"Is he worse than when I last saw him, Mr. Pritchett?"
"Gentlemen at his time of life don't get much better, master George—nor yet at mine. It's half a million of money; half—a—million—of—money! But it's no use talking to you, sir—it never was."
By degrees Bertram gathered from him that his uncle was much weaker, that he had had a second and a much more severe attack of paralysis, and that according to all the doctors, the old gentleman was not much longer for this world. Sir Omicron himself had been there. Miss Baker had insisted on it, much in opposition to her uncle's wishes. But Sir Omicron had shaken his head and declared that the fiat had gone forth.
Death had given his order; the heavy burden of the half-million must be left behind, and the soul must walk forth, free from all its toils, to meet such æthereal welcome as it could find.
Mr. Bertram had been told, and had answered, that he supposed as much. "A man when he was too old to live must die," he had said, "though all the Sir Omicrons in Europe should cluster round his bed. It was only throwing money away. What, twenty pounds!" And being too weak to scold, he had turned his face to the wall in sheer vexation of spirit. Death he could encounter like a man; but why should he be robbed in his last moments?
"You'll go down to him, master George," wheezed out poor Pritchett. "Though it's too late for any good. It's all arranged now, of course."
Bertram said that he would go down immediately, irrespective of any such arrangements. And then, remembering of whom that Hadley household had consisted when he left England in the early winter, he asked as to the two ladies.
"Miss Baker is there, of course?"
"Oh, yes, Miss Baker is there. She doesn't go to any furren parts, master George."
"And—and—"