But Trayton Harrod did not come, and, with the self-consciousness of guilt, I dared not ask for any news of him. It was not until more than a week after father's first seizure that I learned he had gone to London at daybreak on the morning following our parting, and had not yet returned. My heart sank a little at the news, although I knew he had intended going away for a little just about this time, and I guessed, of course, that he could have heard nothing of our trouble before he left.
Deborah said that one of the men had left a note from him the morning of his departure, but in the confusion of father's illness neither she nor I could find it, and I was reduced to sitting down once more to wait face to face with another grim phantom of Death besides that one that was keeping the house so quiet and strange for us all. Once I think mother said Harrod must be sent for, but nobody thought of it again, for everything was really swallowed up in that great anxiety, while we waited around that bedside hoping against hope, watching for that partial return of speech which the doctor had told us might perhaps be given to him once more.
The Rev. Cyril Morland came to see him, and told him all that he had been able to do about that scheme for the protection of little children which lay so near his heart. I well remember, though his poor body was half dead, how pathetic in its keenness was the effort to understand all as he had once understood it—how touching the fire that still burned in his sunken eyes—how touching the smile that still played about his white lips.
Yes, I remember it all; I remember how, after many attempts, he made me understand that I was to fetch that crayon sketch of the young man's head that hung above the writing-desk in his study, and put it opposite his bed. I remember how his eyes were turned to it then, as he listened to the good young parson's explanations of what had already been achieved in that branch of the great question upon which his mind had so long been concentrated.
The minister had scarcely gone out before Deborah came into the room with a message. She whispered it to mother: Captain Forrester was staying at the Priory, and had sent round to ask how Mr. Maliphant did.
Father's eyes were closed, he did not open them, but I saw a look of suffering, as though a lash had passed over him, cross his features.
Mother sent Deborah hastily out of the room with a whispered reprimand, and father beckoned me to his side. As far as I could make out, he wanted me to send for Frank.
A few weeks ago how gladly would I have done it! But now I knew too well that it was too late; and when I saw the telltale flush of trouble on Joyce's face, and her quick glance of entreaty, I was loath to do father's bidding. I could see that she had it on her lips to tell him something—something that she no longer made a secret of soon afterwards; but how could any of us dare to disturb him, dare to do anything but simply what he wished? Even mother, much as it cost her to let me send that summons, would not interfere. We felt instinctively that the visit could do neither good nor harm. We need not have troubled ourselves. Father died before Frank came. He had seemed a little better; in fact, just for a day we had been quite hopeful. The squire had been sitting with him, and when he left him alone with mother and came down-stairs, I met him in the hall; I had been waiting for him. I led the way into the deserted parlor, and the squire—I fancied, half-unwillingly—followed.
"I hope I haven't kept you away," began he, concernedly. "He's dozing now, and your mother is with him. But he'll be asking for you again presently."