Lady Vargrave was kneeling on the other side of the bed, one hand clasped in her husband’s, the other bathing his temples, and her tears falling, without sob or sound, fast and copiously down her pale fair cheeks.
Two doctors were conferring in the recess of the window; an apothecary was mixing drugs at a table; and two of the oldest female servants of the house were standing near the physicians, trying to overhear what was said.
“My dear, dear uncle, how are you?” asked Lumley.
“Ah, you are come, then,” said the dying man, in a feeble yet distinct voice; “that is well—I have much to say to you.”
“But not now—not now—you are not strong enough,” said the wife, imploringly.
The doctors moved to the bedside. Lord Vargrave waved his hand, and raised his head.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I feel as if death were hastening upon me; I have much need, while my senses remain, to confer with my nephew. Is the present a fitting time?—if I delay, are you sure that I shall have another?”
The doctors looked at each other.
“My lord,” said one, “it may perhaps settle and relieve your mind to converse with your nephew; afterwards you may more easily compose yourself to sleep.”
“Take this cordial, then,” said the other doctor.