II
“You have come quickly, Mr. Egerton, and that was well done,” said Jacob Arkwright, looking very white and worn, propped up with pillows. “I have much to say, and I'll take a sup o' brandy; them that never touches drink when they're well get the good when they're ill.
“That gives me the strength I need for the time, and ma work is nearly done. Don't go away, Laura; I want you to hear what I say to the pastor.
“The doctor says 'at ma days are few, mayhap only to-morrow, and it's best to speak when a man's head is clear, and I thank God mine is that, though my body be weakened by this sickness.”
His wife stood on one side of the bed, now and then rearranging the pillows at his back and bathing his forehead with vinegar—for scent he would not have—and Egerton stood on the other, refusing to sit down while she stood, and watching her strong white hands at their service, but only once did he look her straight in the face.
“You're young, Pastor—thirty, did ye say?—and I'm owd, seventy-two this month, and I havena' known you long, but there's no mon I've liked better or could trust more.” And he looked steadily at Egerton with a certain softening of expression.
“You've been very kind to me and to the chapel, Mr. Arkwright, and I hope it may be God's will to spare you and raise you up again,” and although the words were formal, the accent was tender and moving.
“No, no, lad; our times are in His hand, and I have received the summons, and so we 'ill go to business. And first about ma affairs. I wish ye to understand everything, that ye may be able to do your duty by ma widow.”
Egerton was conscious that Mrs. Arkwright straightened herself, and could feel the silence in the room; but the dying man was not one to appreciate an atmosphere.
“It may be that I was too owd for marrying, and ma ways too old-fashioned. Ma house has no been very bright for a young wife, and ma conscience did not allow me liberty in worldly amusements. But according to my nature I can say before God that I loved ye, Laura, and have tried to do ma part by ye.”
“You married me a poor girl, and have been most... kind to me, Jacob. Why speak of such things?” and her voice was proud and pained.
“You have been a faithful wife to me,” he went on, as one fulfilling a plan, “and have put up with my... peculiarities—for I know you do not think wi' me in things, and do not like some of the men 'at came to the house. Oh, I said nowt, but I saw aal.”
Mrs. Arkwright laid her hand on her husband's, and it occurred to Egerton from a slight flush on his face that she had never done this before.
“Ma will has been made for a year”—it was plain that Mr. Arkwright was to go on to the end, and Egerton could not have lifted his eyes for a ransom—“and I have left aal to my wife without any condition, with just one legacy. It is to you, Egerton, and I hope you'ill not refuse it—just something to remind you of me, and... get you books.”
“It was very... good of you, sir, and I am most... grateful, but I... really can't accept your kindness. It is not likely that I will ever marry, and I've got enough for myself.”
As he spoke, Mrs. Arkwright shook up the pillows hastily, and went to a side table for a glass.
“Well, if you will not, then there's an end of it; but you will grant me another favour which may be harder,” and for a minute Arkwright seemed to hesitate.
“Ma wife will be left young and rich, and although I have never said it to you, ma lass, she is... beautiful.”
“Jacob, this is not seemly.” Her voice was vibrant with passion.
“Blame me not for saying this once, and if another be present, he is our friend, and I am coming to my point; the brandy again, and I'll soon be done.
“You have no brother, and I have no person of my blood to guide you, ma lass; ye might be persecuted by men 'at would bring you nowt but trouble and vexation of heart You need an honest man to be your guardian and give you advice.
“Ye may never want to marry again, for I doubt ye have had little joy these years, or again ye may, to taste some joy, and I would count it unjust to hinder you—peace, lass, till I be done; I was ever rough and plain—and some one must see that your husband be a right mon.
“So I turned it over in ma mind, and I sought for a friend 'at was sound o' heart and faithful. This speaking is hard on me, but it 'ill soon be done.” And as Mrs. Arkwright stooped to give him brandy once more, Egerton saw that her cheeks were burning.
“An older mon might have been better, but ye're old for your years, Pastor, and have parted wi' the foolishness o' youth. You have some notions I don't hold with, for I'm the owd sort—believe and be saved, believe not and be damned—but ye're no a mon to say yea and do nay. Naa, naa, I have seen more than I said; and though some 'at came to the house had the true doctrine, they were shoddy stuff.
“George Egerton, as I have done good to you and not ill these years, will ye count Laura Arkwright as your sister, and do to her a brother's part, as ye will answer to God at the laast day?”
The wind lifted the blind and rustled in the curtains; the dying man breathed heavily, and waited for an answer. Egerton looked across the bed, but Mrs. Arkwright had withdrawn behind the curtain. Arkwright's eyes met the minister's with an earnest, searching glance.
“I will be as a brother to your wife while I live.”
As he spoke, Arkwright grasped his hand and gave a sigh of content; but when Egerton left the room, Laura refused to touch his hand, and her face was blazing with anger.