” and the constant movement
and evident repetition gave favour to this idea. Mary stood by him, and
looked at him, however, with a pain as great as if he had been
consciously labouring on one side to express himself as she was on the
other to understand him, instead of lying, as was most probable, in a
feverish dream, through which some broken gleam of fancy or memory
struggled. When the chilly dawn broke upon the long night, that
dreariest and coldest moment of a vigil, worn out with the long strain,
she dropped asleep in the chair by her father’s bedside. But when she
woke hurriedly, a short time after, while yet it was scarcely full day,
the nurse was standing by her with a hand upon her shoulder. The woman
had grasped at her to wake her. “Listen, ma’am! he says--‘the little
boy,’” she said; Mary sprang up, shaking off her drowsiness in a moment.
The old man’s face had recovered a little intelligence--a faint flush
seemed to waver about his ashy cheeks. It was some time before, even
now, she could make any meaning out of the babble that came from his
lips. Then by degrees she gleaned, now one word, now another. “Little
boy--little Johnny; bring the little boy.” She could scarcely imagine
even now that there was meaning in the desire. Most likely it was but
some pale reflection, through the dim awakening of the old man’s mind,
of the last idea that was in it. It went on, however, in one long strain
of mumbled repetition--“Little Johnny--little boy.” There seemed nothing
else in his mind to say. The nurse laid her hand once more on Mary’s
arm, as she stood by her, listening. “If you can humour the poor
gentleman, ma’am, you ought to do it,” said the woman. She was a
stranger, and did not know the story of the house.
What could Mary do? She sent out one of the servants to call Mr. Pen,
who had stayed late on the previous night, always holding his book open
with his finger at the place, but who got up now obedient at her
summons, though his wife had not meant to let him be disturbed for
hours. Then the feeble demand went on so continuously, that Mary in
despair sent Miss Brown for Lilias, vaguely hoping that the presence of
the one child, if not the other, might perhaps be of some use in the dim
state of semi-consciousness in which her father seemed to be. Miss Brown
went with hesitation and a doubtful look, which Mary was too much
occupied to notice, but came back immediately to say that Miss Lilias
had got up early and gone out. “Gone out!” Mary said, surprised; but she
had no leisure to be disturbed about anything, her whole mind being
pre-occupied. She went downstairs to Mr. Pen when he came. He had his
prayer-book all ready. To dismiss the departing soul with all its
credentials, with every solemnity that became such a departure, was what
he thought of. He was altogether taken by surprise by Mary’s hasty
address--
“Mr. Pen, you must go at once and bring Nello. I cannot send a servant.
He would not, perhaps, be allowed to come. If you will go, you can fetch
him at once--to-morrow early.”
“But, Miss Mary----”
“Don’t say anything against it, Mr. Pen. He is asking for the little
boy, the little boy! Nello must come, and come directly. You would not
cross him in perhaps the last thing he may ever ask for?” cried Mary,
the tears of agitation and weariness coming in a sudden gush from her
eyes.
“Let me send for your brother,” said the Vicar. “Let me send for
Randolph. He will know best what to do.”
“Randolph! what has he to do with it?” she cried. “Oh go, Mr. Pen; do
not vex me now.”
“I will go.” Mr. Pen closed his book with regret and put it into his
pocket. He did not like the idea that the old Squire should depart out
of the world like any common man, uncared for. After his long connection
with the family, that such a thing should happen without him! Mr.
Musgrave had not perhaps been so regardful as was to be desired of all
the services of the Church, and Mr. Pen was all the more anxious, now
that he could have everything his own way, that all should be done in
order. But how could he resist Mary’s will and wish? He put his book in
his pocket with a sigh.
“I will do what you wish, Miss Mary; but--it is a journey of many
hours--and trains may not suit. Do you think he will--go on--so long?”
“He is asking for the little boy,” said Mary, hastily. “Come and see
him, and it will go to your heart. How can I tell you any more? We do
not know even whether he is to live or to die.”
“Ah, you must not cherish false hopes,” said the Vicar, as he followed
her upstairs. The servants were peeping on the staircase and at the
doors; they were half disappointed, like Mr. Pen, that the “change” was
not more decided. They had hoped that all was nearly over at last.
The darkened room, where the night-light was still burning though full
day broke in muffled through the half-shuttered windows, was of itself
very impressive to Mr. Pen, coming out of the fresh fulness of the
morning light. He followed Mary, going elaborately on tiptoe round the
foot of the great heavily-curtained bed. The Squire’s head had been
propped up a little. He had become even a little more conscious since
Mary had left him. But his voice was so babbling and inarticulate that
Mr. Pen, unused to it, and deeply touched by the condition in which he
saw his old friend and patron, could not make out the words--“Bring the
little boy--the little boy, not Randolph--little Johnny: bring the
little boy.” Thus he went murmuring on, and there had gradually come a
kind of wish into the face, and a kind of consciousness of their
presence. “I wanted to bring Lilias, but Lilias they tell me has gone
out; I cannot tell where she can have gone,” Mary whispered. “And he
never took any notice of Lilias--it is the boy he wants--listen, Mr.
Pen, always the boy.”
“I cannot make anything of it,” said Mr. Pen, moved to tears.
“Oh listen! He says, ‘Not Randolph, the boy!’ It is the boy he wants.
Look! I almost think he knows you. Oh, what is it he wants?” cried Mary.
The light which had been so nearly extinguished was leaping up in the
socket. A sudden convulsion seemed to run over the old man’s frame: he
made an effort to raise himself. His ashen face grew red, perspiration
burst out upon his forehead. Ghost-like and rigid as he was, he moved
himself upward as if to get from his bed. The nurse had put herself
quietly at her post on one side and she called to Mary to go to the
other, while poor Mr. Pen stood by helpless, as if he were assisting at
a visible resurrection. “Don’t get excited, ma’am,” the nurse said
steadily; “one moment! I hear the doctor coming upstairs.”
The steady tread of some one approaching reassured the women as they
half aided, half controlled, the spasmodic force of apparent recovery.
The foot came nearer and nearer, thank God. The door opened and some one
came in.
It was not the doctor. It was a tall man with light hair mingled with
grey and a fair complexion turned brown. He came straight into the room
like one familiar with the place. Miss Brown, who stood near the door,
recoiled with a quivering cry, and Mr. Pen, whom he encountered next,
fell back with the same quaver of consternation in his voice. He went to
where Mary stood, who alone had not looked at him, her eyes being intent
on her father’s face. He put her aside tenderly, taking her place. “This
is my work as much as yours,” he said.